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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.

Chapter 2: The Woman Named Vendetta

Summary:

Intrigued by the stranger from the previous night, Erika seeks the help of a friend to learn information.

Chapter Text

            Erika was a curious girl by nature.  It was a fault – potentially a dangerous one.  Genosha was not the place to be too curious about some things in recent years.  Men had disappeared under the Iron King’s fist for lesser things, after all.  But when a bit of gossip she overheard from the tavern’s patrons caught the young girl’s ear, or in this case, a stranger caught her attention, she had a source that could often give her answers.

            Her name, in its Christian sense, was Bronwyn St. Vincent.  But she never was called that by anyone.  The woman preferred the title of Vendetta.

            Why Vendetta, of all names, was as much a mystery to Erika as any other of the rare number that knew the woman on a semi-personal level.  Erika never met anyone else who could boast V’s friendship, though.

            Vendetta was a strange woman.  She hailed from Britannia; that much was clear by the thick accent that tangled in her voice.  Beyond that, however, she remained a stubborn shroud of mystery.  The woman was not like any other woman Erika knew.  She was only a year Erika’s superior, though most would have guessed a greater range between the two peers.  As fiery as her hair, she was unmarried and lived in a small building that had once been a tailor’s shop and home; it was rundown but had been cheap enough that Vendetta’s purse could buy it.  She made her money wherever she could: by dancing and singing for the entertainment of market shoppers, by charging a pretty penny for information she could glean.  Erika had won her skills of eavesdropping and extraction of information for the more priceless payment of friendship.

            The women had met in a curious fashion; reminiscing on the occasion always made Erika smile in a toxic mixture of embarrassment and humor.  It had only been a little over two years back; Erika had been flirting guilelessly with a traveler who had been passing through.  It had only been a return of the affections he had been showing her, and she had doubted she intended any of it to be serious.  It had been wonderful to be noticed, to be appreciated.

            And then Vendetta had sat down at the man’s table, grinned a crooked grin, and proceeded to tell Erika everything she knew about him.  How he had already bedded five women in varying parts of the city in the two weeks he had been in Einsemar, mostly; it was the fact that had made Erika proceed to ignore him.  She had given the woman, a stranger then, a free drink as a show of her gratitude.  Vendetta must have liked the ale; she started coming every few nights, always talking to Erika as if she were a human being rather than just a beneficial creature bringing her what she wanted.  The friendship had built from there without hesitation.

            Erika happily sought her friend out almost every day, but today she wanted to ask a favor of her.

            Knowing just where to find her, Erika swept up her basket and the scrawled list her father had written up, and went out into the city streets.  She knew the path to the central market by heart; when she had been a little girl, she had accompanied her mother, and when she was old enough to go alone, she had gone.  It was one of the most helpful things she had done, as it gave her parents both time to prepare for the new night of business.

            The cool morning of early spring had forced the tavern girl to put on her cloak.  The breeze that licked through the buildings made her huddle into the dark material; it fluttered about her, as did her unbound hair; the raven curls would be a frizzed, limp mess by the evening, and would surely end up in a braid.

            The main market was in the heart of Einsemar.  It was a lengthy walk from The Forest’s Glen, and a trip to market took up much of the day.  Only two or three trips were made a week, usually in close succession, to stock up on needed supplies.  Erika was more than willing to go; it gave her time to socialize, to daydream . . . to look at all the handsome young men and wonder who would marry her someday.

            The thought of marriage was terrifying.  Erika did not want to surrender her free will to a man, no matter if it were for love or just for sustenance.  Vendetta was unmarried and provided for herself with no trouble.  Erika wanted the same luxury, to be the master of her own course in life.  She knew better than to hope for it, just as she knew better than to hope to be a troubadour for a lord or the king himself.  Impossible things, but she dreamed anyway.  Somedays dreams were the only thing that got a girl by.

            The thoughts hung around her head like a heavy, black cloud, and it was with effort that she banished them.  Now was not the time for such distractions.

            The people milling in the streets had thickened, and Erika could hear the chatter of people bargaining over goods to purchase.  The markets of Einsemar were a lively place on any given day.  The bustle and rush could be stressful, but it was also exciting.  Some people came from the far ends of the kingdom – some even from beyond the borders – to sell in the main square of the city.  It was impossible to say what exotic goods could appear on any given day.  Erika had seen some of everything, it seemed; wondrous creatures, exotic spices, elegant fabrics, breathtaking jewels and a million other trivial follies to tempt the eyes and loosen the purse strings.  Useless things, but Erika looked anyway.

            Finally worming her way through the crowds, Erika broke into the market space.  Over the constant chattering, she could hear the bubbling of the fountain dominating the center of the market.  She could not quite see it, but such was unnecessary; she had sat on its lip many times, chatting with Vendetta.  It was a simple yet elegant structure of three tiers; the top spouted water up, which then fell into the first basin, which overfilled and fell to the second, then to the third, and finally to the pool at the bottom.  Erika had always been mystified by it as a girl, and still was in part.

            As much as Erika wanted to hunt down her friend immediately, she knew that work had to be done first.  If she failed to find the needed goods in the main market, she would have to go to one of the smaller markets and try there.  Erika didn’t have the desire to go on an all-day venture.  She gave her father’s rudimentary writing a brief glance before striking off to the more familiar corner of the market.

            The square itself was almost entirely open; except for the fountain, nothing else permanently occupied the open central space.  Various shops and sheltered areas for people to set up their wagons and carts bordered the entire space; there were far too many of these people to count, and even more shops spilled down the streets that broke from the square like the ropes of a spider’s web.  The local farmers all congregated around the southwest corner of the market, and it was from them that Erika bought the most supplies.

            She felt a smile come to her as she saw one of the farmers she favored the most.  Bentley was an aging man, short and a bit heavyset, with graying hair and dark eyes that glimmered bright.  When Erika had been little (and he a skinnier and younger man), she had been allowed to pet the noses of Bentley’s donkeys.  Perhaps it was that memory that had drawn her to purchase from him her first time alone; the reliably excellent produce had her coming back regularly.

            Bentley noticed the young woman around the same time and raised his hand in a cheery wave.  “Hail, fellow!  Well met!”

            “Well met, indeed!” Erika replied as she ducked through the last trail of a crowd.  “I was hoping to find you here today.”

            “Then you’re in luck it would seem.  What do you need today?”

            Erika rattled off the contents and quantities of her list; it was a wide array of vegetables, from cabbages, to carrots, to potatoes and plenty others in between.  While Bentley was filling her basket with what she needed, Erika scratched behind the ears of the two donkeys that pulled his cart.

            After an exchange of currency and small talk, Erika finally drifted to the true heart of the square.  In the central, open space, some people set up shop for the day; few carried your typical sort of goods, though.  These were minstrels, traveling performers, dancers, all congregated near the fountain to woo the shoppers into parting from a coin or two.  Erika had been enamored with such a seemingly romantic living when she had been young, but naivete was not something a grown woman could afford.  It was a hard and thankless life they lived on the road, even if they enjoyed performing.  Happiness could only compensate so much for creature comforts.

            Milling among the socializing city folk and traveling performers – pickpockets, too; she had to be quite careful of her purchases and purse in this crowded area – was no easy feat with a large basket on her arm. But Erika was a master at manipulating her way through a never still crowd; she practiced every night, after all.

            Vendetta spent a fair amount of her daytime hours in the market square.  She sometimes wore a light dress, fire-red hair flying as she danced like one gone mad.  If she was not dancing, she would likely be dressed in breeches and a shirt, talking with people or sitting alone with a scowl of thought.  Always a mystery, V; Erika doubted she would ever know her entirely, but she enjoyed the other girl’s company regardless.

            A flash of sunlight on metal caused Erika to turn her head. She saw a wheel of daggers spinning over the head of a small crowd.  Erika smiled to herself, changing her course to join the assemblage.

            It was a thin enough crowd that, by taking position at one end of the rough semi-circle, she could see the object of the group’s interest easily.  It was just the woman she was looking for.

            Vendetta was dressed in her more typical attire of breeches, shirt, and underbust.  Scandalous attire, they called it, and Erika supposed she could understand why.  The breeches were brown leather, dark and supple, fitting tight to her skin.  The shirt she wore slumped off her shoulders in a way that was too casual to be on accident.  The neckline plunged low, revealing the swell of pert breasts. The underbust, brown leather as well, helped to perk up her breast and hold her shirt in place. The wide leather straps were the only covering on her shoulders. She wore a short silver necklace with a black jet pendant, a gift from Erika last Christmastide. Vendetta was beautiful, in the way a wildfire was beautiful:  dangerous and wild, uncontrolled, leaving a path of chaos and destruction.

            Daggers spun through her hands, so light and quick that it seemed Vendetta wasn’t even touching them as they rose and fell in a circle.  Erika knew the simple fact of it:  Vendetta didn’t touch them, didn’t have to.  Like a surprising portion of the population in Genosha, Vendetta had abilities. These people were called the Gifted Ones by the normal people, and Genosha was a rare place of safety for them. Vendetta’s gift was the talent of moving things with her thoughts as well as her hands.  She called it telekinesis, a word that sounded bizarre and foreign to Erika.

            Erika herself had her own small set of gifts, but it was far less useful than Vendetta’s.  Besides, Erika feared what she could do.  She knew, instinctively, that it could hurt people if she wasn’t careful.

            Vendetta caught the five blades she had been juggling with a sudden motion.  The little crowd she had gathered offered a smattering of applause, but nothing else.  Vendetta had the grace not to show any annoyance, only sweeping into a series of bows.  Erika wondered, not for the first time, just how the woman took care of herself. Street peddling only provided so much money, as did gathering information.

            Vendetta caught Erika’s eye with the one that wasn’t hidden under a curtain of red hair.  Her head moved faintly, motioning Erika to walk with her.  The younger woman complied, following her friend as Vendetta turned to go to the fountain.  She slid her knives in the many sheathes on her belt, whistling a little as she walked.

            Vendetta sprawled herself upon the lip of the fountain, legs spread out wide in a fashion that was anything but feminine.  She grinned over at Erika, who took a more delicate perch beside her, basket poised in her lap.

            “Wot’s brought the songbird aftah me?” the Brittanian woman asked in her heavy accent.  “Looking for trouble?”

            Erika smiled at the question.  “You certainly know me.  I saw a strange man last night in the tavern.  I’d never seen him before.”

            Vendetta shrugged, tossing her head to sway her hair just a little out of the way; Erika caught a brief flash of the three scars that were hidden under the curtain of red hair.  “Einsemar’s a big city, luv.”

            “But we have a regular set of people.”

            “A traveling minstrel, then.  It’s happened before.”  Vendetta’s green eyes gave a humored spark.  “I doubt you’ve forgotten tha’ one–”

            “I have not forgotten,” Erika cut in.  She raised her head, though a blush was coloring her cheeks.  “I just thought of it today, in fact; twice now, thanks to you!”

            “You’re welcome,” Vendetta said with a grin more fitting of an imp than a woman.  “Wot was odd bout him, this man you saw?”

            “He had an accent,” she supplied without a beat of hesitation.  “The southern type.  His cloak was lined in purple, and there was a clasp on it, a fleur-de-lis–”

            “You shouldn’t go getting tangled up in tha’.”  Vendetta’s brisk dismissal cut Erika into immediate silence.  The redhead had gone a touch paler, or so it seemed to the tavern girl.  “Southerners are no good.  All a bunch of thieves and assassins.”

            Erika felt her pulse jumping in her throat, slamming up against her skin.  “You really mean that?”

            Vendetta’s visible eye darkened a little, her expression turning solemn and wary.  “Don’ go and get any crazy ideas on me, luv.  Tha’ man’s trouble, make no mistake about that.  And if you want me to look for him, try to find out information about him, don’ ask.”

            Erika pouted her lower lip out, shoulders slumping.  “Oh, all right…”

            Vendetta’s jaw skewed to one side for a moment before she gave a hard sigh.  “Fine,” she muttered.  “I’ll see wot I can do.  Don’ expect anything.  He’s probably jus’ passing through.”

            Erika sprang forward as best she could with the basket of produce in her lap.  She threw her free arm around the other woman in a tight but brief hug.  “You’re the best, V!”

            “I know,” Vendetta snorted, returning the embrace before nudging Erika back. “You should get going.  Bet you’ve got a long night ahead and errands to finish running.”

            “When do I not?”  Erika laughed in good nature though, giving her friend’s arm a last squeeze before she stood up and started away.  She had total faith in her; the woman named Vendetta never let her friends down, after all.

Chapter 3: The Woodsman

Summary:

Erika runs to collect firewood in the forest outside the city, but ends up lost. A handsome stranger guides her back, and she rewards him with a kiss.

Chapter Text

            Erika skipped back into the tavern, humming to herself as she set the basket down on the counter.  Her mother looked up from sweeping the floor behind the counter, a smile coming to her features.

            “You’re back earlier than expected,” her mother said.  “Found everything quickly?”

            “The main market was very well stocked today,” Erika replied with a smile of her own.  She brought a hand to the tie of her cloak but paused before unfastening it.  “Is there anything else I can do?”

            Marie paused, leaning on the broom for a moment as she thought.  “We are a little short on kindling for the fire.  Could you go out to the woods and get some?”

            “Is that all?”  Erika frowned a little, faint lines drawing between her brows.  “Usually there’s so much more to be done.”

            “You were very busy yesterday morning!”  It was her father’s voice, though rather distant.  Erika glanced over to the door in the short bit of wall that cut the bar counter off.  On the other side of the wall were the stairs that led to the family’s living quarters, but on the side behind the counter, the door led down to the cellar where all the drinks were stored.  Her father must have been taking inventory.

            “I suppose so,” Erika replied, raising her voice a bit more to address her father.  She wrinkled up her nose a bit as she transferred her purchases from the basket to her mother.  “If you’re sure . . .”

            “Positive,” Marie replied with a smile.  “Go on; no need to rush about it.”

            Erika smiled before turning and hurrying back outside with her now empty basket slung back into the crook of her arm.  This was a favor she would certainly enjoy running.  The forest just to the west of Einsemar was beautiful, in its dark and mysterious way.  She had never ventured very far under the sprawling canopies of the trees, but the shallow depths she had explored on various errands had left her feeling both chilled and enthralled.  The older she grew, the more enamored she became with the quiet escape.  Fetching firewood or mushrooms was always one of her favorite favors to do.

            Leaving Einsemar was a far more navigable path, particularly as the day drew to its height.  She wound her way once more to the main road and took it in the opposite direction.  She kept her gaze fixed forward, humming to herself as she walked.

            By the time she reached the gates, there was no one else in sight.  She nearly skipped out into the open space just beyond the gate; with the guards stationed there, she refrained from such a display.  She gave each guard a polite nod before striking off the beaten road to make her way across the grass towards the looming forest.

            “Be careful out there, girl,” one of the guards said.  His voice was so solemn that Erika turned to look at him.  The man inclined his head towards the woods.  “Prettier ladies than you have been lost to those trees.”

            Erika smiled with as much surety as she could.  “I’ll be fine.  I’m not going very far.”

            The two guards exchanged a look before the one that spoke up looked at her again.  “Should you need anything, call out.  We’ll come quick as we can.”  He smiled in a way that made Erika’s stomach twist uncomfortably.  She gave a quick nod before hurrying forward again.

            As fond of romance and chivalry as she was, the advances of men – however polite or lewd they were – always made Erika nervous.  A man would stifle her, choke her dreams and aspirations out.  Even if she married up in social standing, she would not have what she wanted.  No time to sing, no time to sketch or paint like the wealthy ladies did in their manors and palaces.  Just cooking and cleaning and raising children.

            She blundered under the lacey shadows of the forest, pausing there to swipe at the pressure building in her eyes.  She leaned against a tree, the heel of her palm pressed to her eye, her other arm wrapped tight around herself.

            “It isn’t fair,” she said to herself.  She dropped her hand down to latch onto her other arm.  “It just isn’t fair!”  Erika bit down on her lip with her teeth, eyes shut tight as she pushed down the urge to cry.  Romantic at heart, yet independent, and with a head full of desperate dreams; no wonder no one had come to whisk her off her feet.  They must think her entirely bizarre.

            Crying would get her nowhere, and she knew it.  Erika sucked in a deep breath, chest jerking up.  She swiped at her eyes before pushing herself away from the tree she leaned against.  “It isn’t fair, but it is life,” she muttered before starting forward again.

            Erika strayed through the undergrowth, pushing past ferns and shrubs and various other shorter plants that huddled under the green shade of the ancient forest.  She kept her feet low, scuffling her way through.  Whenever she kicked against a sizeable branch, she bent down and picked it up from the forest floor.  If it passed physical inspection, she tucked it into her basket and continued.  It was not necessarily the most efficient of ways, but it gave her time to think.  Today, she did her best not to mull on her clashing desires, and instead focus on her surroundings.

            The forest was ancient, the trees towering on their thick girths.  The canopy overhead was a rich green, leaves rustling in the slow caress of the breeze.  The leaves cast shadows as intricate as lace that swayed and dappled the ground and her body.  She saw no wildlife beyond the songbirds and squirrels that flitted and darted in the branches overhead.

            But there were other animals.  She had heard stories, seen hides, eaten meat.  Deer were abundant, and while they were safe and relatively harmless, there were far more dangerous creatures that called the woods their home. Great brown bears, towering taller than an average man on their back feet, with claws at least the length of Erika’s pale fingers and a great maw of piercing teeth in their crushing jaws.  Wild cats with gleaming eyes and piercing talons.  Wolves, traveling in their precious packs.  These lived in the depths of the forest, and Erika stayed far, far away from them.  She had never seen any of these creatures alive and had no intention of ever meeting any.

            Erika bent down again, picking up another stick.  She examined it, fussed at its length to see if it was rotten.  It held up in her grip, though she held onto it a time longer.  The pale green growths of lichen that decorated the wood were artful in their randomness.  A beauty of nature. A shame to burn such a thing, but if she left it here, it would meet some other death.  Rotting to become one with the earth, found by another person to become kindling, chewed on by some animal.  Better to give it such an end by one who appreciated it.

            As Erika tucked it among the rest of the kindling in her basket, she felt a crawling sensation creeping over her skin.  She recognized it, in a way.  It felt like when the drunken men watched her body as she ran about the tavern serving up drinks and food.  While that was a lusting and lecherous glance, this was different.

            Her head felt heavy as she raised it.  She could feel the hammering beat of her heart, echoed in her neck and wrists.  She looked straight ahead and saw nothing.  She turned her head into the slight breeze that danced through the trees and saw nothing.  She turned her head forward and saw a glimpse of something in her peripheral vision.

            Erika’s head snapped around, eyes wide and wild, body tense and ready to spring to her feet and fly from her place.  But terror froze her in place, planting roots through her feet that she could not extract.

            It was a wolf.  Just one wolf, with brown-gray fur and bright gold eyes.  It was lying on the ground, more on its side.  Its soft ears were pricked towards Erika, head cocked just a touch to one side.  It was a look of curiosity, but it did not give her any ease.

            Erika pressed the palms of her hands to the ground, ignoring the crackle of leaves and branches as she pushed herself up off her knees.  She straightened out, still moving slow.  She clutched at her basket of wood, aiming it between herself and the wolf.  The bulky thing seemed a flimsy shield to her, but its wide shape was all that she had.  She grabbed onto one of the sticks she had collected, ready to hurl it if the wolf lunged, or beat it if it pounced on her.  With great care, she began to back away.

            The wolf raised its head, sniffing at the air for a moment before leveling his gaze back at her.

            The attention was enough to make her blood run ice cold.  Erika turned her back to the creature and took off in a run, back the way she came.  She blundered through the undergrowth, ducking and weaving through the trees.  She did not run long, only until she felt herself to be a safe distance from the wolf.

            Erika leaned against a tree, chest heaving as she caught her breath.  A wolf, a real and living wolf.  She’d never seen one before.  It was exhilarating, but for the most part it was frightening.  She had heard that wild animals kept far away from people, and she had not strayed very far from Einsemar.

            Erika stood straight again, pushing herself off the tree to pace forward.  She did not walk long before stopping once more, feeling a fresh spike of fear as she noted the depth of the undergrowth, the thickness of the trees.  She turned about, towards the edge of the woods.  She did not see thinning trees; rather, a sea of them stretched before her, the undergrowth thicker than when she first began.  There was no trace of the city she called home visible through the shadows.

            “No,” she whispered.  She took a few staggering steps forward again before stopping.  She knew she had been wandering in the trees, but she always did.  How had she gotten so deep into the woods?  She had been distracted with distracting herself, yes, but surely, she would have noticed if she went so far in?

            She could have hit herself for such foolishness.  Even worse was the fact that she should have known how to navigate the woods. The trees were too thick to gauge her direction based on the sun, but Vendetta had told her before what side of a tree moss grew on.  Her attention had always drifted elsewhere, though, never retaining the information.  And now Erika was lost, hopelessly lost, with no idea what direction she was facing or how far she was from home.

            “I have to try, at least,” she whispered to herself.  It took a moment to gather her courage, but she finally started forth again.  With great care, she walked in what she believed to be the northern direction.  Her breath came in little more than shallow gasps, wracked by anxiety.

            A sound came to her ears, a dull crack.  Erika paused a moment, listening to the silence that followed.  She had imagined it, then, in a hopeless dream of finding help.

            And then it came again.  The crack that could only be wood being split.  And that would mean there was a person out there.

            Erika hitched up her skirt, hurrying towards the sound.  A gust of hope was stirring in her breast. Throwing herself at the mercy of a stranger, particularly a male stranger, was dangerous. But it was the only hope keeping panic from fogging her mind all over again.

            She moved around a tree just in time to catch the flash of light on steel.  The wood split neatly in half, pieces tumbling to either side of the axe.  Strong, tanned hands flexed around the handle and worked the axe out of the groove in the stump beneath, heavy muscles in thick arms flexing under a close fitted shirt of a green that seemed perfectly at one with the woods.  The man was tall, with wide shoulders and bulky muscles.  His face was turned away from Erika as he grabbed another small log and put it in position.  His head turned with the motion, revealing a tan face, straight nose, dark brow furrowed in concentration.  A few strands of dark brown hair were stuck to his forehead, fallen loose from a thick head of hair, trimmed short; the ends curled slightly on the back of his neck.  He wore a thin beard, cut close against his jaw and cheek so that the skin was still somewhat visible.

            Erika must have made a sound, because that dark, closed face turns towards her.  The left eyebrow, the one closest to her, peaked in the middle and lifted higher than the other.  His mouth, thin and shapely, quirked up at the same corner.  His eyes looked green, but the edge of the color is too dark to be green.  Brown, she realized, green and brown strewn together.

            “Y’gonna keep starin’, or what?”  The man’s voice was as rough as his appearance, though the slight drawl was unfamiliar to her.

            “I’m sorry,” Erika blurted, averting her gaze.  “I just . . . wasn’t sure who I’d find out here.”

            “I could tell that much.”  He turned to her fully. In an easy gesture, he swung his axe up on his shoulder. His other hand braced on his hip.  “You’re lost.”

            Erika felt a blush splash onto her cheeks.  “Is it so obvious?”

            “Painfully obvious, if I’m honest.  Wandered too far I take it?”

            Erika nodded, though it was only half the truth.  That wolf was the real reason she was so turned about and lost.  “Is there a chance you could help me?  Maybe?  You can just point me in the right direction to Einsemar, you don’t have to come along–”

            The woodsman laughed, shook his head at her even.  “And leave a pretty thing like you all alone to deal with what may be out here?  I may live out here, but that doesn’t make me a heathen, my lady.”

            The blush on her cheeks and neck darkened a shade.  “I’m no . . . I’m not a lady, sir, I can assure you that,” she stammered out.

            “You’re pretty enough for it,” he replied, swinging the axe off his shoulder.  He took a few steps over to a nearby tree, plucking a small leather casing off a branch.  “What are you doing out here, anyway?  Don’t you know the woods aren’t the safest place to wander about in?”

            “Collecting some kindling,” she muttered, angling her head down as if to duck under the admonishing tone.

            The man gave a grunt of reply, deft and familiar fingers fastening the leather casing around the axe head and tying it tight.  He twirled the axe around in his hand before reaching back and slipping it into a sheath on his back.  “Did you get enough?”

            Erika shrugged, shuffling through the assorted twigs and branches in her basket.  “It doesn’t matter that much.”

            “Well you shouldn’t go to all the trouble of getting lost to go back home without everything you needed.  C’mon, we’ll get some more on the way.”

            “That really won’t be necessary–”

            “Well I insist.”  He looked back at her with a quirked eyebrow.  “Unless you wanna find your own way back?”

            Erika remained silent, lips pressed into a thin line.  The woodsman gave her a nod before he turned and started off into the trees.  Erika darted after him; she caught up to him quickly, though kept a polite distance from him.

            “Thank you,” she blurted out, “for your help.”

            “That won’t be necessary.”

            “Well I should at least be grateful!  In all truth, I should give you something in return.”

            The woodsman grinned, an expression she only caught from the corner of her eye.  “Perhaps.  Worry about it later, though.  For now, just keep up.”

***

            Keeping up proved to be a bit of a challenge.  The woodsman moved with a grace and speed that implied intimate familiarity with the woods.  Erika was a stranger and stumbled with a stranger’s awkwardness after him.  Even with him stopping and picking up kindling for her, Erika fought to match his pace.  It seemed no time at all before he had led her to the edge of the forest.  The familiar walls of Einsemar reared up across the stretch of open grass. The relief pulsed through her chest.

            The woodsman stopped at the edge of the forest, keeping himself under the last of the shadows.  Erika stepped out into the open light, breathing out a sigh of relief before turning back towards him.

            “Thank you, for helping me.”  She offered a slow, shy smile to him.  “I know you didn’t have to, so I do appreciate it.”

            He gave a slight sound that could have been a short laugh.  “My pleasure, my lady.”  He bent at the waist slightly.

            Erika swayed forward a moment, feeling a brief flutter of hesitation.  Before she could stop herself any longer, she stepped back under the trees.  She caught a brief flash of his eyes, a slight hint of surprise in the green-brown shades as she pressed a hand against his chest.  She leaned up on her toes, pressing a shadow of a kiss against his cheek.  The scruff of his beard tickled against her skin where it touched, and the warmth of his body reached out towards her, asking her to fold into him.

            It took more force than she wanted to admit to step back.  A blush shot up to her cheeks as she shuffled backwards.

            “I should be going,” Erika said, her tone turning brisk.  “Thank you–”

            “Tell me your name.”

            Her eyes widened as she looked up at him, cheeks still blooming roses, lips barely parted.  For a moment, both stared at the other, one in shadow and one in light.

            “Come find me and perhaps I will tell you,” Erika whispered.  She turned away fast, barely keeping herself from running to the road.

            All the way she felt him watching her, but she never once looked back.

Chapter 4: Telekinetic

Summary:

Erika has an incident in the family tavern, but is helped out of it by Vendetta.

Chapter Text

            “I can’ believe you, Erika!  How could you kiss a man you don’ know?!”

            “I didn’t kiss him!” Erika protested, a blush already flooding her skin.  “I told you, I kissed his cheek.”

            “A kiss is a kiss,” Vendetta replied, her words gone sharp.  The redhead seemed to ignore the way Erika rolled her eyes.  “You’re jus’ leading him on.  Or you want him comin’ along aftah you.”

            “Like it would be hard to find me,” Erika shot back, shooting her friend a glare as she picked up the platter of drinks from the bar.  “This is a public tavern, you may recall.  And I’m not exactly unknown in the city.”

            Vendetta grumbled to herself as Erika whisked away for a round about the tavern.  In mere moments, Erika had delivered fresh drinks and topped off old ones and come back for more.

            “Wot did he look like anyway?” Vendetta asked.  She turned a bit on her stool, slumped in her usual fashion, legs spread out without worry as she wore her usual breeches.

            Erika shrugged, pressing her lips into a close line as her mother put a fresh jug of beer on her platter.  “Handsome enough, I suppose,” she replied, perhaps lying a bit in her own opinion.  “Taller than me.  Broad shouldered, very strong looking.  Rather rugged, too.  Dark hair, tan.”  She paused, and then blurted out all at once, “And he had the most stunning eyes I think I’ve ever seen.”

            Vendetta’s one visible eye rolled, and she blew a breath up at the fringe of red hair that hung in her left eye.  “Righ’.  Handsome enough.”

            “But you didn’t see them!” Erika protested, turning her head so fast that her black braid flung out a bit.  “The colors…  They were brown, but they were green, and they kept changing their shade–”

            “More drinks!” a thick voice bawled out from behind Erika.  Both women turned their heads to observe the table.  Erika felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach when she observed the ringleader of the group.

            “I’m sure your fathah would serve them if you asked,” Vendetta said in a low voice.

            Erika shook her head a bit as she picked up the platter.  “It’s fine.  I’ll be quick and be done with it.  I’ll be there and gone before the drunk can move his hand.”

            Erika afforded her friend no time to protest further before she whisked away.  She moved with the grace of a noble woman; steps smooth and measured, not hurrying but moving quickly, head held high.  She tried not to dwell on her first encounter with William Hughes.  It had regrettably not been the last.

            William Hughes was a regular at every tavern in Einsemar, no matter how fine or seedy the establishment.  The man was an alcoholic unlike any other.  Hughes was the son of a merchant, a rich one at that; the family wealth trickled to the taverns for beer.  The coins never ran out, even with his father dead and William being filled with sloth.

            Perhaps worse than being a drunkard was the man’s equally unquenchable thirst for women; what he didn’t spend on drinks, he spent on buying a woman to bed for the night.  Erika remembered her parents sitting her down when her breasts began to blossom and telling her to be quick footed about men like William Hughes.  She had not understood then and had not understood for a few more years.  Her parents had done their best, but Erika found out just what sort of man he was on her own.

            She was fifteen, just begun serving drinks and food even in the busiest hours of business when she finally understood.

            She shoved the thoughts down, drawing a sharp breath in through her nose as she came up on William’s left – the side he had not heard from for nearly three years.  Erika picked up the pitcher she had brought and lighted it on the center of the table.  With a neat little skip, she bounded backwards and swept on around the rounded table and its assemblage.  A little sigh escaped her, one of great relief.  Perhaps–

            Without warning a heavy hand caught onto Erika’s waist and all but jerked her backward.  A little squeal let out of her – much like the squeal she had breathed those three years back in a situation that was dizzyingly familiar.  A slurred groan of words came out from behind her as another of those meaty hands groped at her waist, sliding lower until squeezing her backside.

            Was this better or worse than being fifteen and plopped down on a stranger’s lap, groin hardened from arousal?  She could feel a scream clawing at her throat, just as it had before when William had introduced her to the desperate desires of men.

            Older and wiser and wishing not to make as much of a scene, Erika bared her teeth, fingers tightening on the thick wood platter she held.  The drunk voices leering at them were a buzz through her pulsing anger.  She twisted at the waist, all but snarling as she slammed the tray down on William’s balding head.  There was a mighty crack! and her hands plunged down as the platter split over his head.  William’s hands dropped from Erika’s body, and she lunged away, turning as she moved to glare back at William.  She regarded the dazed look on his face with great triumph, though she knew it was not hers alone.  Erika was by no means strong enough to split such thick wood over a man’s head, and she knew just where her help had come from

            Boots thudded against the floor. A small hand clamped on her shoulder for a moment before Vendetta brushed by.  Vendetta stopped before William long enough to grab onto his tunic and heave him up into the air – seemingly an impossible feat for a woman of her stature, but in the dead silence, no one questioned her.

            “No one touches my friend like tha’,” Vendetta hissed through clenched teeth.

            Vendetta whirled, all but hurling William away from her.  He crashed to the ground with a cry, scrambling to sit up.  Vendetta dropped a hand to the knife in her belt, plucking it free and hurtling it forward through the air.

            The tip sank into the ground just beneath his crotch – where a dark stain soon began to spread.  Roars of laughter sprang into the air.

            “Nex’ time I won’ miss!” Vendetta barked.  “Now, you worthless arse–!”

            Charles Deforest stormed in, eyes black as his hair with his rage. “Get out of my tavern.”  He grabbed William by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.  “And if you ever come back, I’ll find the nearest Iron Guard and have him escort you to the stocks for assaulting a maiden!  You’re not welcome here a moment longer, Hughes!”

            In all the ruckus that followed, no one noticed Vendetta stretching out a hand and the small dagger leaping free of the wood to meet her palm.  She thrust it back into its sheath without another word, storming across the floor to sit down at the bar.

            Erika hurried after her, dropping the broken platter to the bar before wrapping her arms around the other woman’s shoulders.  “Thank you so much.  I can get you a free drink?”

            “Didn’ do anything,” Vendetta replied.  “Just a li’l push on that platter.”

            “And throwing that fool to the ground and almost impaling his manhood!”

            Vendetta shrugged, and when she turned her face towards Erika, there was a bit of a smile there.  “I jus’ hate men like tha’.  And most of them are tha’ way.”  Her green eyes turned hard as emeralds.  “All they want is sex, and tha’s how they break your heart.”

            Erika leaned back, squeezing Vendetta’s shoulder.  “Perhaps some.  Perhaps many, even.  But not all.  We just hope to be lucky.  Now . . . about that drink?”

            Vendetta rolled her eyes a bit.  “I’ll take an ale if you insist.”

            Erika grinned, already moving to go around the counter.  “Of course I do.  Anything for my dear friend.”

Chapter 5: A Devil's Bargain

Summary:

Erika discovers that the king is holding a contest to find his new court singer. She enters, though she fears she may be in over her head. She crosses paths with the woodsman again and learns his name. But he speaks of trouble brewing, and Erika begins to worry.

Chapter Text

            It had been a few days since her trip into the woods, and Erika was once more in the market.  The air was mild, teasing at her hair and clothes.  It was another beautiful day, as spring so often was.  The heat and storms of summer well away, as well as the chills and snow of winter.  All was well.

            Except for the fact that Vendetta had given no reports on the mystery man from the south.  She had so wished her friend would be wrong, that the man would be around for a few days at least, stir up a little excitement.  For a city, Einsemar tended to be rather boring.  All the excitement happened out in the countryside, as far from the Iron King as possible.  With a penchant for violence, the King’s true and deep supporters were few and far between.  Most citizens were apt to support just enough to avoid trouble.  But there were those who were brave or fool enough to dare to voice a negative opinion.  These people were rare in Einsemar, where the King so often spent his days; it was far too dangerous to risk it.

            It was the war that had first brought the rising stirs of trouble.  Genosha was home to many people who possessed extraordinary talents, the Gifted Ones, and it was a haven for these people.  Most other countries – or so Erika had heard – thought these people to be witches, cursed peoples, a million other horrid things.  They wanted such gifted people to be cleaned from the face of the earth.

            Many fled to Genosha, scaling snow peaked mountains and crossing rivers and oceans for a chance at safety.  For this reason, Genosha was an enemy to many of the nearest kingdoms.  Wars had spanned across the history of the kingdom, from its first king En Sabah Nur, to the Iron King himself; the throne itself bore a bloody history of violence and plotting,lords vying for such a position of power.

            The Iron King was the first king in many long years to hold his position for more than five years; close to seven years now, a miracle in recent history. There had been whispers that the throne had been cursed after King Earlham was murdered on the throne thirty years past. After King Earlham, a king who had managed to broker a hesitant peace between Genosha and her nearby enemies, many kings had risen to power in blood, and fallen from power in the same manner. Wars had destroyed many of these kings, but there were those, such as King Shaw, the Iron King’s predecessor, who spilled the blood themselves to rise to power. He had died on the Iron King’s own sword, and so Lord Erik Lehnsherr took the crown from his corpse.

            It was through his merciless grip that the Iron King retained his seat. He had brokered a tentative peace for the time, though it was rumored that he had done so through assassins. The capital city was quiet, with a crime rate that was exceptionally low.  The kingdom was safe, prosperous, and rich in many regards, recovering more every year from the last war.  But the price paid for these luxuries had been high, and it was that price that many people hated the King for.

            There had been no uprisings since before the winter; the last had been buried seemingly in the snow.  Erika was glad of that.  She hated violence.  Even if rumors of uprisings were about the most exciting thing to happen in Einsemar.

            And so it was that her days had become much the same of late; go to market, sweep the tavern floor, serve drinks and food and sing pretty songs, go to bed exhausted and do it all again the next day.  She had hoped that perhaps the stranger in the tavern with his charming smile and odd behavior and pretty accent might mean something was going to happen.

            It seemed her hopes were to be wrong.  There would be no excitement it seemed, unless the gossip of the city had anything to give.  Erika stopped humming, turning her focus on the conversations around her.

            “He wants to marry her, can you believe it?  They’d have such hideous looking children!”

            “I’m telling you, there’s no better eggs in the kingdom!”

            “Cheese from last year’s prize cow!”

            “Hughes kicked out of a tavern? That’s nothing new.”

            “–and I asked what they’re there for, and they said they’re looking for anyone who can sing!  Can you imagine what this may mean?  I could be the King’s troubadour!”

            Erika’s heart skipped in her chest.  She turned her head this way and that until she saw a small gaggle of girls, all tittering and squealing in excitement.  Her stomach fluttered as she moved a little closer, ears straining to hear every word.

            “To sing at the feasts and the balls!” one young woman said, eyes fluttering as she brought the back of her hand to her brow.  “To meet so many handsome lords.  Oh, so romantic!”

            “And dramatic!” another squealed.  “All the castle gossip, just at your fingertips!”

            “How long do you think they’ll be at the castle market?  I can’t go to the lords looking like this!”

            The castle market was a lengthy walk, but she didn’t mind.  Erika turned away, walking with brisk, elongated strides as she worked through the crowd of shoppers.  She would come home later than usual, but she could make her excuses later.  This was far too important to let it slip by.

            Perhaps her assumption that there would be no excitement had been drawn too soon.

***

            The castle market, named for its proximity and stunning view of the royal palace, was far less busy than the main market.  The market housed more artisan wares rather than foodstuffs, and more performers came in the hopes of an even better appreciation from the finer folk who lived so close to the palace.  The space was more open, more opulent, and in her simple dress, she felt far out of her place.  But she would not let such a thing deter her.  She brushed at the faded blue of her dress, drawing herself straighter.  A good impression was important to all things, particularly when those being impressed were of such high standing.

            She could see them, a group of men and women in fine garb, clustered at a table.  They were speaking among themselves, idle and cheery banter that she just managed not to hear.  A small group of guards, all tall and broad in the shoulders and garbed in gleaming armor, kept stoic watch over the lords and ladies.

            Erika felt her own nerves hesitating to allow her any closer.  She was shy in nature, and the opulence of the nobility made her more so.  Somehow, their being close in age to herself frustrated her nervousness further.

            One of the lords looked over; even from the distance, she could see his eyes were a brilliant blue.  The corners of them crinkled as a smile came to him, and with a small gesture from his hand, his peers spread out into something more like a line.  The conversation dwindled, died, and all eyes turned to Erika.

            The young lord held out a hand, fingers curling in a beckoning gesture.  Erika could feel her knees threatening to tremble as she approached.  She stopped a few paces away from the three figures, easing herself into a curtsy.

            “No need for that today,” the young lord urged.  He stepped forward, gently taking hold of Erika’s arms and pulling her upright.  His voice carried a smoother and more elegant version of the Britannia accent that colored Vendetta’s voice.  “You’re here for the competition, yes?”

            Erika nodded, a shy shadow of a smile fighting to rise.  “I heard about a contest for the troubadour title.”

            “We’re very glad to have you join,” the young lord replied.  “You’re well known around the city as the girl from The Forest’s Glen.”

            “Why- Why yes, I suppose I am.”  Pride warmed her chest, more intoxicating than the warmth of alcohol.

            The young lord squeezed her arms encouragingly before releasing her and turning towards the woman on his left.  “Raven, would you mind passing me the list?”

            The blonde woman rolled her eyes, which seemed to flash gold in the light.  “Anything for you, Lord Xavier,” she replied in a tone of brittle sarcasm.

            Erika felt her mouth drop open for a second before she snapped it shut again.  She likely should not have been surprised, yet it was an immense honor to meet a member of House Xavier.

            Though there were ample small noble families, ten true and ancient houses had originally helped rule over Genosha.  For most of the kingdom’s history, the ten families had been stable, supporting their king even as power plays flew back and forth.  The families had been ravaged by violence, though, leaving only eight intact. One had fallen, destroyed by an ancient conflict over land disputes. The other, House Lehnsherr, had only the Iron King as the surviving member.

            Of the eight remaining families, the Xavier family was the grandest.  Richest, oldest, most established, most influential; countless lords of the name Xavier had been the right hands of kings, though the throne had never carried one in all the kingdom’s history.

            Erika glanced down to the young lord’s chest, and saw the small necklace at his breast.  It was a silver circle, an X in its center; no more and no less than a symbol of the family.  She had to force herself out of her star struck wonder to listen when Lord Xavier resumed speaking to her.

            “If you could put your name on our list?” he asked, offering a quill to her.  “There will be a summons within the week, and you will be brought to the palace and had the competition explained to you in full.”

            “Of course,” she replied, her voice faint.  She reached out, careful not to be too forward and make any contact with his hand as she took the quill.

            “I think you’ve made her a bit shy, Charles” the other young lord spoke up.  Erika glanced sidelong at him.  He was dressed far more simply than his counterparts, and his pale complexion and large eyes gave him a scholarly appearance.

            “I had no intention of doing so,” Xavier replied, chuckling in what Erika would have called a nervous fashion from anyone else.  “I assure you, Erika, that Raven, Hank, and myself are no different than anyone else.  We do the very same things all other people do.”

            “We’re just richer,” Lady Raven cut in.  “And have fancy, stuffy tutors.”

            Erika couldn’t help but smile, relaxing a little in their casual banter.  She signed her name on the paper with a brisk flourish before placing the quill on the table.  She stepped back, clutching at her basket and uncertain now just what she was to do.

            Xavier gave her another smile, blue eyes kind and open.  “I wish you the best of luck in the competition, Erika.”

            She cast a last curtsy to the nobles, but her eyes drifted to the list of names before she turned away.  Chills wracked along her spine, and it took every ounce of self-control not to shudder visibly as she made her way back across the square.  As she left, aware of their eyes still on her, she felt overcome with the terrible feeling that she had signed onto a devil’s bargain.

***

            Walking with her thoughts far away was nothing out of the ordinary for Erika, and so the jarring feeling of her body colliding with a stranger was nothing new to her.  Her thoughts snapped away from her worries of the potential competition and her aching daydreams of performing in the court.

            “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she said without hesitation as she turned to the person in question.  A startled blush shot onto her face when she saw who it was:  the woodsman who had helped her the day she had lost her way in the woods.

            He grinned, a slow and lazy expression as he turned more towards her.  An assortment of pelts were draped over his shoulder, soft and gleaming in the sunlight.  He was as rugged - and as handsome - as she remembered.

            “Shouldn’t I have known better to step out o’ your way, then?” he asked.  Erika blushed a deeper shade at the light teasing of his tone.

            “It matters not either way,” she said quickly.  “Goodbye–”

            “You said if I found you, you’d tell me your name.”

            Erika turned her head quickly, seeing his arrogant smile.  “I said perhaps I would.”

            The man’s eyes rolled up towards the sky, as if beseeching patience, but he still smiled.  “Fair enough.  What are you doing so far into the city?”

            Erika frowned a little.  “Why do you ask that?”

            He stepped closer, tilting his head down towards her.  “Castle market’s awfully high society, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice gone low.

            Erika shuddered, not quite meeting his eyes.  “It is, but I–”

            “And lords and ladies.  They’re out today.  Something about a contest for a new troubadour.”  He arched his left brow a bit.  “Sure you don’t know anythin’ about that?”

            “I overheard some young women speaking of it,” she replied, finally looking up through her lashes at him.

            “Did you sign onto it?”

            “You don’t even know if I can sing!”

            “Did you?”

            Erika blinked, stepping back slightly from him. Wariness made her narrow her eyes.  “Why should I tell you?”

            The woodsman’s eyes grew dark and shuttered.  “The royal court is not what it seems.  Intrigues, tragedies; it’s not a place for a girl like you.”

            “You don’t know me.”

            “You’re right,” he replied, eyes lightening a bit, tone going brisk; sarcasm, Erika realized.  “I don’t even know your name.”

            “I don’t know yours, either.  You’re just a woodsman.  I’m just a tavern girl.  Isn’t that enough?”

            The woodsman smiled, a slow and thoughtful smile.  “Tavern girl, eh?  That’s interesting.  I’ve heard of only one beautiful enough to even possibly be you.  Hear she’s got a bit of a bite, too.  Broke a wood tray over a man’s head the other night accordin’ to some.”  Erika blushed again, and the woodsman laughed.  “So she is you!  Erika . . .”

            “Now you really should be telling me your name,” she said, arms wrapping around herself.

            “Logan.  My name’s Logan.”

            “Logan,” she echoed, falling quiet for a moment, as much to assess his name rather as he had done for hers.  “It suits you.  But how did you hear about that?”

            He grinned, the left corner of his mouth higher than the right.  “I know people, and people talk.  It’s pretty impressive.  Brave, too.  Bastard deserved it from what I hear.”

            “Of course he did,” Erika replied quickly.  “I’m not a mean person, Logan.”

            “No.  I can tell.”  His smile turned softer.  “Be careful?  The King isn’t all he seems, and neither is his court.  Things are happening.  People are disappearing again.”

            “What?  Who?”

            “Some man who ran an inn on the south side o’ Einsemar.  Browne, I think was his name.”  Logan shrugged a bit.  “Hard t’say what happened.  Could’ve been the Iron Guard.”

            “Logan!” Erika hissed sharply.  “Don’t talk like that!  If someone would hear you say that, you’d get us both in a world of trouble.  Or worse.”

            His eyes flashed, and Erika felt a chill swarm down her spine.  “And being silent can sometimes be even worse.  If you’ll excuse me, I really should be going.  Business to do, after all.”

            “Logan–”

            He turned away from her, stepping back into the flow of foot traffic.  Erika tried to watch after him, but before she knew it, he had vanished from her sight.

Chapter 6: Lady of Secrets

Summary:

Vendetta voices her concerns about Erika participating in the contest. She reveals what information she has gathered on the mysterious southerner.

Chapter Text

            Erika worked through the rest of her chores for the day in a sort of haze.  There were bountiful things troubling her mind; the competition she had yet to tell her parents of, the chance encounter with Logan on her way back from castle market, his words of the Browne man’s disappearance.  They all ran about her head in turns, taunting and teasing her with their own intrigues and concerns.  The thoughts chased her into the evening, into the night.  With her mind so scattered, it was a wonder she could serve the tables that night with any semblance of efficiency.

            A finger tapped her on the shoulder.  Erika jumped, whirling around with wide eyes.  She breathed out a sigh when she saw it was only Vendetta.

            “Wot’s gotten in your head this evening?” the redhead asked before tagging a swig of her ale.  “You didn’ even notice me come in.”

            “I’m sorry,” Erika said with a sigh.  She was cut off from speaking further by the bawling voice of a patron that was on his way to too many drinks in too short a time.  The two women exchanged a look that was both disappointed and bemused.

            “Tell me when you’re done wi’ him,” Vendetta replied.  “I can wait.”

            Erika smiled, squeezing her friend’s arm quickly before she hurried across the room.  A bit less distracted, she offered a smile to the table of men before serving up their drinks.  In a moment, she had whisked away, going back to where Vendetta sat at the bar.  She paused to scan the room, assuring herself that she had at least a few moments to take a break.

            Erika all but collapsed onto the stool beside her friend.  “I have had quite the day!”

            Vendetta made a humming sound into her drink, her jade eyes moving towards the petite woman beside her.  Erika smiled at her, the expression tired – worried, even; and then she launched into the telling of the day’s events.  Her narrative began with the overheard gaggle of giggling girls, and finished with the woodsman and his ominous words.  It was an interrupted account, broken at odd moments by the demands of the tavern patrons.  Vendetta followed it with ease, though, and when Erika was finally finished, she was quick to speak up.

            “You signed up for the competition.”

            Erika raised her chin in defiance.  It was no surprise to her that her friend would argue against the notion of her affiliating herself with the Iron King’s court; it was no secret to her that Vendetta bore ill feelings to the king.

            The redhead shook her head before taking another drink.  Though her left eye was covered by her hair as always, her jade glare was still piercing.  “Tha’ job isn’ one to take lightly, girl.  You know tha’.  The King isn’ the easiest man to please.”

            “But it’s my dream,” Erika protested.  “You know this is exactly what I’ve wanted since I started singing!”

            “Damn tha’ minstrel you met!” Vendetta spat out.  “Damn him for showin’ you how to sing and fillin’ your head with all these clouds!”

            “Why don’t you want me to have this?”  Erika shook her head, lines creasing her pale brow.  “Why don’t you want my dreams to come true?”

            Vendetta’s eyes hardened, darkened.  “Because it’s dangerous.  The court . . . it’s a whole different world, luv.  It’s not like the rest of the city.  The people in it aren’ like othah people.  They’ve got secrets, daggahs poised to stab everyone else in the back.  You’re too pure for it.  You wouldn’ last a second.”

            Erika shook her head, raising a hand to dash the tears from her eyes.  “I wouldn’t be in the castle all the time.  I’d be here unless I was wanted for something or another.  I’d be safe.”

            Vendetta shook her head slightly.  “Maybe, but maybe not.  I know I can’ ge’ you to back down from it.  You have to promise me you’ll be careful.  Won’ you?”

            Erika nodded without any hesitation.  “Of course I will be!  When aren’t I careful?”

            Vendetta’s visible eyebrow arched up.  “You really wan’ me to answer tha’?”

            A blush sparked in Erika’s cheeks.  “No, actually, I don’t think I do.”

            “Course not.  You’re not so careful all the time, luv.  Let’s not fight abou’ this.  I know I can’t stop you, but if you’ll be careful, I can feel at least a bit bettah abou’ it.”

            Erika nodded, a relieved smile softening her face.  “I promise I’ll be as careful as I can be.”

            “Good.  Now, if you’re interested, I’ve got some interesting information abou’ someone.”

            The tavern girl’s eyes brightened in curiosity.  “You do?  Who?”

            “A certain mysterious man with a southern accent.”

            “The southerner!”  Erika leaned closer to her friend, eyes wide and alert.  “Tell me everything.”

            Vendetta smiled, tracing the tip of her finger along the lip of her tankard.  “He’s talked to some people, mostly idle chatter from the sounds of it.  Anyone tha’ did talk abou’ him said he wasn’t a fan of eye contact.  And he’s always got that cloak with him, with a purple lining and a fleur-de-lis clasp.  Helped an old lady who dropped some things, even.  By all appearances, he’s a gentleman.

            “But he’s a thief.”

            Erika frowned a little.  She knew that the southern kingdoms were famous for their guilds.  Vendetta had already mentioned thieves, assassins, but how did she know enough to pin him down as one of them?

            As if reading the question in her eyes, Vendetta continued: “It’s the cloak.  The lining and clasp specifically.  Purple is the color of the Thieves Guild of Orleen, and the fleur-de-lis their symbol.  If you know these things, it’s easy to read.”

            Erika looked at her friend for a moment, the lady of secrets.  Erika could sense she was on the edge of one.  Questions were poised at the tip of her tongue.  When her lips parted, however, none stepped forth.

            “Tha’s not even all the news,” Vendetta continued; her voice had quickened, gone earnest and tight.  “Turns out our friend was asking around, questions about what’s in the forest.  I overheard a guard talking abou’ a hooded man going into to the woods yesterday morning, when the mist was still out.”

            “What reason would he have to go out there?” Erika mused, fine lines appearing between her eyebrows as she frowned.

            Vendetta shrugged.  “There’s your mystery, luv.  Could be he’s meeting someone out there.  Why else would a professional thief be in Einsemar if not on a job?  And with our fickle king, would you be seen fraternizing with anyone from out of town tha’ migh’ be suspicious?”

            Erika shook her head slowly.  It would be all too likely that the king would assume that a stranger in his city would mean an uprising.  No one wanted the streets of their own home to run red with blood, especially when it was unwarranted.  “Thank you for informing me.  There’s one more thing on my mind.”

            “If you get me anothah drink, this one free, I’ll answer.”

            Erika cast a sidelong glare at the woman, unsurprised to see her sporting a cheeky grin.  Erika stood up, grabbing her friend’s tankard.  The tavern had quieted some, for which she was grateful; she wouldn’t have to keep such a close watch on the other tables.  She rounded the counter and went to the cask of ale.  The drink spilled forth, frothing and almost gold in the dim, close lighting of the tavern.  As soon as it was topped off, Erika returned to her friend, this time remaining on the other side of the bar.  As Vendetta wetted her throat, Erika filled a pitcher with ale and made rounds to top off any drinks.

            From across the tavern, she could appreciate something of her friend.  While everyone else in the tavern had at least one friend with them, Vendetta sat alone.  In truth, Erika doubted the woman had many other friends besides herself.  The lady of secrets was not only tight lipped about that which she heard and saw; she was just as secretive about herself.  Of all the people in the city, Erika knew the most about the woman, and even that was very little.  The redhead had appeared one day, and had yet to leave.  No one knew just where she was from, though she obviously had roots in Britannia; her accent was undeniable.  Beyond that, all was a mystery.

            Vendetta was rich enough, though.  She owned her own home, her own building even.  She had bought a small building that had once belonged to a tailor who had died when Erika was a very small girl.  The whole building belonged to the woman now.  Erika had asked once where she had gotten the money.  Vendetta never gave a full answer.

            So shrouded was she in mystery that Erika had taken to imagining various possible backstories for her friend.  The stories she told herself grew increasingly wild the longer she thought on the matter.  Logically, Bronwyn St. Vincent had been a traveling performer, like so many people that came through Genosha, and had likely settled in Einsemar for the patronage of the people and the fact that the Gifted were welcomed under the Iron King's rule.

            But that was far too mundane a past for the headstrong, fiery woman.  Erika's following theory on her friend was that Bronwyn had ran away from her home to seek her fortune as a performer.  Perhaps her parents had wanted her to settle down and marry someone in a small, sleepy town, and Bronwyn simply wouldn’t have it.  A mundane life of marriage to some man or another, childbirth and motherhood, perhaps inheriting the family farm or workplace if Bronwyn were their only child, would never do for someone like her.  It would be no wonder that someone like her had fled that life and gone on her own way of adventures.

            But there were other possibilities, other attempts to make sense of the fiery personality, the stubborn independence, the dislike of men, the choice of stage name, the scar that she hid beneath her hair.  Erika had concocted any number of stories behind her friend.  A former English knight: her family and friends had disgraced her for choosing such a manly future, but that had not stopped her from wanting to protect her kingdom; but when she had been discovered as a Gifted One, she had been chased out by her fellow knights, and one had managed to slash their blade over her left eye, leaving that eye poorer than the other and branding her with a scar.  A pirate: abducted as a young girl by a band of filthy pirates, and while her initial cooperation had made them feel secure, she had always been planning to escape; at seventeen, the captain, drunk off his arse as Bronwyn herself would say, tried to rape her; the opportunity was ripe, and she killed him and took his place; she retired from that life young, though, and had a secret fortune hidden somewhere.  An English lady who had sailed across the sea to be married, but dressed as a boy and sneaked away when the ship landed.  A sword for hire who had tired of the violence and chosen a more peaceful route in life.  A princess who had escaped from the dragon that had kidnapped her; when the prince went to save her, he thought he was too late and she had perished, and the kingdom still mourned on the day of her birth.

            Crazy ideas, but Erika thought them up anyway.  If nothing else, crafting insane backstories on her mysterious friend kept her entertained while she made her rounds about the tavern.

            Erika returned to her friend, taking her former seat beside her.  “I overheard someone talking about a disappearance.  Have you heard anything of that sort?”

            Vendetta looked down into her drink.  Her expression had shifted to a far more shuttered look than usual.  “I’ve heard something.  Rumors more than facts, I’d say.  Something about a man named Browne, or something like that.  I’ve heard other variations, but Browne is the most common.”  She shrugged a bit.  “If it’s true, it happened in the night.  If it had been in the day, witnessed, there’d be a lot more talk.”

            Erika hesitated, her blue eyes dark and stormy.  The fact that she gave the same name as Logan had made Erika feel uneasy.  It was all the more likely to be true for being heard from two sources.  “Do you think something bad is happening?”

            Vendetta did not reply at once, favoring instead to take a drink.  “For the sake of everyone, I hope to hell, no.”

Chapter 7: The Thief

Summary:

Erika encounters the southerner himself. He introduces himself and assures her he has no intention to cause trouble.

Chapter Text

            The days began to blur into an anxious anticipation for word of the troubadour competition.  The tension of waiting frayed Erika’s nerves to a breaking point.  Even the slightest annoyance was enough to have her snapping.  While it was not uncommon for her to fall prey to bleak moods, she did her best to keep them to herself.  It was in such moods that her own abilities could be dangerous.  Something in her voice gave her the power to hypnotize people, make them think or act or feel a certain way.  If she focused, she could even tell how people were feeling.  Her uncle was similarly gifted, able to tell emotions by auras as he described them.

            Erika tried her best not to let her strange talents of persuasion out in any situation.  And when she was calm, it was an easy thing.  When she was upset, for any reason, it was not so easy.  And with her tendency to snap first and consider what she said later, it could be potentially dangerous.  One wrong slip of tongue could hurt someone deeply.

            The rasp of the broom across the floor had lulled Erika into a trance of thought.  She moved by reflex to sweep up the last traces of sawdust and wood shavings that had been left when last night’s layer was scooped out by her father.  The thin dusting was always foul by the end of the night, smelling of ale and vomit.  It soaked up the worst of it, though, and once it was removed, the air always smelled a bit fresher.

            Erika nudged the door of the tavern open with her foot to sweep out the accumulated pile.  In a few brisk flicks of the broom, the residue of last night was on the street.  She swept it into the low gutter, then took a moment to lean back against the wall with a sigh.

            “Well don’t you look forlorn today?”

            Erika opened her eyes quickly; she knew the voice, but it had been a few weeks since she’d heard it.  She looked up at the man standing before the tavern, and broke into a bright smile.

            “Uncle Christophe!”  She all but squealed in delight as she sprang forward and embraced him.  Christophe laughed, his free arm wrapping around her. His other arm was laden with a basket of grains, samples of the winter grains for her father to examine and later turn into new ales. “Where have you been?  The vinyard isn’t so far you can’t visit!”

            “Sincerest apologies, m’lady,” he said, sketching a bow.  “My sons and I have been quite busy these last few weeks.”

            “I forgive you easily,” Erika laughed, “but your brother may be a bit more hesitant to.”

            Christophe’s brown eyes flashed with pretend pain.  “How I hate to wound my other half,” he bemoaned.  One hand pressed over his heart in such an absurdly dramatic gesture that Erika couldn’t help but laugh again.  Christophe dropped his hand suddenly, gone serious for the time being.  “But what troubles you, dear?  Your aura is quite moody today, and usually you’re so infallibly bright.”

            Erika sighed softly, putting her arms around herself.  Her fingers began to pluck at the material of her blue dress in a nervous gesture.  “Did you hear of the troubadour contest the King is holding?”

            “I certainly did.  Did you sign on?  You’ve always wanted that position.”

            Erika could only nod.

            “Then why so upset?” her uncle asked, lines forming on his forehead as he frowned.

            “I’m waiting for the summons still, and the week is nearly over.”

            Christophe smiled, gently grasping one of her arms and unwrapping it from around her.  “Then just try to be a bit more patient.  It’ll come.  Did you tell your parents?”

            She gave a small nod.  It had been a brief discussion, which she was glad of.  Her parents had been supportive, if not enthusiastic.  Like everyone else, they seemed uneasy with the prospect of Erika affiliating herself at all within the Iron King’s court.  Beyond that, there had been no other mention of it.

            “There’s nothing to worry about,” Christophe assured her.  “All shall be as it is meant to be.”  He took Erika’s hands for a second, squeezing them reassuringly.  “Now, how about we go in and face my brother’s wrath at me?”

            “You can face it,” Erika laughed, “there will be no wrath at me!”

            “May God help me, then.”  Her uncle gave her hands a last squeeze before releasing them and entering the tavern.  Erika remained outside, listening to the door thump shut behind him.

            Erika sighed, leaning back against the wall more firmly, hands clasping before her.  Regardless of what anyone said, she couldn’t help but worry.  There was only one last day before the end of the week.  Had her name been skipped over by accident?  Were only people of any wealth to be considered?  Was she foolish to do this, to chase a dream?

            She steeled herself, biting back the crushing emotions.  She picked the broom back up in her hands, and pushed once more into her reality.

***

            The nights were growing warmer as spring deepened.  Most patrons of the Forest’s Glen had forgone their cloaks; the evening was fair and clear in the first truly beautiful night since before the winter.

            Perhaps, if it had been only a night or two earlier, he would have escaped her attention upon entrance.  But the circumstances were not with him; the flare of his cloak caught Erika’s eye, and her head turned to follow the gleam of purple as it slipped in among the tables.  Her heart skipped a nervous beat at the tall figure that settled into a lone corner.  He wore no hood tonight, though his long auburn hair shadowed his face.

            Erika was staring too long, for he was staring back now.  She schooled her expression into one of harmless curiosity.  Surely it was not too suspicious to stare at a stranger?

            The southerner lifted a hand, fingers curling in a beckoning gesture.  Erika glanced for a second at the pitcher of ale she held, noting it was still mostly full.  She swung by the bar, grabbing a tankard for him, and then wove her way through the tables.  Fair as the night was, it was quiet; people had better things to do, it seemed, than drink and make merry.

            “Welcome to the Forest’s Glen,” she said upon reaching him.  “What could I get you tonight?”

            “A drink for starters, chere,” he said.  His head raised, hair falling back.  Erika’s eyes were drawn immediately to his, and there they froze, widening, at the man’s gaze.  His eyes were black, irises shockingly red against all the black.  He leaned forward, eyes insistent but never moving from hers.  “And for you ta not be afraid.”

            Erika nodded, a mere jerk of her head as she set the tankard down and filled it.  “What else?”

            “I hear dere’s a lady askin’ questions ‘bout me.  De man in a purple cloak, de southerner, call me what you will.”  His hand, long fingered and graceful, pulled his drink close.  “And she’s your friend.  Are you de one wantin’ ta know about me?”

            Erika blushed, if only a bit.  “Why ever would you think that?”

            “I was here before.”  His voice melted into a low chuckle, the sound as warm and sweet as his accent.  “Ya seemed curious den, figured ya stayed curious.  What is it ya wanna know, Erika?”

            “How–?”

            “I’m a Thief.  I know things.”

            Erika sighed, resigning herself to the fact that that was all the information she would receive on that matter.  “Very well.  What is your name?”

            “Remy LeBeau, at your service,” he replied, sketching as much a bow as he could while seated.  “Known as Gambit in my line o’ work.”

            Erika cast a worried look out over the tables, but all was calm; quiet, by tavern standards, even as conversations roared one over another.  No fights, no one in need of anything.

            Knowing she should not, but helpless to stop herself, Erika sank into a seat near the southerner.  He leaned forward a bit, arms folded on the tabletop.  His long cloak hung around him, obscuring his shape in its folds.  He looked at ease, but still ready to spring into action at a second’s notice.

            “You say Thief like it’s a very important word,” she finally said.  She did not dare to move her eyes from him.  He did not seem bad; if anything, he was quite friendly.  Still, she dared not trust him.

            “It is an important word,” Remy drawled in reply.  “Don’ know much ‘bout Orleen, non?”  At the shake of her head, he plunged ahead.  “In short, Orleen is controlled by two guilds.  One is de Assassins – violent group o’ people; swords for hire.  An den the Thieves.  Masters o’ stealin’, secrets, and poisons.  Thieves don’ kill unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

            As much as Erika wanted to ask more about such an interesting political body, there were far more important things to ask the Thief.  “Why are you here?  Orleen is quite far.”

            “Business.  Ya can’t expect me ta tell ya what I’m doin’, really.”  His strange eyes gleamed with humor.  “Thieves deal in secrets, chere.”

            Erika opened her mouth, ready to try and wrest the answers from his mouth, but a sharpening of his expression cut her into silence.  She looked away, down to where her hands were folded in her lap.  They trembled like leaves in a brisk wind.  “Is something going to happen?” she whispered, daring to lift her eyes to peer through dark lashes at the man.

            “Something happens every day, Erika.  But if you are asking in reference to the vanished man from de other night . . . yes.  Do not ask me any more questions.  It is best you do not know.”

            Her heart beat heavy in her chest, thick and fast.  Her trembling hands braced on the table as she rose once more.  “Am I endangering myself?  By talking with you?”

            His mouth, so elegant in his handsome face, gave a smile that was never echoed in his eyes.  “I wouldn’t want to but something so beautiful as you in danger, Erika.  Walk with caution.”

            Erika parted her lips, wanting to speak once more.  A man, somewhere in the haze behind her, gave a burst of sudden laughter.  Erika whirled, eyes wide and startled as she tore a searching gaze about the room.

            She turned to the table again, already knowing what she would see:  an empty tankard and abandoned chair.

Chapter 8: Missive

Summary:

The Iron King sends for the competitors of his contest. Erika reveals to her parents that she has entered the contest.

Chapter Text

            There was nothing special to mark the day that her life would change forever.  The weather was typical, sunny with a mild breeze.  There were no strange feelings she felt.  It was a day like any other, until it became like no other.

            Erika returned from the market, her basket laden with fresh foods.  She hummed to herself as she went to the counter and set the basket down.  She picked up the meat she had bought, the wrapping around it crinkling under her hands.  Her humming turned into singing, wordless yet still lovely.  She opened the larder and set the meat in, and checked the quality of the few remaining pieces in it.  Finding them still in good condition, she rewrapped them and shut the larder doors.

            A cough behind her cut Erika into sudden silence.  She turned about to face the person, her brow arching. She could feel the way that one eyebrow naturally lifted sharper than the other, making her expression curious.

            Behind her stood a man, a stranger, dressed in royal livery of red with a slight brocade of silver on the hems of his tunic.  He stood just past the doorway of the tavern, framed in the sunlight.  His hair blond hair sat as a cloud of curls on his head, gilded by the sunlight.  His eyes were a pretty shade of brown.  There was a sweetness to his face, and a shyness to his stance.  He held a slip of paper in his hand.

            “Erika Deforest, I presume,” the young man said.  A smile broke upon his youthful face, crinkling up his eyes.  Erika was helpless but to echo the expression.

            “You would be correct, sir,” she said, inclining her head in a slight nod.

            “Wonderful!” he said, and held the folded slip of paper out to her.  “This is for you, then; a summons from the Iron King, for the troubadour contest.”

            Erika’s lips parted as she took a steadying breath.  Her heartbeat thrummed in her throat.  A rush of excitement swept through her so swift as to be dizzying.  With a hand that trembled, she took the paper from the young man.  “Thank you,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

            His smile brightened for a moment.  “You’re most welcome. I wish you luck in the competition, Miss Deforest.”  He sketched a shallow bow before making his exit.  Erika caught a glimpse of him going to his horse and swinging up into the saddle before the door fell shut.

            Erika looked down at the paper in her hands.  Her name stared back at her, penned in a handsome script.  Her steps fell slow as she walked to the bar and sat down on one of the stools.  Her hands steadied, but the trembling had spread and grown into a tremor that vibrated through her entire being.  She unfolded the paper, and stared at the words.  She read them in a vague way, the words clanging in her mind but not truly registering.  It was too much, the excitement just shy of unbearable.

            She shut her eyes and breathed out a faint laugh. Once her trembling had subsided and rational thought returned to her mind, Erika opened her eyes again and looked at the message again.

            Her eyes were drawn to the largest print first; the date – that very day – and a time – four hours after noon.  She glanced up at the brief message at the top, a curt sentence of gratitude, clearly only placed for those who could read. Erika was lucky, in that her father had taught her both some reading and writing skills as a child.

            Erika breathed out a sigh, smoothing the paper out over the table again.  It felt surreal, in a way.  All the time she had spent waiting, all her desperate dreams, coalesced to this one moment.  She had her chance to have everything she desired.

            Footsteps from behind the counter made her look up.  Seeing no one present, she leaned over the counter to peer towards the door to the cellar.  Her father’s head appeared in the doorway, soon followed by the rest of him, cradling a fresh cask against his torso.  He set it down on an empty stand with a sigh.  Charles mopped some sweat off his brow before turning towards his daughter.

            “Who was that man who came in?” he asked, bracing himself against the counter.  “I could hear his voice.  He said something about a summons?”

            Erika pushed the paper towards her father.  “For the troubadour competition.  I’m to go to the palace today, at the king’s behest.”

            Her father looked at the paper for a moment before pushing it back.  “You know Marie and I are proud of you, yes?”

            Erika blinked, a frown drawing at the corners of her mouth.  “Of course.”

            “Good.  If you do win this contest, we’ll still be proud of you.  It takes courage to be yourself in a world like this one, and you have never failed to be who you are.  You are the joy of our lives, our pride, our love.  Whatever happens, we will always be here for you.”

            Erika smiled, reaching out and taking her father’s hand.  “And I shall always remember you and always come back.”

            Charles squeezed her hand, his smile both brilliant and a touch sorrowful.  He released her without another word, turning to go back into the cellar.  Erika watched his descent, her own smile much like his.

***

            It felt so strange to walk into the heart of Einsemar without a basket on her arm or in her hand.  Erika felt as if she was missing a necessary piece of herself.  She walked with her head bowed faintly, ducking past strangers and those faces who were regulars of the tavern.  None seemed to notice her, and that was how she preferred it.

            She clutched the King’s missive in her hand.  The paper was bent in new places from her hard grip, but she cared little for that in the moment.  The slip of paper, fragile as it was, kept her feeling grounded to reality.  Without it, she was sure she would drown in the sea of her own nerves and anxiety.  This was the beginning of a new world for her, regardless of how the competition would go.  If she won, nothing would ever be the same.  But if she lost, her heart would surely shatter in her chest.

            Swept upon the ebb and flow of her own thoughts, she moved ever deeper into the city.  The press of people thickened, and the swirls of fabric she saw in the corner of her eye were increasingly finer.  She was drawing closer, and closer, and closer.

            A shadow fell over her, and Erika froze.  Slowly, she raised her eyes up, and then her head, tilting back to gaze up at the building that had blocked out the sun.

            The Iron King’s palace loomed above her, its turrets stabbing at the perfect blue of the sky.  Sunlight shattered around the tower that had hidden it from sight.

            Erika lowered her gaze down to the north side of the palace, towards the gatehouse and the portcullis.

            Her hand tightened upon her missive, and she began to walk.

Chapter 9: The Contest

Summary:

Erika meets a fellow contestant and is surprised to find a friend in her. The rules of the contest are revealed.

Chapter Text

            The Iron King’s palace had housed countless kings through the history of Genosha.  Separated from Einsemar by its own wall of thick, towering stone, the palace was built of stones unlike any other in the city.  It was a pale construction, an old white that had been stained by the elements.  The shingles that topped each tower were dark gray.  The towers, all of heights that varied in small increments, surrounded the very heart of the palace, where a glittering dome of glass stood.

            Centuries ago, The First had built the palace.  The legend of him, if one were to believe it, was that he had been banished from his desert kingdom, and fled across sea and land to the heart of a foreign land.  He had been a great conqueror, sweeping out across the world to claim it as his own.  But his reach had been too ambitious, and piece by piece, he began to lose control.  Those he had oppressed took up their weapons and marched towards the heart of his empire.  In a rage, he had cast a spell, or perhaps he had had his own strange powers. The land which still remained to him had been split off by his magic, and had floated away from the rest of the world. The spell changed the land, raising mountains in the north and leaving it cold and snow laden, creating swamps in the south and thick, humid heat. The center of the island, where Genosha stood, remained mild, a land of forested greenery, rich soil, and rolling hills.

            After the loss of his empire, The First was never seen again.  Unless the old story of the mountain villages were to be believed, wherein a cloaked and hooded figure had ridden into the mountains one stormy evening and never come down; after the storm, a party went to find a man or a body, and only found a large rock engraved with a language of pictures.  Only one line had been legible to them:  En Sabah Nur.  The name that ancient king had given himself.

            The First’s violent and tumultuous fall from power seemed to echo throughout the seat of his once great empire. Genoshan kings had often struggled to retain their seat. Many kings had been assassinated or fallen in war. Even King Shaw, the Iron King’s predecessor, had fallen by blood. There were many who said King Lehnsherr had slain him in vengeance for his own slaughtered family, though some argued it had been in contest over the war and his leadership during it. Regardless, few disagreed that Shaw had not deserved his death. He had used betrayal and slaughter to rise, and had launched the kingdom into a violent war.

            Erika’s childhood had been marked by the war. She had been nine at its start. Though she had memories from before the war, the violence and fear had left its impression on her. She remembered the rationing of food, the tense quiet or violent outbursts in the tavern, the cathedral bells tolling mournful dirges for the dead. The attack on Einsemar itself...

            But the Iron King had stopped the war. It was said that he had assissinated the opposing kings, and perhaps it was true. Erika didn’t care how he had done it, all that mattered was that he had. Genosha had been at peace for years now – with the exception of the protests against the king.

            War had made everyone afraid and desperate. During those years, thefts and rapes and murders and other crimes had run rampant. After the war, Lehnsherr had slammed an iron fist on the kingdom. Thieves had their hands chopped off, rapists lost their genitals, murderers were executed. Many of these punishments were done publicly, a warning to everyone else. Crime had fallen rapidly, but the people were angered by king’s harsh rule. Almost every year, someone had organized a rebellion. The rebellions were always crushed, but the violence created a cycle that could not be broken.

            There had been no news of any uprisings or strange disappearances of men until the news of Browne. He had truly gone missing, though there were new rumors that he had been assaulting his young daughter, or perhaps it was a niece. Erika knew she had only to wait; something would happen, men would gather the courage to voice their opinions with word or action.

            Was peace ever an option?

            Erika shook her head, rising out of the dark and tangled muddle of her thoughts.  There were more important things to consider.  She was inside the royal palace, waiting with strangers to see the king.

            Needing the distraction, Erika turned her attentions to the others in the room.  There were men and women both, though the men were far outnumbered.  Most of the people seemed to be of the merchant class, bedecked in finer fabrics, some even wearing small jewels.  They had gathered into milling clusters, conversation swelling among them.  Erika didn’t bother to listen in; what more could it be than gossip among the circles of society?  They were above her in society. She did not belong with them.

            Erika skirted around the strangers before sinking into a seat.  She squirmed into the seat to find a comfortable position.  It was far softer than any chair she knew of in her life.  Now, if only the chair could swallow her and ensure no one would notice her.

            Her wish was too late; a young woman, pretty and petite with a long fall of pale blonde hair flounced over, a smile beaming across her features.  Her dress was, like Erika’s, simple and undecorated with the fineries that surrounded her.  The simple green dress suited her, though, drawing attention to the natural beauty of the woman, not her wealth.  A sweeping sense of comfort and relief flowed through Erika from head to toe; at least she was not alone in simplicity.

            “May I sit with you?” she asked, eyes flitting over to the empty chair beside Erika.

            Erika smiled in reply.  “If you wish.”

            “Thank you!  I’m Vivien, by the way, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

            “Erika. We’re well met.”

            “Have you ever competed before?” Vivien gushed as she collapsed into her chair.  “I never have.  I’ve hardly sang for anyone besides my family.  They thought I should sign up to the competition because they say I have a pretty voice, but–” Vivien grimaced, brows plunging down into a cold arch, dark eyes clamped shut.  “Sorry.  I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

            “Only a little,” Erika replied, not quite able to keep from smiling.  “There’s nothing wrong in being nervous to see the king.  I’ve never competed before, either.  I’m nervous, too.”  She reached over to light her hand on Vivien’s for a moment.  “We’ll be all right, though.”

            Vivien leaned close.  Her eyes were dark behind long, pale lashes.  “But look at all of them,” she whispered.  “They’re from money.  They’ve probably had singing instructors since they were children.”

            Erika bit at her lip for a second before shaking her head.  “Don’t think about it,” she urged.  “We’ll just have to do the best that we can.”

            But Vivien’s words concerned her.  The girl had a point; they were both outclassed by all the other men and women in the gaudy garb and perfect manners.  What were two common women doing in a castle, anyway?  Neither of them belonged among such finery; paintings and tapestries, thick rugs, couches and chairs built from the finest wood and cloth and fat cushions stuffed with down instead of straw.  They did not belong.  They belonged on the outside, with common folk.  The only way to come in would be in a gilt cage that the king would wave about, an accessory to impress foreign dignitaries and a bauble to play with when bored.

            Perhaps this was all a terrible mistake.

            “Erika?”  Vivien’s hand tightened around hers, drawing Erika back from her thoughts.  She looked once more to the young woman, noting the concern in her eyes.  “Are you all right?”

            Erika nodded, squeezing her hand gently.  “I am.  I was only thinking for a moment.”

            Vivien nodded in understanding.  “Why did you sign up to the competition?” she asked.

            Relief squeezed Erika’s chest.  Conversation would distract her from any dark thoughts she could conjure.  “I fell in love with singing when I was a little girl.  My father owns a tavern, the Forest’s Glen.  A band of travelling performers came through town and stopped at our tavern one night, performed on the stage.  It was so magical, their singing and dancing, the plays and poetry.  But, of course, a minstrel isn’t a position looked upon with great respect.  You know what people say about the women in such bands.  So I decided I wanted to sing, and I wanted to do it in the castle, so I could do what I love and be respected.”

            Vivien nodded in understanding.  “I like singing, too.  I’m awfully shy, though, so I don’t do it much when people are around.  But when I heard about this contest, and the pay the court troubadour makes . . .”  Vivien sighed softly, her gaze fallen to the floor.  “My father’s farm hasn’t been doing well, and my mother’s been ill lately.  I wanted to help somehow, to make money.  There’s purses for some of the other top contests.  I don’t even want to win; I just want to be able to help my family.”

            “I hope you earn a purse, then,” Erika said softly.  “And if you don’t . . .  I sing in the tavern.  The patrons give me tips for performing.  You could always come and sing there for money.  Or you could help serve people, bring them their food and drink.  It’s just my parents and I, and we’re always busy. They’d pay you to help.”

            Vivien looked back up at Erika, eyes wide, a smile just drawing at her lips.  “Really?  You think I could?”

            “I know you could,” Erika smiled.  “You can come back with me after this and we’ll explain to my father.”

            “Thank you so much, Erika!”  Vivien brought her free hand up to her face, fingers swiping under her eyes briefly.  “You’re so wonderfully kind, thank you.”

            The doors of the room swept open before they could continue their conversation.  The young man who had brought Erika her missive entered the room.  Silence fell as all eyes turned to him.

            “Welcome,” he called out to the room, “to the royal palace.  His majesty wishes to see you all together now and explain the contest. If you will follow me, I shall bring you to the throne room.”

            Erika and Vivien stood, hands still clasped in camaraderie. The other contestants rushed forward, crowding up to the marshal of the court in their haste to be seen and heard by the king. Erika and Vivien, far more subdued, took up the rear together.

            The young blond led them out of the sitting room and through the cool halls of the palace. The party of troubadour hopefuls were led up to the imposing doors of the throne room. Guards stood on either side, armored and armed, ready to lay down their lives to protect their king. They opened the doors for the entourage, and they fed into the throne room.

            The space stole Erika’s breath immediately. The ceiling towered overhead, large chandeliers hanging down, gleaming with clear crystals that magnified the light and broke it into countless tiny rainbows. A large rose window dominated the far wall, and a glass dome rose above the center of the room, letting in circles of painted sunlight that perfectly depicted its delicate images on the floor. Between the chandeliers, the sconces on the walls, and the glass, the room was bright as noon. A long rug stretched down the hall, from the door to the dais the Iron King’s throne stood upon. Tapestries hung on the walls, bright and masterful in their work.

            Erika admired the room on the entire walk up to the throne. There, she fell into line with the others, Vivien still at her side. Both women huddled together. Erika wondered if Vivien felt as displaced as she did.

            The Iron King sat on his throne, elevated slightly above them. He was a picture of elegance and leadership, seated comfortably in the imposing throne. The dark wood of the throne offset the pale fabric of his raiment. A sword hung at his hip, the hilt and sheath gilded and bejeweled. Rings adorned both his hands, though on the left he wore only his royal ring. His crown rested on his head, gleaming in the sunlight. A long black cape rested upon his shoulders, spilling down onto the ground to pool at his feet.

            He was young, and that of all things was what surprised Erika the most. His hair was full but short, a dark color trapped somewhere between brunet and blond. His eyes were clear, sharp, stormy blue depths brimming with intelligence. His mouth was thin, and was neither cruel nor kind. His hands bore a weathered look that surprised Erika, and she found herself wondering how much time he spent with his sword.

            “Welcome to the palace,” the Iron King spoke. His voice resonated with an easy clarity. He was comfortable in his throne and his power. He was a king, through and through. “You all know why you are here; I require a new troubadour, and you all desire the position.” His blue eyes swept over the assemblage, taking swift stock of them. “Some of you may have unfair advantages of prior training. As such, this contest is based on talent and passion, not entirely skill. I shall choose the singer whose voice and playing I enjoy the most.

            “The contest shall consist of stages. First, we shall test your playing on a variety of instruments that my troubadour will be expected to use; ten shall be chosen of this group to proceed. These will sing a specific song of my choosing, and I shall choose five to proceed. These shall sing another, more difficult song, for the entirety of my council, and from here only two shall proceed. These two shall choose a song of their own, and shall sing again for myself and my court; they must show not only talent, but passion as well, and be able to make their audience feel emotion.”

            The Iron King fell silent, raking another glance over the crowd. “Do you find this to be a fair contest?”

            A subdued murmur of ascent rose from the crowd. The King regarded them a moment longer, as if he could somehow test whether or not their true opinions were voiced. He nodded once before rising. “Then that shall be the contest. You shall be summoned as you were for today when I am ready for you. I wish all of you well in this contest. You are dismissed.”

            Erika compliantly went with the other contestants. She looked back over her shoulder for a final glimpse into the throne room before the doors shut behind them all. Her final glimpse was of the Iron King, still and reposed in his throne, sitting in the midst of the sunlit room.

            Erika thought she had seen few things more beautiful than that sight.

Chapter 10: Sparking Passions

Summary:

Vendetta tells Erika of an incident she witnessed involving the king's personal guards. Erika worries that a new rebellion might be stirring.

Chapter Text

            Two days after her meeting with the Iron King, Erika was startled to find the market square subdued to a quiet that easily allowed discussion with the various venders. More surprising was the hesitance of anyone to talk. Normally, in Erika’s experience, people gossiped more than anything else in the market, with friends and strangers alike. The quiet was unnerving. Erika rushed through her shopping, nearly desperate to leave the space and go home where things would be normal.

            She was just paying for her last few things and tucking them into her basket when the sound of clattering armor echoed through the quiet space. Erika started, turning her head towards the sound to try and see what was happening. A pair of tall men, dressed in gleaming armor, marched into the marketplace. The one to the right had a long red cape draping off his shoulders. His face was dark and rugged, his dark hair close cut and scruff shading his jaw and cheek. The cape, the fine armor he wore, and the grand sword at his hip marked him as one of the Iron Guard. The Iron Guard were the elite knights that the king kept close. They served the king directly, and rode with him when he left the safety of his palace. Their duty was to protect their king, at the cost of their own life.

            The guard stopped, and pushed a far shorter figure forward. Erika saw a flash of fiery red, and felt a gasp of surprise slip from her throat. It was Vendetta, of all people, being led by some of the knights. Whatever had gotten her mixed in with them couldn’t be anything good.

            The guard and his companion turned away from Vendetta and left the way they had come. Erika scrambled to finish her own business. As soon as she could, she rushed over to Vendetta. Dull whisperings had risen around the area, but Erika didn’t care about their gossip.

            She stopped near her friend. Vendetta was staring off down the street after the two knights. Her jaw was clenched and her cheeks were flushed. Erika moved a bit closer, lighting a gentle touch to her friend’s arm.

            Vendetta turned her head. Her visible eye burned with green fire. Her chest lurched with heavy, deep breaths, clear to see even under her loose shirt. A smattering of small, red flecks stained the drooping collar that slumped off her shoulders. Anger rolled off her in waves that Erika was sure would have been palpable even to people without the ability to sense emotions. “I hate them,” she gritted out, her teeth still clenched tight.

            “What happened?” Erika whispered. “Are you all right? Are you in trouble?”

            Vendetta shook her head slightly. She tapped Erika’s elbow, indicating her to follow, before turning away and starting down a different street. Erika scampered after her.

            Vendetta walked fast, moving easily in her trousers. Erika had to scramble in her dress, making sure to lift the hem so her rapid steps would not catch the fabric and cause her to trip. She was relieved when Vendetta led the way up to her home. The door slammed open before them. Both women hurried inside, and the door slammed shut just behind Erika.

            “Can we talk now?” Erika asked, a bit of trepidation creeping into her voice.

            Vendetta did not reply. Instead she stormed up the staircase. Like the rest of the house, it was rundown, though stable enough. Vendetta had worked on them, repairing them so they would be sturdier. Erika climbed after her as quickly as she could.

            “Bronwyn!” she called after her. “Please! Will you just tell me what happened?”

            “That bastahd is wot happened!” Vendetta finally snapped back in reply. She crossed the upstairs room and threw herself down on the edge of the bed. The flush in her cheeks had grown and spread to a livid shade of red that crept down her neck. Erika eased closer to her, a bit hesitant. She knew her friend well enough; her temper could be dangerous if she let it go out of hand, and Vendetta was close to that line.

            “You know how the market gets during the middle of the day,” Vendetta spat out. “Busy as hell. And women bring their kids all the time, righ’? Well the miller’s wife came in yesterday. How many kids have they got anyway, ten? It’s ridiculous! But tha’s beside the poin’; one of the young girls slipped away but a moment. And there were members of the Iron Guard in the market.”

            Erika felt her stomach slither towards the floor.

            “And would you guess wot they did to her?” Vendetta spat out, now through gritted teeth. “They were pushin’ her around, pullin’ at her hair and her dress, grabbin’ at her until she started cryin’. And they were leerin’ and talkin’ like she wasn’ there, like they wanted to pin her down and have her righ’ there–”

            “I get it,” Erika whispered. The picture was all too easy to paint in her head. How many times had she narrowly escaped the same treatment from the drunken patrons of the tavern? And what of the times she wasn’t quite quick enough – like with William so recently? A young girl didn’t deserve to go through something so awful.

            Vendetta’s color fell, if only slightly. When she spoke again, her accent was even thicker than before, a common result of her anger. “They finally pushed her so damn hard she jus’ fell righ’ ovah. I couldn’ stand seein’ it anothah second. So I ran in, grabbed her and shipped her back to her mum. Then one of those thick-‘eaded blokes grabbed at me, and things got messy fast.”

            “Bronwyn–”

            “Better I get thrown in jail for the nigh’ than tha’ poor girl have to be treated like that!” Vendetta’s hands were balled into fists. “We shouldn’ have to be afraid that we’ll be treated like tha’ by the king’s own favorite guard! He should give a damn!”

            Erika grimaced. She agreed; it was wrong that the elite knights could get away with treating a girl – a child – like nothing more than a little harlot.

            There had been a day when it wasn’t so. There had been a day when the rule of the Iron King was one with promises of goodness, promises of being better than Shaw. There had been hope that a good king had come to the throne. But his bloody rise was a mere foreshadowing of his bloody rule. The knights were still dispatched at borders, particularly with the snowy northern kingdom of Alyria, Genosha’s oldest enemy. The echoes of the war still rang, and it seemed that the war had shattered whatever goodness had still been in the Iron King’s heart.

            “I understand,” Erika said slowly. “And I agree. But what can we do?” One dark brow arched on her pale face. “Rebel?”

            Vendetta’s eyes flashed, too bright and too hungry. The spark died out almost immediately, followed by a shake of her head. “No rebellion. At leas’ not from us.”

            Erika narrowed her eyes. Something about her friend knew something she didn’t want to share. Erika feared what danger it could bring to her friend, and to her home.

Chapter 11: The Iron Guard

Summary:

Vendetta reveals new information about the southerner. Erika witnesses another incident involving an iron guard, and intervenes in her own way. The two women go together to the woods to pick mushrooms, but find Remy there. For better or worse, they decide to follow him.

Chapter Text

            “We need mushrooms, turnips, cabbages, potatoes, and whatever meats are the best price,” Marie said as she pressed a bag of coins into Erika’s hand.  She plucked the end of Erika’s braid that she had pulled over her shoulder.  “Don’t be too long.  There’s still much to do before business begins tonight.  And be safe, as always.”

            “I know,” Erika replied; it was the same things her mother always said before sending her off into market.  With a quick kiss to her mother’s cheek, Erika hurried outside into the rising warmth that indicated summer was on the way.

            The few days since her last trip had been light and easy, filled with her own daydreaming and practicing her playing on her family instruments.  A message had been sent out to her, and assumedly the other competitors, informing them that the contest would be continued tomorrow.  Erika could hardly contain her nervous excitement.  The fair weather did not help; the warmer days made her feel a bit more energetic, a bit more alive.

            The morning was a touch cool still, which made the morning far more enjoyable than the afternoon would be.  Erika tugged the long sleeves of her dark green dress down a bit as she started her way down the streets.  She had only made her first turn before Vendetta appeared at her side without a word.  Erika did not question it; her friend had a way of being unnervingly quiet.  Nor did she question her friend’s appearance.  Though her clothes were entirely normal, she had bedecked herself in a far wider array of blades than normal.  Holsters filled with tiny blades ringed her thighs, and a belt heavy with longer daggers hung from her hips.  Two large blades were strapped to her back, the harness looping over her shoulders, straps crossing over her chest and between and under her breasts. It wasn’t unusual for Vendetta to wear her wide array of blades. Erika pitied any man who would be foolish enough to admire how the harness enhanced the appearance of her friend’s bust.

            “There’s some news about the southernah,” Vendetta drawled after a moment.  “It’s not much of a repor’, but I’ll tell you wot I can.”

            “Go ahead,” Erika replied, slinging her basket more comfortably into the crook of her arm.  “What’s he been up to?”

            “He’s been spotted by the woods again.  No goin’ in, this time.  Just paced back an’ forth for a while.  Apparently he looked rathah agitated.  I’d guess whatevah he was lookin’ or waitin’ for didn’ show.”

            “What’s out in the woods?” Erika asked slowly.

            “Besides the woodsman and animals?  Nothin’, far as I know.”  Vendetta shrugged a bit, the loose material of her shirt slipping down her arms further.  “I guess tha’ would indicate they know each othah.  And given he’s been into the woods before, it would suggest he knows where the woodsman lives.”

            “It is peculiar,” Erika hummed.  “Do you really think they might know each other?”

            “I’d say it’s likely.  But I think it’s abou’ time you give this up, Erika.  The trail isn’ getting any more interesting.”

            “That’s probably for the best, no?  It means nothing strange is happening.  And that means we’re all safe.”

            Vendetta walked with her to the market, though neither spoke much the rest of the way.  Erika led the way through the crowds in the market, finding the few items on her lists.  But she could feel her friend’s tension simmering under the surface.  Only after she had tucked the last package of her meat into her basket did Vendetta speak again.  She pressed up close to her friend, her mouth just shy of touching her ear.

            “They’re dangerous, Erika,” Vendetta hissed out.  “Whatevah they’re gettin’ into, be smart, and stay outta it.”

            “You sound sure that something will happen,” Erika replied.  “Do you know something you aren’t telling me?”

            “I’m looking out for you,” Vendetta replied as she brushed past her.  “You should be grateful of that.”

            “And I am,” Erika replied, “but what if something does happen?  What if it could be stopped by telling someone about this strange southerner?”

            “Nothin’s happenin’ righ’ now,” Vendetta replied, her voice turning just a bit stony.  “Even if there were, who would you tell?  The king?  You may be the favorite for his silly contest, but that doesn’ mean he’ll listen to a common girl like you.”

            Erika shook her head as she halted.  “It doesn’t matter.  But I don’t want to see bloodshed in this city ever again.  You weren’t here when his reign began, when I was just a girl.  All the dead soldiers brought home, all the people who wanted to fight the king in their hatred of a war he didn’t even start . . .  I don’t think I can stand to see that again.”

            “You don’t know the king,” Vendetta protested, standing beside her friend.  “He’s a monstah.  A bloodthirsty monstah.”

            “And you do know him?” Erika snapped back.  “Just when would you have met and gotten to know him?”

            Vendetta’s face flushed, her hands curling at her sides.  “Erika, please–”

            Before she could say anything else, a shriek cut through the air.  Erika’s eyes widened, and Bronwyn’s face paled again.  The two women exchanged a quick glance, their brief quarrel immediately forgotten.  Another outcry wrenched their heads in the direction of the sound.  Erika groaned, pressing a hand to her suddenly churning stomach as a wave of fright washed over her.  Vendetta bolted in the direction of the scream before Erika could even think to tell her to wait.

            Erika hesitated.  Vendetta was more than capable of handling herself, surely; she had seen the redhead take on five men at once and come out having hardly broken a sweat.  But what if she did get in trouble?  As much as she wanted to forget this, forget everything, she knew she couldn’t possibly leave her friend alone in complete danger.

            Erika clutched her basket close, and turned in the direction everyone else was running from.  It was hard for her slight frame to push past the shying crowd, but she was too stubborn to give up.  As the crowd began to thin, she heard what could only be called a yowl, followed by a crashing of splintering wood.  Then a woman cried out: “She saved me!  God bless her, she saved me!”

            The people pressed more tightly together.  Erika grit her teeth, shouldering through.  She staggered forward when the crowd cleared, nearly falling to the ground at her sudden freedom.  She caught herself, eyes sweeping the scene wildly.

            Vendetta was sitting on the lip of the fountain, relaxed and at ease.  She was studying the nails of her right hand.  Well across from her was a pile of broken wood and scattered fruits.  A man was clawing his way free of the debris

            Sunlight glinted off a single large arm plated in gleaming armor, dazzling Erika’s eyes into momentary blindness.  The arm was attached to a tall, broad man – the same Iron Guard who had escorted Vendetta from her cell and back to the market.  He was off duty now, most of his armor discarded; yet his one arm remained covered, a symbol of his status as much as his long, crimson cloak and the ornate sword he wore.  His face had a dark anger to it.  He rose to his full height; next to him, Bronwyn would look impossibly small and fragile.  As the Iron Guard stalked back over towards Bronwyn, Erika saw that his fingers bore talons in the place of fingernails.

            “You’re gonna regret that, girl,” the guard snarled.

            “Actually,” Vendetta all but drawled as she raised her gaze to him, “you’re the one who’s goin’ to regre’.”  A wide array of knives, varying from no more than an inch to half a foot in length, sprang up in a semicircle before her.  Vendetta stood, grabbing the two largest blades –long and wicked, with an odd curvature to the ends, heavily bound on the hilt; they were the blades she wore on her back.  Vendetta pointed one of them at the guard’s chest, a reckless smile curving her lips.  “Come on, you big, ugly cat.  Let’s have a go.”

            The guard flung forward, red cloak flying out behind him and sunlight lancing off his armor.  Vendetta held her ground, blades coalescing into a protective ring around her.  She waited until the guard was nearly on top of her, and then leapt straight up, impossibly fast and impossibly high.  She vaulted neatly over his head, and as the guard turned towards her, one sword lashed out from the ring of blades and swiped down his cheek.  The guard hissed, and blood sprayed out.  He whirled about, swiping at Vendetta before she had even landed.  Yet somehow she bent, her whole torso horizontal to the ground, swinging under his arm.  One small blade shot out of the ring, up into the guard’s hand.  This time he roared, ripping the blade out and hurling it back at her.  But the dagger just took its place back in the circle, and Vendetta laughed.

            It seemed to be a mistake.  The guard lunged out again, and though Vendetta blocked, his other taloned hand swung out.  Vendetta flinched away, but not far enough.  A single claw cut through her loose sleeve, and must have bitten into her skin because she hissed as a red flower began to blossom against the white fabric.  Vendetta’s knives lashed out, five of them together, cutting wild at every possibly opening.  His wounds had no affect on him, and Erika realized with a shock that there was no longer any cut on his cheek.  He was healing, somehow, from every wound in only seconds.

            Vendetta couldn’t possibly win a fight like this.

            Erika threw a wild look around.  Everyone seemed to have fled the scene; no one wanted to be caught up in trouble with an Iron Guard.  The three of them were alone, which only sent another spike of fear through Erika.  She didn’t give herself time to think on her sudden decision as she set down her basket, pushing it aside so it would hopefully be safe; she simply clapped her hands over her ears, drew in a deep and tremulous breath, and screamed.

            It was no normal scream.  Supernatural in pitch and volume, Erika felt the pain of the sound even in her own covered ears.  Glass jars of preserves in a nearby cart shattered.  The force of the sound drove Erika to her knees, and still she screamed.

            The guard buckled first, yowling and writhing.  Vendetta staggered, covering her ears; her ring of blades began to spin and wobble drunkenly.  Glass windows shivered in their frames, fighting against the vibrations of her voice.

            Erika buckled forward onto her hands, the scream cutting off as suddenly as it was born.  Her ears were ringing, her head spinning.  Her throat felt raw and burning, and she brought a hand to curl around the pale column of flesh.

            Past the ringing in her ears, she failed to hear the guard stagger to his feet and over to her.  By the time she saw his boots in front of her, it was too late.  A strong hand grabbed her by the braid and yanked her up, forcing her to kneel on her knees; she gave a tiny cry that she could just make out with her quickly returning hearing.  The guard’s other hand caught her by the jaw before she could try to pull free.  The tips of his talons pressed lightly into her skin, forming shallow dents.

            “You stupid little bitch,” he snarled out.  Erika saw with a shock that he bore sharp canines that looked like they should have been in the mouth of a wild beast, not a man.  His hand stroked down from her jaw to her neck, and there it wrapped around.  “Didn’t your parents teach you not to interfere?” he growled, his fingers tightening slowly around her throat.

            Erika’s eyes widened, bulged out.  She brought up her own small hands, clawing her nails over the back of his hand, grappling at him to try and peel his grip off her.  She felt her throat being constricted, air slowly becoming harder to draw in.

            There was a jerk at her throat, and suddenly she was dangling in the air, higher than the guard.  She kicked out at him, writhing and squirming as she still clawed at him.  “Please,” she choked out, barely audible.

            “I should rip your throat out,” he spat at her.  His lips curled back from his teeth, and a strangled sop spilled out of Erika.

            “No!”  Vendetta was there suddenly, beating at his back.  “Leave her out of this, Victor!  Put her down, you bastahd, before you–”

            The guard laughed, shoving Vendetta away.  The redhead fell to the ground, but was already gathering herself up again.  The guard, Victor, snarled and kicked her in the ribs.  Vendetta gave a barking cry as she crumpled again, wheezing.

            “Before what?  I kill her?” he sneered.  “Ain’t that the point of chokin’ someone?”  He looked back up at Erika, pulling her down closer to him; her feet still dangled, but her kicks were growing feebler, her energy turning more towards trying to suck in desperate breaths.  “A damn shame,” Victor drawled.  Erika flinched from the hot wash of his breath, trying in vain to turn her head away.  “I hear you’ve got a hell of a pretty voice.  A songbird like you could’ve made a pretty pet.”

            Erika tried to plead for him to let her go, but she lacked the breath.  The edges of her vision began to blur and darken.  She beat weakly at his wrist, tears spilling from her eyes.

            Victor laughed, and suddenly loosened his hand.  Erika sucked in a harsh breath, descending into a fit of hard coughs.  She didn’t care that Victor pulled her closer, or that he all but nuzzled at the side of her face as his lips brushed by her ear.  She could breathe again; that was all that mattered.

            “Be glad his majesty holds you in favor for his silly competition,” Victor hissed.  “Otherwise, we’d be havin’ a very different ending.”

            His hand uncurled from Erika’s throat without warning.  She fell at his feet, still drinking in deep breaths and coughing.  The guard turned, the edge of his red cloak brushing over Erika’s face.  And then he was walking away . . . towards Vendetta.  Erika made a tiny sound, trying to gather her feet under her.  But they refused to cooperate.

            Vendetta staggered to her feet, a hand a pressed to her kicked side, her face pale and drawn.  Her lip was split, the red smear of blood stark against her skin.  Victor bent down towards her.  Erika only heard what sounded like a growl, but the way Vendetta flinched indicated that it was words he spoke to her, and only for her ears to hear.  Vendetta did not reply, only glared up at him from under her rumpled hair.  After a tense moment, the guard moved past her, his armored shouldered hitting against Vendetta and making her stagger.

            Neither girl moved until Victor had turned down a street and vanished from view.  Vendetta rushed over to Erika as soon as they were truly alone, while Erika struggled back to her feet.  Vendetta grabbed her by the arms and all but hauled her to her feet.

            “Wot were you thinkin’?” Vendetta hissed.  She shook Erika, and she took it without a fight.  “He could’ve killed you!”

            “And he could have killed you first,” Erika protested.  She cringed as the words chafed at her throat.  She raised a hand to her throat,.  “I couldn’t just stand by and watch you get hurt.”

            “I would’ve been fine,” Vendetta replied.  Her eyes darkened as they lighted on her friend’s throat.  “But you aren’. That’s gonna bruise.”

            “Just my luck,” Erika said dryly.  She reached up and unbraided her hair, fluffing out the curls and pulling the locks over either shoulder.  The thick array of curls spread out, nearly touching her neck.  So long as she did not tilt her chin up too far, the bruising would be more or less concealed.  “What happened has happened,” Erika said with a sigh as she returned to her basket and picked it up.  She examined the contents quickly, relieved to see everything was all right.  “Now, I need to go find some mushrooms.  I figure I’ll have to go the forest and pick some myself.  I could use a hand, if you don’t mind helping.”

            Vendetta made a slight sound of consent.  Erika looked over her shoulder, watching as Vendetta waved her hand.  Her discarded blades rose up and flew gently over to her to sheathe themselves in their various places.  The two largest blades crossed over her back, wrapped hilts rising over her shoulders.

            For a moment, Erika wanted to ask where she had gotten the twin blades.  Something about them seemed . . . wrong.  They were swords, she realized; small swords, but there was no getting around the truth of their identity.  And they looked so well crafted, not like the cheaper knives and daggers that decorated every other part of Vendetta’s person.

            But Erika didn’t ask.  She only turned back towards the west, towards the woods, and began to walk, trusting that Vendetta would follow.

***

            Erika stopped at home long enough to empty her basket before going out to the woods.  Vendetta walked at her side, far more quiet and brooding than she had been before their encounter with the guard.  Erika did not stray far into the woods, merely dipping into the cooler depths.  Both paid attention to the ground, pausing now and then when they found a good mushroom to pluck it and put it in the basket.

            “Who was he?” Erika finally asked as she bent to collect another mushroom.  “The guard?  I’ve seen him before.”

            Vendetta sighed.  For a moment Erika was sure she wouldn’t answer.  But Vendetta began to speak, slowly.

            “Victor Creed.  He’s captain of the highes’ of the Iron Guards.  He’s said to be brave, fearless, strong, and practically unstoppable.  As you migh’ have noticed, he heals fast.  He uses his claws almost as much as his sword.  He’s brutal, a take no prisoners type.  He’s barely bettah than an animal.  Not to mention he’s rude and conceited and uncouth.”

            “You sound awfully familiar with him,” Erika observed.

            Vendetta shrugged dismissively.  “We’ve had some run ins before.  Neithah of us like the othah.”  Vendetta waved a hand at a mushroom ahead of them, and it rose up and floated delicately to the basket.

            “I think that’s enough,” Erika said, hooking the basket comfortably at the crook of her arm.  “I suppose we can grab any more we see on the way ba-”

            Vendetta suddenly grabbed Erika by the arm.  Erika froze for a second before turning her head and giving her friend a bewildered look.  Vendetta didn’t seem to notice; she was poised and alert, one hand held up in a gesture that Erika understood asked for her stillness and silence.

            After a brief quiet, there was a sudden crackling sound; it reminded her of the sound logs made in the fireplace when they erupted a small stream of sparks.  The pair exchanged a wary glance before starting to creep forward.  Nervous, Erika took hold of one of her friend’s hands.

            Vendetta took the lead, guiding Erika as quietly as she could through the woods.  The sparking sound came again, closer, and Vendetta adjusted their path.  Erika could feel her heart beating in her chest, slow and heavy.  What could possibly make such a strange sound?

            The sound came at almost regular intervals, and by the time Vendetta came to a halt behind a large tree, the sound was very close.  Vendetta shifted to peer around the tree, and Erika followed suit cautiously.  She almost gasped aloud at the sight before them.

            It was the southerner.  Remy LeBeau sat silent and brooding on a fallen tree.  He had a fallen leaf in his hand, his fingers grasping the stem almost delicately.  He twirled it one direction, then the other, and back again, eyes fixed on the leaf.  His brow was furrowed, strange eyes somehow appearing darker than Erika remembered.  His handsome mouth bore the slightest hint of a frown.

            The leaf started to glow, faintly at first, but soon gathering into a bright magenta color that was nearly white in the center.  Remy tossed the leaf into the air, where it exploded in a burst of similar colored sparks, producing the sound that the two women had been hearing.  Remy bent over, hands running through the leaves on the ground.  After a moment, he dashed his hand through the leaves with an aggravated sigh, and launched to his feet. He muttered something between his teeth, scuffing a boot at the ground, before striking off deeper into the woods.

            Both women ducked back behind the tree, only to turn and watch the southerner march away, his long cloak rippling out behind him.  After he was out of whispered earshot, the two bent their heads together.

            “Where do you think he’s going?” Erika asked as she darted another glance after Remy.

            “To the woodsman if I had to guess,” Vendetta replied, her tone grim.  “I think, maybe, I should follow.  But this isn’ safe for you.  If we’re caugh’, you can’ hold your own–”

            “I’m coming with you whether you like it or not,” Erika hissed back.  “I want to know what he’s doing here, and if this is my chance to find out, I’m taking it.  If anything happens, I’ll run.”

            Vendetta rolled her eyes and sighed.  “Oh, all righ’.  Come on, before we lose him.”

Chapter 12: Into the Woods

Summary:

Remy leads Erika and Vendetta to a cabin in the woods where he meets with Logan. Logan brings up his own concerns for Erika's safety at the Iron King's court, and insists on gifting her with a dagger.

Chapter Text

            The southerner led the two women deep into the woods.  Erika was certain it was solely due to Vendetta that he never caught sight of them, but she was no fool; he was tense, just a bit uneasy.  He was well aware he was being followed, and though he clearly did not feel threatened, he moved with utmost haste through the undergrowth.  At times he paused, touching the trunks of the trees and looking up towards the sun to orient himself again.

            Eventually they stumbled upon a modest river, likely the same that cut out of the woods and into the north part of the city.  The southerner began to follow it, moving quicker now with sure steps.  Vendetta hung further back, clearly more confident that they could follow him easily with the river as their guide.  Erika could only trust her friend’s abilities.

            The river swept in a gentle bend, and Vendetta seemed to quicken her pace.  The two women hurried around the bend, and stopped short at the sight of a small cabin built of weathered wood set off the river.  The door was just clapping shut.  Vendetta rushed forward at a subdued run; Erika followed slower, not wanting to drop any of the mushrooms she had picked.  Vendetta led her around the cabin, and soon crouched under a window on the left side of the small building; it was opened fully, and both women could easily have fit through it.  Erika knelt on the far side, farther from the river, while Vendetta kept closer to the front of the small home.

            “-followed most of de way here,” the southerner was saying as they ducked down.  “Never saw anyone.  Whoever it was knows enough ta be a problem.”

            There was a low growling sound that drew a chilled feeling through Erika’s blood.  She could feel Vendetta tensing beside her, and was unsurprised when she drew out a dagger from the sheathe on one thigh.

            “He normally dat friendly?” the southerner drawled.

            “Hush.”  Erika felt something in her chest lurch at the gruff voice that replied.  She wasn’t surprised to hear the woodsman, but for it to be confirmed that the southerner had come to see him still made something inside her feel strange.

            “Outside,” the woodsman said softly.  The barest sound of steps reached Erika’s ears.  She cringed, starting to huddle against the wall.  Vendetta pressed her back further, giving her a sharp look that clearly meant ‘stay put’.

            The redhead stood slowly, her head turned around the corner.  The door swung open with a soft creaking.  Silence followed, and Erika could watch Vendetta visibly coiling with tension.  She raised her blade up, holding it ready for any sort of attack.

            The briefest flash of movement at the corner of the cabin had Vendetta lunging.  Before she could move far, a hand shot out of the window.  Erika gasped as Vendetta was yanked backwards, her body slamming up against the wall under the window, her knife knocked from her grip.  Vendetta cursed, clawing at the strong arm that rested heavy over her chest.

            Erika shoved herself to her feet just as the southerner rounded the corner.  She stepped back, holding up a hand between them.  “Please, don’t,” she whispered.  “We’re not doing any harm-”

            “You’re spying on me,” Remy said.  Erika stopped, confused by the slight smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.  “Don’ try denyin’ it, mademoiselle; you wouldn’ be dis far out here if ya weren’t followin’ me.  An’ you can let de redhead go, Logan; I doubt she’ll bite.”

            “You’re sure of that?” Logan replied, something close to a growl in his voice.  Erika glanced over to him, drawing back slightly at the darkness in his eyes.  Something about the way he held Vendetta made her feel uneasy, and clearly her friend felt even worse in the situation.  She was pale and drawn, her eyes fixed warily on Remy.

            “I am,” Remy replied, crossing his arms over his chest.  “She ain’t a threat.”

            “You know who she is,” Logan hissed back through clenched teeth.  Vendetta flinched under him, lips curling in a grimace.

            “I know who she was,” Remy drawled, running a lazy look up and down her body.  There was something akin to respect in his strangely colored eyes.  “But from what I know, the Hand would like ta leave dat all in de past.”

            “Let us go,” Vendetta said.  “This wasn’ my idea, I’m just making sure my friend doesn’t get lost out in these damn woods.”

            Erika made an aborted sound, face turning hot at the words.  Logan’s eyes finally flicked over to her, and her blushing only deepened as she averted her eyes.  Looking at Remy was little better; there was a worry in his expression that made Erika’s stomach twist into knots.

            “Told ya ta be careful,” Remy rasped.  “Ya don’ know what you’re gettin’ yourself into, Erika.  Ya shoulda left dis alone.”

            Erika raised her head, doing her best to steadily meet his gaze.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.  “But you came to my home, you brought this to my door.  What am I supposed to do?  Ignore everything and hope it doesn’t go badly?  I remember the war,” she said, her voice cracking slightly.  “I remember the fear.  I don’t want that again!  I want everything to stay all right!”

            Remy shook his head solemnly, forlornly.  “Nothing ever does.  I’m sorry, Erika.  Things will be better when this is over.”

            Erika tilted her head back, not wanting to look at any of them in that precise moment.  “I’m ready to go home,” she said softly.

            “Wait.”  Logan’s voice, terse and tight.  Erika lowered her head, frowning at him as he pushed Vendetta aside.  “Your neck,” he said, inclining his head a little towards her.  “What happened?”

            Erika brought a hand to the skin, wincing slightly at the unusual warmth she felt.  The skin had turned tender and aching; the bruises would form soon.  “One of the guards,” she muttered, fussing with her hair to try and hide the bruises better.

            Logan’s expression darkened a bit.  “Which one?”

            Erika’s mouth ran dry.  His voice was so hard, so cold, so unlike the man she had seen him to be so far.

            “Victor Creed,” Vendetta supplied for her.  “What othah guard is nasty enough to do somethin’ like tha’?”

            “Come here,” Logan said, his voice gentling at least a little.  “I’ve got a few things around here that can help, at least a bit.”

            Erika blinked at him for a moment.  She shot a brief glance to Vendetta, but seeing no visible reaction on her friend’s face, she turned back to Logan to nod in agreement.

            “Migh’ as well all go in,” Remy drawled.  He nodded his head towards the other side of the cabin before taking the lead to the door.  Erika and Vendetta exchanged a lingering glance; but the redhead shrugged, and simply followed him, and Erika followed her.

***

            “If it hurts, just tell me,” Logan murmured.  His fingertips, slicked in a pale yellow oil, touched lightly against her skin.  Erika tightened her jaw a little, shifting her eyes along the ceiling.  He started to massage at the skin, his touch staying light so as not to bring her any chance of pain.  Erika took a long breath, the sweet, earthy smell of the oil tickling her nose. He had identified it as St. John’s wort oil, a common applicant for wounds.

            A damp cold touched against her hands.  Erika lowered her gaze, humming softly.  She smiled, rolling her hand over to let the wolf sniff at her hand.  The wolf snuffled at her, then nudged her hand again.  Erika acquiesced, resting her head on the top of his soft head to stroke slowly.

            “He knows not to bite,” Logan said, a hint of laughter in his voice.  “You don’t have to worry about him.”

            “Does he have a name?” Erika asked.  She let her hand slide around to the side of his neck, scratching behind his ear.  The canine’s thick tail began to wag in response, his head turning as he leaned into the touch.

            “Vardan.”  Logan smoothed out the last traces of the oil before his hand retreated.  “Now, that should help with the pain, and the bruising.  It won’t get rid of it completely, but it’s better’n nothin’.”

            Erika smiled, wishing she didn’t already miss the press of his skin to hers.  “Thank you.  It was very kind of you.”

            “We should be going,” Vendetta cut in, her voice gone sharp.  She had stayed within steps of the door.  The set of her shoulders was tighter than usual, and her pale face was drawn into a scowl that creased the smooth skin between her eyebrows.

            “The Hand is in a rush,” Remy drawled.  “But if ya insist, we can escort de both o’ you safely from de woods.

            “We don’ need your help,” Vendetta growled.  “And don’ call me tha’.”

            Remy’s mouth quirked for the briefest moment before he bowed his head.  “As de lady wishes.  But I do insist on leading you.  De woods are deep, it’s easy to get lost.”

            “That would be very kind of you,” Erika cut in, shooting a brief glare to her friend.  “I, at least, don’t know how to navigate the woods as well as some people.”

            Logan made a soft sound rather like a laugh as he stood up.  “I can’t let you go wanderin’ around the woods lost again without coming to the rescue, so may as well save the trouble o’ trackin’ you down.”

            Erika smiled, giving Vardan a last scratch before she stood up, hooking her basket in the crook of her elbow again.  “That’s very kind of you both.  We appreciate it.”  Vendetta grumbled inaudibly behind her, but Erika decided to ignore it, at least for the meantime.  Erika smiled faintly at Logan instead.  “I really should be going before I’m missed.”

            Logan nodded, his hand twitching in a beckoning gesture as he started to move towards the door.  Erika frowned as she saw Vendetta pull away from him, her eyes shifting to watch him pass her.  The tension between them made no sense to Erika; it was almost as if there were some sort of history between them, but she couldn’t think of how it would have happened.  Vendetta had only been in Einsemar for a few years, and the two had been friends for most of that time.  And what was the Hand?

            Her head swimming, Erika trailed out of the cabin after Logan.  She was barely aware of Remy and Vendetta following her, or when they fell in step and began to talk with surprisingly little conflict.  Erika was too caught up in trying to puzzle out what could possibly be between her best friend and the secretive man in front of her.

            “Thinking hard?”

            Erika blinked a few times, focusing on Logan quickly.  She quickened her step enough to catch up to him.  “Do you know her?”

            Logan snorted softly.  “I know enough, but I don’t know her the way you do.”

            “Then why do you two not get along?”

            “That’s not somethin’ I can tell you.  It’s her past, not mine.”

            Erika sighed, shaking her head slightly.  “I don’t know if she’ll ever tell me.  She never has.”

            “The past can be hard to share,” Logan said slowly.  Erika glanced over, noting the hard set of his jaw and flinty gleam of his eyes.  “But it’s not something that can be forgotten.  It can be a poison, eating away everything inside.  Sometimes saying it gets rid of that.”  Logan threw a quick glance at Vendetta over his shoulder.  “And sometimes it doesn’t.”

            “Logan . . . did she do something bad?”

            He made a soft sound, shrugging his broad shoulders.  “Vardan’s comin’ up on your right.”

            The wolf appeared almost as soon as he had spoken, his breathing a soft panting as he fell down into a brisk walk beside Erika.  She smiled down at him, reaching out to scratch the top of his head.  “How did you get him?”

            “Found him out here one day, couple years ago,” Logan drawled in reply.  “He’s not a full-blooded wolf, there’s some dog in him. You can tell by the ears. His are pointed, but a wolf’s is more rounded. I found him as a pup, just a few months old.  He was close to the farms outside o’ the city. Figured either he’d starve on his own, or a farmer would see him and think he was a wolf pup and kill him. Found out a few days later that a farmer had killed a she-wolf, probably his mother. I took him in, gave him food. I let him loose after he figured out how t’hunt, but he kept comin’ back.”  Logan shrugged finally.  “I don’t have the heart t’turn him out permanently.  Guess I got kinda attached.”

            Erika smiled to herself, letting her hand stray down the dog’s back, fingers sinking into his thick coat.  “He must make it less lonely to be out here.”

            “Eh.  I get by.  It’s easier out here.”

            Erika looked over at him, just catching his head turning back forward.  “You’re avoiding the subject.  If you’re ever too lonely, you can always swing by the tavern.”

            Logan looked over at her with a sharp turn of his head, one eyebrow cocked at a sharp angle of speculation.  Erika found herself stammering faintly.  She hadn’t been planning to make such an invitation.  Surely it was too bold an offer.

            But that was a smile dancing around his mouth and eyes.  “Might just take you up on that someday.”

            A bright smile bloomed on Erika’s lips.  “If nothing else we have some of the finest drinks in the city, or so I hear.”

            “I’ll be the judge o’ that,” Logan laughed.  He stopped abruptly, leaning back against a tree, arms folding over his chest.  Erika looked forward in bewilderment, surprised to find that they had already reached the edge of the woods.  Had she really been dwelling in thought for so long?

            “Erika,” Logan said softly.  She turned quickly to him.  Logan motioned her over with a wave of his hand.  Erika stepped closer, stopping only a few steps from him.  This close, she could see the way his hazel eyes had darkened, matching the solemn downturn of his mouth.

            “I want you to promise me something,” he said, his voice dropped low to nearly a whisper.  “Can you?”

            “That depends on what you want me to promise,” Erika replied, shifting her weight back slightly.  She found, peculiarly, that she trusted Logan.  She hardly knew him, but it was true.

            “I want you to promise me you’ll be careful,” Logan replied.  “It’s a simple request.  But a royal court can be a dangerous place, especially for someone who’s never been part of one.”

            “I’ll be as careful as I can be,” Erika said, shaking her head slightly, “but Logan . . .”

            He reached out suddenly, one strong hand curling around her arm to pull her closer.  “Just be careful.  Trust no one in that court, or in the contest.”

            Erika squirmed in his grip, her breath just a bit harder to catch.  “I will be, I promise,” she breathed out.

            His hand fell away from her as suddenly as it had come.  Erika swore she could feel her skin tingling under the warm impression of where his touch had been.  She shifted, well aware of his intense gaze locked on her.

            “Can you do me one more favor?” he whispered.  Erika raised her eyes, meeting the somber darkness of his gaze.  After a heartbeat of hesitation, she jerked her head in a brisk nod.

            Logan’s gaze dropped briefly.  She followed his glance, her eyes widening as she watched him unfasten a small dagger from his belt.  By all appearances, it was a simple blade.  The sheath was plain, dark leather, the hilt and pommel bearing little decoration.  It appeared small in his strong hands, but Erika had little doubt it would seem much larger in her own grasp.

            “Take this,” Logan rasped.  “If anything were to happen to you . . . it would be good to have a weapon, just to be safe.”

            “Logan,” Erika whispered.  She stopped, raising her free hand to her throat, as if she could quell the faint tremor in her words by a soothing touch of her hand.  “I can’t.  I don’t know the first thing about wielding a blade, of any size-”

            “Any three of us can teach you the basics,” he cut in.

            He held it out closer to her.  Erika wilted further, but she knew she could not escape it.  Logan would persist until she agreed, and it was easier to agree to his terms sooner than later.  She hesitated only a moment longer before she reached forward and took the dagger from his palm.  His skin felt rough under her fingertips, calluses on his palms from axes and hunting knives.  The feel of his skin made tingles arc up Erika’s arm, and she drew her hand back with shy haste.

            In her hand, the dagger seemed more fitting.  Its petite size seemed proper.  Her graceful hand wrapped comfortably around the sheath, the leather smooth and firm under her touch.  She wrapped a hand around the hilt.  The blade pulled free easily with a tug.  The sunlight glinted off it.  She did not want to know just how sharp the deadly steel of the blade was.  With a quick push, she sheathed it again.

            “You can just tie it on a belt,” Logan said to her.  “It’s light, won’t hardly weigh it down at all.”

            Erika fumbled with the ties, fastening it securely to the thin belt around her waist.  She let out a shuddering breath, staring at it resting against her hip.  “Do you really think I’ll need it?” she whispered, looking up at Logan with dark eyes.

            Logan sighed through his nose, eyes flickering down to the blade for a moment.  “I hope not,” he rumbled, “but I’m afraid you might.”

            “Erika!”  Vendetta’s voice cut through the heavy air between them; both Erika and Logan looked over at the redhead.  Her hands were braced on her hips, impatience written on every line of her body.

            “I’ll see you again,” Logan said softly.  His hand touched, light as a feather, against the curve of her waist.  Erika hitched in a sharp breath, trembling at the gentle press of his hand urging her away from him.  Her first step away was unsteady, though she quickly regained herself.  By the time she was by Vendetta’s side, Erika felt entirely sure of herself again.  Vendetta waved vaguely towards Remy, though she pointedly ignored his bow.  The two women left, starting across the stretch of grass between the woods and Einsemar.

            Erika looked back once, skimming the shadows for sight of the woodsman.  But there was no trace to be found.

Chapter 13: The Contest Begins

Summary:

The first round of the contest finds both Erika and Vivien passing. Erika brings her new friend to the tavern.

Chapter Text

            The afternoon was pleasant, with just enough breeze to keep the temperature comfortable.  Inside the royal palace, however, the air was cool.  The young hopeful singers, men and women alike, were led through the halls to the throne room again.  Erika trailed towards the end of the line of contestants, fiddling with the skirt of her dress.  It was one of her finest pieces of clothing, the fabric a rich blue, with the barest trace of silvery embroidery at the neckline.  The dagger Logan had given her hung on her belt, bumping against her hip while she walked.  She brushed it occasionally with her fingertips, conscious of its weight and feel.

            Vivien, who walked beside her, on the side she had tied the dagger to, had noticed Erika’s newfound habit.  She glanced down at the blade a few times before finally inquiring about it.  “You didn’t have that last time.  Why now?”

            Erika felt her face go hot.  Her hand pulled away from the blade.  “A friend of mine is worried about me and asked me to wear it.  I suppose it eases their mind, knowing I have something I can at least try to use to protect myself.”

            “I suppose there have been some... incidents again recently.”  Vivien’s voice had dropped to a thin whisper.  “There was that man who vanished, and some squabbles with the Iron Guard.  Hopefully it doesn’t escalate any further, though.  If it doesn’t, we might all have to start carrying a little blade around with us.”

            Erika felt her flush sharpen further, though she wasn’t sure why.  Beside her, Vivien giggled, which made Erika’s face go hotter still.

            “Who was this friend who gave it to you?” Vivien asked.

            “He’s just a simple man.”  Erika shrugged, hoping that would dismiss it.  After all, she didn’t really know Logan at all.  He was the woodsman; he was a walking mystery.

            “Is he handsome?”

            Erika smiled before she could stop herself.  “That would depend on your opinion of what a handsome man looks like, I’m sure.”

            “Well tell me what he looks like!”

            She giggled, shaking her head slightly.  “Well he’s taller than me, and quite strong.  He’s tan, dark hair, rather scruffy; he looks rugged.  He has a lovely smile . . .”

            Vivien grinned, the expression knowing and sly.  “You like him!”

            “I don’t know about that,” Erika tried to protest.  “After all, I don’t know him that well yet.  We only met shortly before this contest.”

            “And he’s already worrying about your safety?  And giving you gifts?  I’d say he’s taken by you.”

            Before Erika could reply, they were all ushered into the throne room.  Erika’s eyes widened as she saw that the Iron King was not alone this time.  Four lords and four ladies were arranged on either side of his throne.  On the king’s right sat the young lord, Charles Xavier, soft and polished, sapphire eyes bright and full of intelligence.  On his left sat Lady Raven Darkholme, draped in a gown of deepest blue, blonde hair drawn back from her face.  The other three on the right were men; lords McCoy, Summers, and Drake.  The other three on the left were women; the ladies Ravyn, Frost, and Pryde.  The eight oldest families all represented by their most promising children.

            Erika felt weak looking at them.  They were all beautiful, dressed in fine fabrics, jewels, precious metals.  But fine as they all were, they paled in comparison to their king.

            The Iron King sat with his head raised, gilded crown flashing in the light.  His eyes were sharp daggers as he assessed his competitors as they made a line before the dais.  Again his hands bore heavy rings and his sword hung at his hip.  But today his raiment was brighter, predominately a dark red decorated with gilded damask.  His ebony mantle pooled at his feet.

            At the foot of the dais was an array of beautiful instruments.  The wood of them had been recently polished, their strings restrung.  There were only three: a lute, a fiddle, and a harp.  They were perfect and beautiful and Erika’s fingers itched to touch them.

            Erika followed the example of her fellow contestants and sank into a deep curtsy.  The King was silent for a brief moment, and then bid them to rise.

            “Welcome once more to the palace, my fine competitors,” the King said.  His voice was rich, kinder than Erika remembered.  The slightest hint of a smile even curved his lips.  “Today your trials begin.  You shall play our predetermined song on each instrument to prove you are capable of playing well.  There are many of you, but we shall only be choosing ten of you to advance in the competition.

            “We have music provided for you, though we believe you will recognize the piece.  You may add your own stylistic approach to it, of course.”  The King raised a hand, waving it along the line.  “You will proceed from end to end.  May the finest minstrels win.”

***

            It had been a tedious and nerve-wracking affair, to stand there and watch her competition perform.  Erika did recognize the piece; it was a solely instrumental ballad she had played in the tavern countless times, had played even the night before.  Confident as she was in her abilities, Erika couldn’t help from feeling anxious.  There were many excellent players in the group, particularly the men and women who were clearly from the higher echelons of society.  But when it was her turn, Erika played with all the passion she ever had.  This was a performance, just like any on her stage at home, and she was comfortable in that setting.

            Waiting in the inner courtyard of the palace while the nobles deliberated was even worse, though.  Nervous chatter flew through the air, and even Vivien contributed to the buzz, talking more at Erika than to her.  Erika was content with that, and more than willing to sit on a stone bench and try to still her still shaking hands.  It was harder than she had expected it would be.  Her nerves were wound far too tight. She breathed in the scent of flowers and green growing things all around them.

            “Erika?  Hello?  Did you hear me?”

            Erika raised her head abruptly, a bashful smile crossing her face.  “Sorry.  I’m just so . . . well, you know.”

            Vivien nodded, blonde hair bobbing around her face.  “I certainly do.  I’m afraid I can’t keep quiet for the same reason.  I just want to talk, talk talk and-  Well, there you have it.”  Vivien laughed weakly.  “I was wondering if I could go to your tavern today, ask about helping your parents?”

            Erika nodded.  She had invited her the last meeting, but her newfound friend had needed to return home.  This afternoon could be different, and hopefully beneficial to everyone.  “Of course. I’m sure my parents will like you.”

            The voices of the other contestants rose sharply into a cacophony of mutters before falling silent.  Erika and Vivien turned their gaze to where everyone was gathering; without a moment more of hesitation, they hurried over to the gathering.

            One of the young lords had entered the courtyard.  He had stood out from the other lords with his blond hair. One his right hand was a large ring bearing an icy blue stone.  He held a slip of paper in hand, surely bearing the names of those who had won the day’s show of talent.

            His eyes skimmed over the courtyard, and seeing that everyone had gathered to him, the young lord smiled and inclined his head to the small assembly.  “I am Lord Drake; the king has sent me to inform you of who has met his expectations.  While you all performed admirably, the king can only choose a select few to proceed.  This list has the names of those who shall not proceed.”  He raised the list and read it off briskly; Erika felt her heart thunder in her chest, her breath baited as she waited with desperate hope to not hear her name.  It was a short list, and Erika relaxed once it passed without her name being called.  She lowered her gaze, avoiding looking at those who had been called.

            “For those who are leaving our contest today, the king has organized gifts for you to show his gratitude,” Drake continued.  “The guards will take you to the throne room to be given them.”

            A quiet fell as the people were led out.  Vivien and Erika crowded close together, hands clasped in joint relief.  Once the door of the courtyard closed, Erika lifted her head again.  The crowd of contestants had noticeably thinned.  Those still present wore a range of looks, from relieved, to anxious, to elated even; seemingly unable to help themselves, some began to whisper excitedly.

            Lord Drake cleared his throat, and the silence returned.  “Congratulations to all of you,” he said, gracing them all with a smile.  “His majesty has requested that, for the next part of the contest, you all shall sing O Waly Waly.  I imagine you all know it, but if you do not, I have the words written down.  Of you ten, only five shall proceed.  The contest will continue in a few days; until then, I would recommend practicing quite often.”

***

            Vivien and Erika stepped out of the palace hand in hand.  Both women trembled, huddled close to each other.

            “I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous,” Vivien insisted.  “Especially when he was saying those names!  I felt for certain he’d say mine.”

            “You and me both.”  Erika shuddered.  “I don’t know what I would have done if he did.”

            “I would have wept, I’ve no doubt there,” Vivien said with a firm nod.  “But at least he gave them gifts.  That’s better than nothing.”

            “Yes, but it would certainly be disappointing.”  Erika sighed, tugging gently at Vivien’s hand to urge her forward.  “Would you still like to head to the tavern, talk to my parents?”

            “Very much so,” the blonde woman replied.  “I’ll admit that today left me feeling quite uncertain.”

            Erika nodded, both in understanding and agreement.  The other competitors were all incredibly talented.  It would be easy to lose to any of them.

            Pushing the thoughts away, Erika led Vivien through the streets.  They left the finery of castle market behind, and to the more simple world of central market.  From there, it was not far to The Forest’s Glen.

            Erika pushed the door open, guiding Vivien inside.  Her father, who was busily wiping down the bar top, looked up quickly.

            “Ah, there you are, little songbird!”  Charles set the cloth aside, quickly moving from behind the bar.  “Did the contest go well today?”

            “It did,” Erika replied.  “For both of us.  Papa, this is Vivien.  She’s one of the other contestants.”

            “Pleased to meet you,” Vivien said, inclining her head in a polite nod.

            “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Vivien,” Charles replied, sketching a playful bow.

            “Vivien was wondering if she could work for us,” Erika supplied.  “I figured, given how busy it tends to be, you might be interested.”

            “Most certainly!” her father beamed.  “We’d love to have an extra pair of hands.  It’s quite simple work; you can either help with cleaning down tables, cooking, or serving, and of course we’ll pay you fairly for your work.  Given you’re in the contest you must be a good singer as well; you could perform on the stage if you’d like.”

            Vivien smiled. “I’d love to do any of that. Wherever you need me most.”

            “Wonderful. When can you start?”

            “Tonight if you need me,” she laughed.  “I’m available every night, unless any of my family may end up unwell, then I’ll be needed at home to help take care of them.”

            “Of course, of course,” Charles hummed, his own smile brilliant.  “You can come whatever nights you’re available.  We’re almost always busy, so we can always use a hand.  You can come by tonight, and we’ll teach you the ropes of what you need to know.”

            Vivien beamed, taking hold of his hands firmly.  “Thank you so very much, sir; this means a lot to me.”

            Charles squeezed her hands in return.  “No need to thank me, Vivien.  We’re glad to have you on board.”

            “Do you need any help finding your way home?” Erika asked.  “I can take you to the central market if it will help.  Or any market, really; I know my way around quite well.”

            “I’ll be all right, thank you,” Vivien replied with a smile.  She hugged Erika quick and tight.  “I hate to take off so abruptly, but my family will want to hear all this wonderful news.  Goodbye, until tonight!”

            Erika bid her newfound friend farewell and saw her out the door.  After securely closing it, she couldn’t help but laugh a little.

            “Full of energy, isn’t she?” her father observed.  “That’ll come in handy here, I’m sure.  She seems quite nice.”

            “She is,” Erika smiled.  “She’s the only other girl who isn’t from the upper classes.  It’s good to have a friend in there.”

            “As long as you don’t let it get in the way of the contest,” he said gently.  “It can be a bit risky, befriending some of the competition.  She seems nice, but I’d keep an eye on her to be safe.”

            Erika nodded rather hesitantly.  She couldn’t imagine Vivien betraying her; the girl was kind, and from what Erika had seen of her personality, she couldn’t imagine that she had a mean bone in her body.  Surely such a sweet girl could never betray her?  Or was Erika letting the girl’s kindness blind her?

            Frowning a bit to herself, she hurried to the stairs and up to her room.  She sank down on her bed, laying down to rest before the night began in earnest, and to wonder about her newly made friend.

Chapter 14: Strings of Heart

Summary:

Vendetta seems troubled; Erika tries to comfort her, but cannot. Erika and Logan cross paths again at the tavern, and he watches her perform a duet with Vivien. Erika realizes her feelings for the man are growing rapidly.

Chapter Text

            “So tha’s it?  Anyone who could pluck out a tune went forward?”

            “You make it sound so easy,” Erika replied, her voice as dry as the rainless weeks that occasionally struck in the height of summer.

            Vendetta shrugged, flicking her hair back from where it fell too far over her face.  “It sounded easy to me.  You played a tune on a few instruments and were done.  How’d they even pick?”

            Erika shrugged as she set a few drinks and bowls of stew on her platter.  “I wasn’t in the room during the judging.  But I did hear everyone play, and the worst players were cast off.  Some just needed more practice, but some . . . some just couldn’t carry a tune.”

            “Seems it’s all based on his majesty’s opinion.”

            “Well it’s his troubadour.  I’d hope he likes their technique.”

            Vendetta shrugged to herself, pausing to take a drink.  In the brief spell of quiet, Erika looked up, scanning the crowd and finding Vivien.  The girl was quick on her feet; only her fist night, she was chatting away with everyone.  Her job for the night was easy; she carried a pitcher of ale and topped off people’s drinks as requested.  Erika was left to take new orders out.

            “Are you worried?  About not winning?”

            Erika turned back to Vendetta as she lifted her tray.  “Not really, no.  Whatever happens is what’s meant to be, I suppose.”

            “And the othah girl?”  Vendetta frowned at her.

            “Vivien’s very nice,” Erika said with a sigh, shifting her hold on the platter so she could balance it better.  “We’re friends.  She’s more concerned about having a well-paying job to help her family.  That’s why she’s here.  She’s not spying on me or anything.”

            “Still,” the redhead muttered, “you should be careful, make sure she doesn’t have some daggah behind her back.  Now go on, before that food gets cold.”

            Erika hurried into the throng, almost glad to leave the conversation behind.  It was frustrating, how everyone assumed Vivien would backstab her.  By no means did Erika know her well, but the girl was far too kind and sincere to do anything so traitorous.

            Erika breezed through the people, easily dropping off orders.  It was a night full of regulars, and they knew better than to grab at her.  And by all appearances, they treated Vivien with the same respect; Erika hadn’t seen anyone make any moves towards her, and the few times she and Vivien had spoken during the night had been thoroughly positive discussions.

            Finished with her serving, Erika skipped back to the bar to drop off her tray.  Vivien swept in beside her, shouting over the din for a fresh pitcher.  Though she leaned against the bar to rest and catch her breath, there was a glow about her, a radiance to her smile.  She was enjoying the work.  Erika felt a surge of delight at the realization.

            “The night goes well I take it?” she asked, nudging the blonde with her shoulder.

            Vivien laughed, flicking back stray pieces of hair.  Like Erika, she had braided her hair to put it out of her way for the night, but a large number of strands close to her face were too short.  They had come free and formed a golden halo around her face.  “It’s incredible!” she replied, her voice raised over the din.  “I don’t know the last time I’ve had to run back and forth so much, but it’s enjoyable, really.”

            “You intend to stay on, then?”

            “Well of course!  Fair pay and work that isn’t horrible is more than I could ask for.  I’d be foolish not to!”  A rising of voices made Vivien turn her head to the guests.  Erika looked back, laughing at the raised glasses.  “Well, duty calls again,” Vivien remarked.  She picked up her new pitcher and flounced back into the fray.

            Erika turned around to watch, noting how friendly she already was with everyone.  She really did look happy to be working, much to Erika’s delight.  It was good to help a friend.  Satisfied that Vivien was doing all right, Erika made her way back over to Vendetta.

            The redhead was still brooding mood upon her return.  Her drink had vanished and been replaced with a simple glass of water, as well as a plate of mutton and potatoes that she was nearly finished with.  Erika took a seat beside her, breathing out a bright sigh.  It was incredible that she had the time to sit and relax.

            “You’re so lucky, you know tha’?” Vendetta said as she picked up another bite of food.  “Nice house, a mum tha’ cooks good food, loving parents.  Not everyone has this.”

            “I know,” Erika replied.  Her brow furrowed as she looked over at Vendetta.  It wasn’t like her to bring something up for no reason.

            “I didn’t,” the redhead continued.  “My parents couldn’t keep me, nevah knew why.  Dropped me off at a convent when I was a tyke.  From there . . . well, it got messy.  I couldn’t hide what I am back then.”  She fell into a heavy silence, shoulders hunched forward as she picked at the last few bites on her plate.  Erika could not bring herself to push at her in any way.  Clearly the memories were painful for her.

            The tavern was more quiet than normal, and in the tense lull of their conversation, Erika heard the door open and close.  Erika didn’t turn to see who entered, she was far too intent on her friend.  She could practically feel how close she was to learning more about just who Bronwyn was.

            “I made mistakes,” the redhead said, her voice more quiet than before.  “And I regret them, I really do.  People got hurt, I did bad things.  I can’t stop thinkin’ about it all of a sudden, of how awful I was.” 

            “Bronwyn, no.”  Erika grabbed onto her hand with both of hers, clutching at her.  “Don’t talk like that.  You made mistakes, maybe some bad choices.  Everyone does.  And yes, sometimes people are hurt, but that doesn’t make you a bad person.”

            “You don’t undahstand.”  The redhead twisted her hand free, her head shaking adamantly.  “You don’t, and you nevah will.  I was a monstah back then.  Maybe I still am.”

            Erika started to protest, but Vendetta surged out of her seat.  Her hand shook as she fished out a few coins and dropped them on the counter.  Before Erika could reach out to take her hand, to coax her to stay and calm down a bit, she was walking away.  Erika twisted around in her seat, watching as Vendetta shouldered through the door and vanished into the night.

            A feeling of hopelessness sank onto her shoulders, and she slumped back onto the bar.  Her elbows rested heavy on the bar top, her hands cupping the sides of her face.  Her friend’s words and attitude were concerning.  She’d never seen Bronwyn so distraught, and her vague words did nothing to ease Erika’s heart.  She wanted to run after her, to ask if she was all right, anything, but she couldn’t.  She couldn’t just abandon the tavern during the night, no matter how much she wanted to.

            “Hey.”

            Erika started, turning quickly on the stool.  She had to tip her head up to see who had spoken to her, but she recognized the rasp of the voice, the way it sent a shiver down her spine.  Only Logan had that effect on her.

            He stood just a step away, not invading her personal space.  A few lines creased his brow, matching the slight downward tilt of his mouth.  His concern was palpable even past her own mental barricades that were keeping her stress and worry in.  But clearly he was picking up on her feelings somehow.  For the first time, Erika found herself truly wondering what secret abilities he might have tucked up his sleeve.

            “Saw li’l red run out,” he rumbled.  “Noticed you seemed kinda upset about it.  Can I-?”

            “I’m sorry,” Erika blurted out, “this is all just . . . surprising.  You can sit if you want.”

            Logan settled onto the stool beside her, one of his hands resting on the bar.  His fingers tapped absently, as if he weren’t paying attention to them.  “Remy went out after her.  Figured you couldn’t leave yourself, and they get along better than she does with me.”

            “I doubt she’ll talk to him if she wouldn’t even talk to me.”  Erika sighed.  “Still, it does put me at ease.  If nothing else he can make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.”

            “He will.  He’s a good guy.”  Logan trailed off into quiet, his gaze turned out over the rest of the tavern.  Erika kept glancing at him every few seconds.  She felt a little on edge with him there.  She had suggested he come to the tavern sometime, certainly, but she’d never thought it would actually happen.

            Logan finally looked back at her.  The worried look was gone from his face, but he had turned rather unreadable.  “How’s the contest?”

            “It’s going well,” Erika replied.  “I made it through the first elimination.  The blonde girl pouring drinks is another contestant, Vivien.  She’s nice, and I don’t think she’s going to stab me in the back, but everyone else seems to think she might.”

            “That so?”  Logan looked at the girl for a moment before nodding slightly.  “I gotta agree with you.  She seems too nice t’be the betrayal type.”

            “You . . . do?”

            Logan shrugged, broad shoulders lifting and dropping in a brisk motion.  “Yeah.  I’ve learned how to read people, and I trust my gut.  She looks nice.  But I doubt she’s as good as you.”

            Erika laughed, shaking her head quickly.  “Logan, you haven’t ever heard me sing!  You can’t rightly judge that.”

            “You’re right, I haven’t.  But I’ve heard about you.  Lots o’ people love your singing.  It’s a shame I’ve never had the chance to hear it.”

            Erika narrowed her eyes at him.  She had to fight against the urge to slip into a smile.  “Is this your way of saying you want me to sing?”

            “Maybe.”  His teeth flashed in a brief, radiant grin that reached all the way up to his eyes and set them sparkling.  “Would you?”

            “Maybe,” she echoed, grinning back at him.  “But what if no one else wants to hear me?”

            “I can’t believe they wouldn’t.  Besides, it’s good practice for the contest.”

            She sighed, standing up slowly.  “All right.  But I’m asking Vivien if she wants to join me on the stage.”

            “That’s all right,” Logan grinned, “I bet I’ll know your voice when I hear it.”

            Her cheeks flushed a bright pink before she scampered away to find Vivien.  The blonde was sitting at a table, talking with someone she seemed to already know.  Upon seeing Erika approach, she hurriedly excused herself and bounced up to meet her.

            “I’m sorry,” Vivien blurted, halting before Erika.  “No one needed anything, and my feet were tired, and I’ve sort of befriended this one man I see at the market often-”

            Erika laughed, shaking her head.  “It’s completely all right!  I take breaks and talk with people I know rather often, myself.  I just was, actually, and I’ve been asked to perform for a little bit.  I was wondering if maybe you wanted to join me?  We could practice for the competition, sing O Waly Waly?”

            “Oh, I don’t know . . .”  Vivien bit at her lip slightly, turning to look at the small stage at the far end of the room.  “I’ve never really performed in front of a crowd like this.”

            “All the better reason to do it.”  Erika took hold of her hand with a gentle squeeze.  “I’ll be right beside you.  We’ll sing it as a duet even if that makes you feel better.”

            Vivien took a deep breath.  She stared for a last lingering moment at the stage before looking back to Erika and nodding.  “I’ll do it.”

            Erika beamed, squeezing her hand again before she started to lead her to the stage.  “Just make sure to relax.  Don’t pay too much attention to everyone, and just look towards the back of the room.  I promise you’ll do fine.”

            Vivien clutched her hand as they took to the stage.  Slowly, the crowds fell quiet.  Erika took the harp off of where she had set it against the wall, and quickly made sure it was tuned.  Satisfied with its sound, she strummed out the first few notes.  The hush over the crowd was immediate, everyone’s breath baited in anticipation of the night’s performance.

            Erika met Vivien’s eyes, nodding slightly.  Both women took a breath as one, and together they glided into the song.

 

The water is wide I cannot get o'er,

And neither have I wings to fly.

Give me a boat that will carry two,

And both shall row, my love and I.

 

O, down in the meadows the other day

A-gath'ring flowers both fine and gay,

A-gath'ring flowers both red and blue;

I little thought what love can do.

 

I leaned my back up against an oak

Thinking that he was a trusty tree;

But first he bent in and then he broke,

And so did my false love to thee

 

            Their voices, so different, somehow melded together in a perfect way.  Erika’s voice was crystalline and sure, sweet the way roses were sweet; a poet madly in love would have described her as an angel of the heavenly choir.  Vivien’s voice was high and honey-sweet, golden and pretty.  The contrasting similarity melted together into a darling melody that enchanted the crowd.  In no time at all, Vivien needed none of the support of Erika’s gaze, and was singing on her own, though still perfectly matched to the tempo Erika set.  Familiar with her stage and crowd, Erika let her gaze wander, her fingers unfailing on the strings as she looked over the crowd.  Her eyes caught on Logan’s, drowning in the full depth of his attention, the clear show of pleasant surprise he bore.  Delighted, Erika sang all the stronger, sang to Logan and only Logan.

 

A ship there is, and she sails the seas.

She's laden deep, as deep can be,

But not so deep, as the love I'm in;

I know not if I sink or swim.

 

O, love is handsome and love is fine,

And love's a jewel o while it is new.

But when it is old, it groweth cold

And fades away, like morning dew.

 

            The last note trailed off into silence, but Erika was barely aware.  She could feel a connection pulsing between her and Logan, like strings had woven between their hearts that connected them across the room.  Erika wondered desperately if he felt it, too, or if she was going mad with secret wants.

            “Erika!  Oh, that was incredible!”

            Vivien’s hand closing on her arm made Erika jerk back to herself.  She felt like she was falling back into her body, collapsing inward.  Settled back solely in her skin, she turned to Vivien.  It was hard to smile when she felt so unnerved, but somehow, she managed.  “I’m glad you liked it.”

            “Liked it?  Oh, I love it!  Do you do this every night?”

            “More or less.  It depends on how busy it is, if people want me to sing . . .”  She trailed off, eyes sliding back to Logan.  He was still watching her, making her skin dance over her bones.  The intensity in his eyes made her hands tremble as she tore her gaze away long enough to set down her harp.

            “Maybe we can do it more often now that we’re both here?  We could do solos, or duets, or one of us could play and the other sing-”

            “Of course.” Her voice wavered and cracked, and she shook herself. “I’m sorry, I- I need some fresh air-”  Erika threw a brief glance at Logan, only to find him already standing, angled towards the door.  Erika hurried off the stage, her hands shaking at her sides.  She could feel her parents looking at her, but she could not care at that moment.  She needed space to breath, she needed a bigger space for her and Logan to occupy so the feeling between them wouldn’t choke her.

            The cool night air was a relief.  A light beading of sweat cooled on her brow.  Erika collapsed onto the bench near the door, leaning back against the wall.  She could hear the excited chatter of the patrons, coming louder as the door swung open briefly before falling muffled again as it clapped shut.  She didn’t need to look over.  That phantom connection was back, throbbing in her chest until her heart beat to its tempo.

            “You all right?”

            The low rasp of Logan’s voice chased a harsh shiver up her back.  Erika jerked away from the wall, turning her head so fast her braid swung over her shoulder.  Logan looked a bit more tense, his shoulders tight, eyes alert and flickering over every inch of her, lingering at–

            “Yes.”  Erika’s voice caught in her throat, making her wince.  “Yes, I just... I don’t know what came over me in there.  I’ve never felt like that.  Like–”

            “Like there was a connection?”

            Erika shivered at his words.  Maybe she wasn’t imagining it, and maybe she wasn’t the only one feeling such a chaos in her breast.  Logan had felt something, too.

            “Exactly,” she breathed out.  “A connection.  I’m still feeling it, like an echo.  I don’t understand it.”

            Logan nodded, a single and swift jerk of his head.  “I don’t either.”

            They both lapsed into silence.  Erika pondered at the strange feeling hanging between them.  It was almost palpable, a new sort of tension.  Unbidden, the skin of her neck tingled in memory of his gentle touch.  And how would that touch feel on the rest of her skin?  Would he be so gentle over every inch of her?  She closed her eyes, unsure whether she wanted to shove that thought away or cling to it and find more like it.

            “You were beautiful.  The singing.”  Logan hesitated, and Erika couldn’t help but open her eyes again and look at him.  He looked at a loss.  Erika wondered if this feeling was as unnerving and exciting for him as her.  He laughed suddenly, a brief and brilliant sound as his gaze shifted away from her finally.  “I don’t know the last time I heard something so incredible.”

            “You should come more often, then.  I sing most nights.”  Erika marveled at the steadiness of her voice.  Her trembling had abated finally, even as her thoughts still scattered over a hundred things about Logan.

            Logan looked back at her, a grin forming.  “I’d like that.  Not the mention the drink I did have was incredible.”

            Erika laughed, and finally felt a bit of the pressure in her chest ease off.  “Well I’m glad you think so.”  She stood up, finally feeling steady again.

            Standing with him, Logan seemed so much closer to her.  She could reach out and touch him easily, so easily.  The strings of heart between them shivered, tightened.

            Logan stepped closer, but Erika felt no urge to step back.  Rather she welcomed his presence, wanted to lean into him even.  But she fought against the feeling, only swaying a little bit on her feet.  His fingers brushed over her braid, moving it just enough so it lay more smoothly against her.  Erika could hardly breath, fascinated by the closeness of his skin to hers.

            “I have to go,” he whispered.  His head dipped down, forehead touching to hers lightly.  Erika closed her eyes, basking in the last seconds of his closeness.  His palm lifted to cup her cheek, strong and just a bit rough from labor, and all the more pleasant for it.  She let her own hands take gentle holds at his shoulders, fingers just touching his neck.

            The moment was an infinity and a second.  A last whisper of farewell passed between them, and then Logan was stepping away, his touch and warmth gone.  Erika watched him leave, her arms dropping to wrap around herself.  Even after Logan left, she felt him, an echo in her chest.  An untethered string dancing in the wind.

Chapter 15: Bronwyn

Summary:

Bronwyn fears her past is going to catch up to her. Remy soothes her as best he can.

Chapter Text

            She staggered off into the dark, eyes stinging and throat tight, and she would not cry, she would not

            A sound cracked from her throat, and she collapsed against a wall.  Her knees gave out from beneath her, and she sank to the cold, hard ground.  Her knees drew up to her chest, arms resting on them and providing the perfect sanctuary for her crumpling face.  The memories were too sharp, too fresh still.  It had been years, but still she remembered it all as clearly as if it had been just yesterday.

            By no means was it safe for a normal woman to be out alone so late in Einsemar’s streets, especially not in the direction she had gone.  But she was no normal woman.  And that was the crux of it all.  But at least her powers could keep her out of any danger if any foolish bastard tried anything on her.

            She kept her sobs and breathing as muffled as she could.  Now was not the time to draw attention to herself.  Not when she could still feel the pain from all those years back.  She feared if she looked up, she’d see it all again, the mock coliseum and leering faces.  Or worse, her savior in all his gleaming armor and beautiful, terrible power.

            The crunch of grit underfoot made her jerk up.  She jerked to her feet again, one of her countless knives coming to her hand with terrible ease.

            In the dark, it was hard to make out any color, but the silhouette looked familiar.  Tall, shape undefined by a cloak.  The figure paused, clearly able to see her better than she could see them.  She lowered her blade, though her grip remained strong.  The figure moved forward, a dark and rippling shape moving between shadows.

            “Forgive me for followin’,” the figure drawled, hot summer accent running through her ears, “but ya ran out, and I figured Erika’d be worryin’.”

            Her shoulders relaxed, if only a bit.  “I’m fine,” she muttered.  Her voice sounded thicker than normal.  The sobs were still lurking, just below the surface.

            Remy drew close enough that she could finally make out some details in the minimal reach of moonlight.  His face was more or less unreadable.  “I don’t believe ya.  Now, ya can tell me ta fuck off if ya like, but I imagine Erika would feel better if she knew ya made it home wit’out trouble.”

            She closed her eyes, swiping at them quickly with the heel of her palm.  “I’ll be fine, Remy.  I can handle myself.”

            “Bronwyn.”

            She glared up at him from behind the fall of her hair.  She hated how her name sounded on his lips, all smooth and honey sweet.  More so she hated how it made her feel, how it quickened something in her chest. She hated that he was so pretty and clever. Part of her wanted to punch him for assuming such familiarity, and part of her wanted him to assume it again.

            His eyes, impossibly dark in the night, beseeched her even as his words did.  “I know ya can handle yourself.  But right now, ya shouldn’t have to.  You’re hurtin’, bad.  I just wanna make sure ya don’t get in any trouble.”

            “I don’ need you to babysit me!” she snapped back.  “Now fuck off already!  Jus’ leave me alone.”

            Bronwyn spun around on her heel and started to walk away as fast as she could.  She was a fair bit smaller than the southerner, and her shorter legs had to move fast to carry her away.  She had no illusions; Remy would follow her at a distance despite her response.  He was genuinely concerned, for whatever damn reason, and that only made her angrier.  Why couldn’t she just be left alone until her tempestuous mood ended?  She didn’t want to talk to Remy, or Erika, or anyone; she wanted to be alone!

            It was surely a vain hope, but Bronwyn was not one to give up easily.  She took as long and winding a path as she could, making her corners abruptly, sometimes running to the next one if it was close.  Always Remy seemed to be just behind her, somehow never losing track of her.  The frustration and anger boiled under her skin, making building signs and banners wave as she passed, rattling vases in windowsills.

            When she reached her home, the bells of the cathedral rang out the midnight hour.  Bronwyn ran to the door, opening it only enough to slip through before slamming it shut with her telekinesis.  She started to lock the door the same way, but before she could, the door swept open and Remy was inside.

            Bronwyn knew she could hurl him out with just a thought.  And she knew that Remy knew that, too.

            So why wasn’t she?

            For a moment, neither of them moved.  Bronwyn stared at the stairs, and Remy stared at her back.  The silence was claustrophobic, pressing heavy against her skin.

            “It’s all catching up on me,” Bronwyn blurted out.  She couldn’t fathom why she was saying this, to Remy especially, but the silence needed to be filled.  “My past, who I was, wot I did.  I was desperate, I didn’ know any bettah, and I needed... I needed someone, and he–”

            “Bronwyn,” Remy sighed.  His hand pressed lightly on her shoulder, the barest amount of pressure.  He was so tall, all but towering over her.  But she wasn’t afraid, and it wasn’t because she could throw him over her shoulder.

            “Bronwyn, I know.  I know ‘bout what ya did.  I know ‘bout de Hand.  I know all ‘bout dat.”  His hand tightened on her shoulder.  “Dat doesn’t define you.  You aren’t dat person anymore.  You’re better now.  And dere will be days when all ya can think ‘bout is what ya did and how ya wish ya hadn’t.  And that’s okay.  It’s okay ta regret.  But ya gotta forgive yourself someday.

            Bronwyn brought her hands up to her eyes, rubbing at them in a bid not to cry.  The effort was futile; the sting of tears came back, and this time she knew it was useless to fight them.  She refused to sob – she wouldn’t be that weak – but the tears still fell silently.

            Remy made a soft, gentle sound.  His hands turned her around, and Bronwyn let him for some strange reason.  Before she could understand, he had folded her in close, a gentle and loose embrace.  She could have pulled away, he left her that opportunity, but she didn’t.  She didn’t want to.  It didn’t matter that she didn’t know him well yet, she knew she would someday, and there was a strange comfort in the contact and the way he stroked her hair just a bit.  Silent, she let her tears fall, and took what comfort she could.

Chapter 16: Dame Ameline

Summary:

Erika checks on Vendetta to ensure she's all right. The contest continues, and Erika meets another participant, the insufferable Dame Ameline. Erika returns home to find a note from Logan.

Chapter Text

            The morning was mild, the narrow city streets crowded as everyone went about their business.  Erika had to push her way through the crowds with her elbows and a few quick words of apology.

            Normally Erika would have dealt with her parents’ requests first and foremost, allowing her to follow the flow of morning foot traffic through Einsemar.  After last night, however, she needed to find Vendetta.

            As soon as Logan had left the tavern, guilt had gnawed at her until she was empty of anything else.  She had let her best friend run off into the night alone.  It didn’t matter if the southern Thief went after her; for all Remy LeBeau seemed to know, he wasn’t Vendetta’s friend of two years and counting.  But Erika had let her down, and now she was determined to make it up to her.

            The old tailor’s shop was in sight finally.  The upper story window was open.  Erika moved to the side of the street, staring up intently at the window.  Her focus was narrowed down to that single point.  Intense attentiveness was the only safe way to let her guard down and let her power slip out.

            Most of the Gifted in Genosha were relatively harmless.  There were those like Vendetta who could move objects by thought alone, and those that could read others’ minds.  There were others who could control elements.  All those things could be used for danger, or harmlessly.

            Erika’s own inherited gifts were unlike those, however.  Like her Uncle Christophe, Erika could sense emotions.  While her uncle could only sense other people’s feelings in an aura around their person, Erika was capable of more.  She could feel the emotional state of anyone she chose by focusing on them, or she could open herself fully and be washed over with the emotions of every individual within an unknown radius.  That was dangerous to herself, though, as the influx of feeling was simply so overwhelming.

            The true danger of her power, and the reason she kept it under mental lock and key, was not because of her ability to sense.  Rather, it was because of her ability to change, to influence.  Without caution, she could impose her own emotions on those around her whose minds were unguarded.  Worse, she could give them commands, certainly by voice, and sometimes by feeling; they would obey fully and without hesitation, regardless of any harm they were brought.

            Erika rarely let her powers loose for fear of influencing those around her and bringing them possible harm.  But today, she needed to know if Vendetta was in her home, and her abilities to sense emotion could aid her in that.  Every individual had a unique impression.  Vendetta’s reminded her of fire: warm and pleasant, but dangerous if you weren’t careful.  She was familiar enough with her friend’s personal aura that she would be able to tell if she were home or not.

            The power unspooled from her, reaching out like a phantom touch to push into the building.  From there she could only reach around, searching, feeling.

            There!  Vendetta was home, upstairs, seemingly calm and collected.  Half her mind still focused on keeping tabs on her friend, Erika moved closer to the window so she could be seen better.  She hated to do it, but she fed the suggestion to her friend to look out her window.

            Vendetta tended to keep her mind guarded, but Erika was lucky; today, the woman had left herself open to suggestion, for the time being at least.  Soon, the fiery head appeared in the window.  Vendetta’s eyes found Erika quickly, an insincere scowl on her face.  Erika broke into a smile, raising her hand to wave.  Vendetta’s mouth quirked up at one corner and she made a quick beckoning gesture.

            Erika already felt relieved as she scampered to her friend’s door.  Vendetta looked a little pale and a little drawn, but that was better than the sorrow that had been so evident last night.  Perhaps her dark mood had passed, or at least alleviated.

            The door swept open on its own; Erika had visited enough times to know it was an invitation, and she stepped inside.  The interior of the house was dim and cool.  Vendetta was halfway down the stairs, dressed in her usual attire of soft worn trousers and a loose shirt.  She smiled, just a little curve of her lips that Erika felt wasn’t entirely sincere, before turning around and climbing back up the stairs.  Erika trailed after her, a little more cautious on the rickety structure.

            The upper floor was a simple living space.  The initial room was open, dominated by a round table that two mismatched chairs sat at.  Further across the room was a fireplace for cooking and heating.  A single wall marked the private space for Vendetta’s bedroom.  Seeing it, Erika was always reminded how lucky she was that her parents owned a larger building where they had more space to live in comfortably.

            Vendetta sat herself in one of the chairs.  Her collection of knives and small swords were spread out over the table, along with a whet stone.  Erika took the other chair that was set up on the other side of the table.

            “Wot’s got you dropping in so early?” Vendetta asked as she picked up the next blade.  She started to sharpen it with quick, well-practiced motions.

            Erika raised her eyebrows at her, gaze cool.  “You know exactly why.  You’re just not talking about it.”

            Vendetta sighed, tossing her head so her long hair flew out of her face.  “I wasn’t exactly sobah last night.  Just got carried away with my thoughts.  It’s nothing.”

            Erika shook her head with a sigh.  She knew her friend well enough to know it wasn’t so simple, or so easily dismissed.  She also knew that Vendetta wasn’t the lady of secrets for nothing.  The redhead would talk when she was ready.  If she ever was.

            She let it drop for the time being, watching the woman sharpening her blades instead.  It made her think of the blade that dutifully hung at her hip.  Did it need to be sharpened like this?  What if it wasn’t?

            Erika unfastened the dagger, holding it up in front of them both.  Vendetta stopped working, peering up from beneath her brows.

            Erika held the dagger firmly, a little rueful smile on her face.  “I still don’t know anything about using this.”

            Vendetta laughed; just like that, everything was normal again.  Vendetta set her own blade down, reaching over and plucking the tiny dagger from Erika’s hands.  The redhead quickly pulled it free, holding it in her hand for a moment before cutting it through the air.

            “It’s a good knife, I’ll give the man that,” she said, a bit grudgingly.  “Still, I wouldn’t have given this to you without any practice.  We’ll have to find some time and fix tha’, no?”  Without waiting for Erika to reply, Vendetta touched the pad of a finger to the blade.  She hummed, drawing her finger back and sucking at the red line there.  “Sharp enough for sure.  For now, you can jus’ bring it to me if you think it needs some attention.”  She sheathed the dagger again and tossed it back to Erika.  The tavern girl caught it easily, surprised to feel a bit more settled with its familiar weight on her person again.  She didn’t let herself dwell on that, or on the man who gave it to her, for long.

            “Any news on the contest?” Vendetta asked as she settled back into her work.

            Erika nodded to herself.  “We continue today.  The King is speeding it up.  Apparently, there’s a royal event soon.”

            “Nervous at all?”

            “Hardly,” Erika sighed.  “I sang the song we’re singing today last night.  Everyone loved it.”  Especially Logan . . .

            Vendetta was staring at her.  Erika flushed, realizing she had voiced a dreamy sort of sigh in the quiet that followed.  She ducked her head, tying the dagger back onto her belt just for the excuse to not meet her friend’s gaze.

            “Logan was there, wasn’t he?”

            “Bronwyn!”

            The woman’s eyes rolled.  “Should’ve known.  You’re so damn smitten with him.  You don’ even know the man.”

            “Don’t remind me,” Erika groaned, tossing her hands in the air.  “I just feel . . . good with him.  He doesn’t demand anything from me.  I can just be myself.”

            “Not to mention he’s good looking,” Vendetta teased.  She laughed as Erika’s blush darkened.  “There’s nothin’ wrong with it, luv.  Just be careful.  Men break hearts.  And worse.”  The sharp grating of the knife on steel made Erika’s ears ring.  The humor had drained out of Vendetta’s words as she spoke, and her whetting had gone violent.

            Erika frowned to herself and wondered some more.

***

            It was a force of will to push her mind away from pondering over Vendetta’s remark and the way she voiced it.  Standing in the parlor, unknown moments from competing, was not the time for such distractions.

            The other competitors were mostly keeping to themselves today, reciting the words or even singing to themselves.  Erika grimaced faintly as one hopeful girl belted the song out – Overdone, far too overdone, please don’t let him pick her!  A few people had already gone, and none of them had returned; likely sent to another room so they couldn’t speak of the setting with the rest of them.

            Vivien was sitting calmly in a chair, brushing her fingers through her hair.  Erika found her hands straying to her fall of curls, feeling the frizz of them under her fingers.  The sudden bout of self-consciousness made her look away and around the room.  That only made it worse; so many beautiful dresses and tunics, so many others for richer than she.  Erika felt suddenly small and drab in comparison.  A nightingale among cardinals and bluebirds.

            But the nightingale has the prettiest song.

            Erika breathed deeply, fisting her hands in her dress.  Erika was pretty, she knew that, didn’t need to be told.  The contrast of dark hair and pale skin was favorable for her, and her habit of nipping at her lips while thinking made them flush bright.  But there was a simplicity to her that most of the other competitors lacked.

            Most of them were women around Erika’s age.  It was evident from their rich fabrics and pretty jewelry that they belonged to wealthy families.  All of them were so brilliant, so gaudy.  The belonged in a royal court, jewels to hold aloft and brag about.  Erika could not compare.

            The men were few, but all of them were just as beautiful.  No two bore any similarity; some were small, delicate almost, while others were tall and broad and strong.  Erika could imagine the tenor of their voices ringing out in the palace.  Enthralling, beautiful creatures that belonged in a fairytale.

            And then there was Erika and Vivien.  Pretty, but simple; no flash or fancy to them.  Vivien wore a dress that may have been a bright red once, but washing had faded to a pretty, rosy pink that matched the excited flush of her cheeks.  Her features were warm and open, cheerful.  She looked happy and excited, far more comfortable with herself after their singing at the tavern.

            Erika wore a dress as deep blue as the twilight sky.  She had left her hair loose, letting it fall in a cascade around her shoulders.  As she turned her head to look about the room, the ends brushed at her elbows.

            Certainly the two of them were pretty.  But they didn’t look like they could belong.

            The door opened.  The hush was immediate, everyone’s eyes snapping over to the door and the man who stood there.

            “Erika Deforest; the king has requested you.”

            Erika felt her stomach drop to somewhere near her feet.  She took a deep breath, smoothing out her skirt again.  She caught Vivien’s gaze for a moment, and the brilliant smile the girl flashed her made her feel so much lighter.

            Erika moved across the room from her secluded little place.  Everyone watched her as she walked, but that was nothing new.  Her head remained high as she walked to the door and through it.  Her hands may have trembled, but it was hardly noticeable.

            The door closed behind her with a muffled sound.  Erika looked at her guide briefly; he hardly paid her any mind as he led the way to the throne room.  Erika trailed a step behind him.  Her nerves settled as she walked down the hall, letting her eyes turn to admire the tapestries, paintings, and flowers that decorated the palace.  Some of the art made her think of her father.  He rarely had time to indulge in his true passion.  A shame, in her mind; he had such talent. Erika had once found a sketch he had drawn, a month or two after her birth according to the date, of her mother holding her.  The love had been all but bursting off the page. Perhaps if Erika won the competition, the pay for being troubadour would be enough that he wouldn’t have to work so hard and he could return to art.

            The thought made Erika smile and sent a fresh wave of determination through her.  Plain she may be, but she was willing to gamble that her voice could outshine all the others.

            The door of the throne room was open, flanked by two tall, imposing Iron Guards in full armor.  Still Erika remained poised, letting herself be led into the room.  It was just as vast and open as she remembered.  The sunlight streaming in illumined the space in a golden warmth.  At the far end of the room sat the Iron King in his throne.  He was flanked on each side by two other figures.  As Erika drew closer, she recognized Lord Xavier and the lady who had been with him when she signed onto the competition – Raven, he had said.  The only other individual in the room was a young woman who stood just to the side of the thrones; another servant, likely to escort Erika from the room when she finished.

            The man stopped a few steps from the throne and bowed.  Erika mimicked him by dipping into a curtsy, head bowed a little.  A wave of the king’s hand had them both rising.  Though the servant turned about and left, Erika remained.  She folded her hands before herself, gazing quiet and cool upon the throne.

            The quiet lasted for a moment.  Erika had the distinct impression that she was being weighed and measured.

            “Welcome back,” the Iron King finally spoke, his voice low but kind.  “I have invited Lord Xavier and Lady Darkholme to listen to your performance as well, if that’s all right.”

            “Perfectly, your majesty,” Erika replied, inclining her head slightly.

            “Good.  Whenever you’re ready, Miss Deforest.”

            Erika nodded, rolling back her shoulders and lifting her chin.  She didn’t look at them; looking at an audience at the beginning of a song still made her nervous even after years of singing.  She took a lengthy breath, preparing herself to sing.

            Singing acapella was more difficult, but she had practiced this way as well. The first note eased from her lips, sweet and warm and filling the room entirely.  Her voice rose and soared through the open room.  Her mind slipped back in time, back to last night when she had sung the song not for her audience, but for Logan.  It was so easy to find that magic feeling again.  It lay dormant in her breast, and even a simple thought was enough to wake it so that it unfurled through her entire being.  It reached into her throat, finding her voice and escaping with it.  Glorious, adoring feeling, full of warmth of beauty and ardor.

            “O Waly Waly” seemed to fly by her the second time she gave her voice to it.  Before she realized it, she was trailing out the last note.  The sound hung in the air like a shimmering crystal, vibrating through the whole room before fading away into silence.

            For a moment, none of them spoke; her small audience sat in silence.  Erika looked them over, shocked to see tears suspended in Xavier’s eyes.  Raven wore a smile, small but pleased.  The King was unreadable, his expression shuttered.

            “Thank you,” the King finally spoke; his voice was gruff, as if he were fighting against his emotional response as well.  “Elizabeth will escort you to the sitting room.  You’ll wait there while everyone else performs and I make my decision.”

            Erika curtsied deeply as the lady approached her.  She remained quiet and demure as she was gestured to follow the other girl, and walked in silence from the throne room.  Under her skin, her heart slammed at her chest.  Surely such responses were a good sign?

            As they left the throne room behind, the servant turned her head shyly towards Erika.  “You’re the best singer I’ve heard so far.  You had such passion in your voice.  I wish I could sing half as prettily as you.”

            Erika smiled, feeling her chest loosen slightly.  “It just takes practice, really.  I’m sure you have a lovely voice.”

            “Oh, not like yours though!  You were so clear.  I think it would be a shame if his majesty were to dismiss you.”

            Her cheeks flushed slightly at the compliments.  “You’re far too kind, Elizabeth, though hearing you say that does give me a sense of relief.”

            “Good.  You certainly have nothing to worry about so far.”  Elizabeth stopped, gesturing towards the open door before them.  “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

            Erika thanked her again before stepping into the room.  Like all the other spaces of the palace she had seen so far, the room was spacious and decorated with various forms of art.  Chairs and couches were set about the room, providing ample space for people to sit.  Erika wondered if visiting dignitaries would lounge here during their visits.

            Some of the seats were occupied by Erika’s competitors.  A young man and woman sat on a couch, holding hands and leaning close together.  Besides them, the other two in the room had isolated themselves.  Erika enforced her mental blockades against the palpable sense of anxiety in the room.  The other four in the room were clearly worried about how they would fare.

            Taking the girl’s advice, Erika pushed her worries aside as best she could and set about wandering through the room.  She moved slowly along the edges of the room, admiring the paintings and tapestries.  Most of them depicted legendary or factual events in Genosha’s history.  One depicted En Sabah Nur entering his kingdom for the first time.  Another showed the legendary Queen Matilda, the Queen of Peace as she was called, who had supposedly ruled without a drop of blood shed for thirty years.  Knights on horseback, kings and queens with their jeweled scepters and crowns, lords and ladies in their finery; beautiful images, all of them.  They stole Erika’s breath.

            She was aware of people entering the room as she observed the art, though she paid them no attention.  If anyone wanted to speak to her, they could approach her just as easily as she could approach them.  Voices were rising in volume as more people were gathered together.  The nervous spikes of their voices made Erika frown a little.  Perhaps it was wrong of her not to worry at all, but even as she looked for any anxiety, she couldn’t find it.

            She stopped when she heard someone call out her name.  The voice registered quickly as belonging to Vivien, and Erika hastened to turn around.  The blonde was already nearly upon her.  Erika merely reached out her hands to her.  Vivien took hold of her hands quickly, her eyes gleaming.

            “How did you do?” she asked, her voice babbling in what Erika now recognized as a nervous habit.  “I think I did all right, but they were all so quiet, just thanking me and then dismissing me.  I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about.  Not that I’d mind if I lost, especially since your parents have been so kind to hire me on, but-”

            “Vivien, please,” Erika said gently; she focused just enough to push some calm upon her friend, felt as a slight twinge focused between her eyes.  It seemed to work.  Vivien’s hands relaxed in hers.  Erika smiled, squeezing her hands gently.  “It’s going to be all right, my friend.  What happens is what’s meant to be.”

            Vivien’s face turned a slight pink.  “I’m sorry.  I just get so nervous sometimes.  You’re so calm!  How do you do it?”

            Erika waved one hand at the art around them.  “I simply looked for a distraction and focused on it long enough to calm down.  I’d recommend deep breaths first, though.”

            The two girls laughed together.  Erika was relieved to see Vivien relaxing a bit more.

            “Thank you,” Vivien said suddenly.  “You’ve been so kind to me this whole time.  No one else has been really.  I truly hope you win.  You have more talent than these vain ladies possess in the tip of their finger.”

            Erika beamed at the other girl.  “It’s been my pleasure.  I didn’t expect to make a friend during this.”

            Vivien returned her smile with equal radiance.  “Me either.  But I’m glad it’s gone this way.  Can we look at the art though?  I still feel a bit anxious.”

            Erika laughed, more than happy to agree.  She doubted there was much time left, and a glance at the room proved it; eight of the ten contestants were with them.  Soon the King would be making his decision.  The first jerk of nerves pulled at her heart, but Erika resolutely pushed them aside.  She would be all right.  Vain as it sounded to herself, her talent was unquestionable, her voice a natural gift.  Her only training had come briefly from a traveling minstrel who had hung around the city for a few weeks.  He had taught her to play instruments and ensured she could carry a tune; the rest she had cultivated on her own.  The King would be foolish to ignore her just because of her lower social status.

            Dwelling on it wouldn’t help her position, though.  Erika put her mind to showing Vivien the finer points of artwork: how the colors complimented each other for brightness, or contrasted for darkness, the careful strokes of a brush and meticulous threading on tapestries.  Vivien was attentive and admiring of the beautiful creations, something that relieved Erika.  She had never understood how some people couldn’t admire art.

            Vivien’s sudden loss of interest was what finally alerted Erika to the entrance of the last competitor.  Erika turned away from the art.  Distractions were worthless now.  It was time to wait.

            Vivien crept over to an empty couch and perched delicately upon an edge.  Erika joined her, her hands folding demure in her lap.  A tense quiet hung in the air as everyone shifted and settled in to wait.  Erika had no doubt that all of them were worrying over what their future would hold.

            All but one.  Another woman, a few year’s Erika’s senior if she had to guess, sat with smug composure.  Her ginger hair was silky smooth, her skin impossibly fair, marred only by a soft dusting of freckles.  Her eyes were a heated shade of brown, and in her excitement, they seemed to gleam red.  In contrast, her dress was a rich green, a forest shade that shone in the crushed velvet.  The dress was matched with a gilt necklace – or perhaps it was all gold, Erika couldn’t possibly say – with an emerald pendant.  A rich and pretty girl, self-assured in her own talent.

            “It must be so difficult to not know if the king will choose you,” the woman purred, her lips curving into a cold smile.  “I can’t imagine the stress of it.”

            “How can you be so certain?” a young man asked, his jaw set hard and brows furrowed.  “You don’t know his majesty’s mind.  No one here does.”

            The woman smiled, proud and secretive.  Erika felt dislike curdling in her stomach.  “I just know,” she purred.  “I sang perfectly.  There’s no way he wouldn’t choose me.  There’s no way I won’t win.”

            The tension in the air collapsed, turning swiftly to abject misery.  The girl’s pride had ruined the mood for the others, ruined all their hopes.  Even Vivien had wilted.  The sight of it made a flicker of anger join the bitterness brewing in Erika.

            “It’s quite rude of you to speak that way to us,” Erika said.  Her voice was sharper than usual, a brisk lash of her tongue in the air.

            The woman arched her thin brows, her smile remaining still as cold as before.  “And who are you to speak to me so, wench?  I am Dame Ameline!  I have the birthing to be worthy of such a position, unlike you two.  I can hardly believe the king even let you in!”

            “All of us here were chosen for our talent,” Erika replied.  “Our social status doesn’t matter.  Otherwise, we wouldn’t all be here.”

            Ameline rolled her eyes.  “Whatever you must say to make yourself feel better.  You’re just a little wench, nothing more.”

            “That’s not true,” the man who spoke earlier cut in.  “She’s the Deforest girl.  Everyone in the city knows about her!  I’ve never heard anything bad about her voice.”

            “A tavern girl can’t compare to a lady who is trained to sing,” the ginger replied, her chin lifting haughtily.  “She’s never had a single second of training.  How could she possibly make it any further in this contest?”

            The heat simmered under Erika’s cheeks, eyes stinging sharply.  She rose, her movements as sharp as the dagger at her hip.  With a flare of her skirt, she turned and stalked away from the couches, short legs devouring the distance across the room.  Mindless, she threw the doors of the room open and stormed out into the hall.  Her tongue burned with the urge to lash out with venom on its tip; it took every ounce of her will to drag herself away.

            The halls of the palace meant nothing to her, her eyes seeing nothing about her.  There was nothing but a thin veil of rage, insult, embarrassment.  Ameline’s words rang in her ears, and Erika began to wonder if she was right.  How could her untrained voice possibly compare to someone with years of training?  Any of the merchant class and nobles competing must have had at least a few lessons in playing and singing.  All Erika had was that traveling minstrel.

            Alric had been his name, his voice accented and handsome.  When he had sang in the market, Erika’s heart had spasmed in her chest.  She had been only fourteen, and though she had been shy, she had marched straight to the man and begged him to teach her how to sing like him.  Perhaps a little of her power had helped persuade him; those had been the early days when it was far less in her control.  But either way, Alric had smiled and agreed.  She had spent a few days with him, always meeting in the market.  He had improved her playing of the lute and harp and taught her the basic mechanics of a few instruments.  But it had been her voice they had focused on, and within the week, she had shown leaps and bounds of improvement.

            Alric had left sooner than she liked, but they had both known the day would come.  He left her with careful instructions that she still followed.  Always warm her voice before singing, regularly tune her instruments, drink warm, honeyed water to soothe her throat, never sing when ill; she followed his advice as religiously as she attended church.

            But a travelling minstrel could not compare to a professional.

            Erika finally stopped, sagging against a wall.  She had no way of knowing where she was in the palace, but the thought hardly bothered her.  Instead she sank to the floor, leaning against the cool wall with her eyes clamped shut.  It did nothing against the rising sting of her tears and did nothing to stop them from escaping.  Erika curled closer to herself, weak sobs hitching her breath.

            Time was meaningless in that moment of surreal agony.  But eventually the sound of a voice drew her into silence.  She couldn’t stop the hitching of her breaths, though she managed to stem her tears.

            “Erika?  Please, Erika, where are you?”

            Erika sat up, surprised to recognize Vivien’s voice.  A hurried hand dashed the tears from her face before she stood.  “Vivien?” she called out; her voice quivered slightly.

            The soft patter of peasant shoes reached her ears.  In seconds, the blonde hurried around the corner.  The concern struck Erika like a slap to the face; the tears welled up again, only worsening the feelings swamping her mind.  Vivien rushed forward without another word and embraced her tightly.

            “Oh, that awful woman!” Vivien hissed.  “To make you cry like this; horrible thing!  She doesn’t deserve to continue the contest!”

            Erika sucked in a hard breath, clinging weakly to her friend.  “Who-?”

            “We both did,” Vivien said hurriedly.  “You and I, Ameline, the man who spoke up in your defense, and another man who spoke up after you stormed off.  You made it through, Erika.  You can prove her wrong still!”

            Erika shook her head, pulling away to rub at her eyes.  “I don’t care about that,” she replied, her voice trembling.  “I’m here because I want to be here, not to make a point.  I just wish she hadn’t been so...”  Erika shook her head; it didn’t matter.  Calling Ameline names would do nothing.  “The rules for the next stage?”

            “Another song; Greensleeves it’s called?  It comes from Britannia I believe.”

            Erika smiled softly.  “I know it.  It’s a beautiful song, but much more difficult.  How long do we have to practice?”

            “A few days again, but I’m worried,” Vivien said.  “I doubt I’ll be able to win this next stage.  I’ve no doubt you can win it, win the title even, you have such an incredible voice!  I’m far plainer.”

            “Let’s not worry about it,” Erika urged.  “I’m tired, I’d like to go home and rest before tonight.”

            Vivien nodded hastily.  “Of course.  Would it be all right if I walk with you?  I’d feel better knowing you’re home safe after today.”

            Erika smiled, feeling a burst of affection for the girl.  “I’d like that.  Thank you.”

            Vivien smiled, already looking more relaxed.  “What else are friends for?  Come on, before I forget how to get out of here again.”

***

            Vivien was easy to talk to on the walk back to the tavern, and to Erika’s relief, she never mentioned Ameline again.  By the time they had arrived at the tavern, it was close to evening, and the doors would soon be open to the public.  Erika was glad to know she’d have a bit of time to relax beforehand, especially with Vivien to help with the final preparations in her place.

            Erika pushed the door open, smiling when she saw her parents both look up expectantly.  “Hello,” she said, surprised with just how much chipper she already sounded.  “Vivien and I both proceeded!”

            “That’s wonderful!” her mother said, hurrying around the counter to hug both girls. “I’m so proud of you both.”

            “Erika had a rough day, so I think she should rest until business starts,” Vivien said.

            “What happened?” her father asked, making his way over as well.

            “It’s nothing really,” Erika said quickly.  “One of the other contestants was exceptionally rude, that’s all.  I got a bit upset over it.”

            “Well maybe this will cheer you up,” Charles said, holding up a folded piece of paper.  “This was slipped under the door earlier.  Your name is on it.”

            Frowning, Erika took the letter from him.  Her name was a dark shape against the white.  As her parents fell into conversation with Vivien, she slipped away, sneaking up the stairs to the house proper.  She traced the letters of her name as she crossed to her own small room and sank down onto her bed.  The writing wasn’t Vendetta’s hand.  The possibilities of her writer made her heart quicken.

            Hastily, she unfolded the paper and smoothed it out over her lap.  Her eyes ran over it quickly, reading the brief message inside.

 

Erika,

Meet me at the edge of the woods tomorrow, early afternoon.  I need to speak with you alone.

Logan

 

            The smile that came to her was more radiant than the sun.  Her fingers strayed over his name, tracing the letters, familiarizing herself with them.  She whispered his name under her breath, over and over, tasting and testing it.

            She set the letter gently on the chest beside her bed before laying back.  She covered her mouth with one hand, muffling the giggle that she just couldn’t keep back.  Logan wanted to see her, speak to her; the possibilities were endless.

            She let her eyes drift, and in the darkness, she could see his smile as clear as day.

Chapter 17: Dagger

Summary:

Erika makes an excuse to slip out to the woods to meet Logan. Logan begins to teach her to use the dagger, and romance blooms.

Chapter Text

            Erika felt like she would crawl out of her skin.

            Chores, so many chores, and all she wanted was to go out to the woods and know why Logan had to see her.  The shopping was done and brought home, she had sorted everything out and put it away, and finally the floor was clean.  Erika stood in the doorway, broom in one hand and the other on her hip, head tilted up to regard the position of the sun.  There was little of the morning left, and soon it would be time for her to go to the woods.  How would she get away from her parents in time?

            Erika stepped back inside, kicking the door shut.  The harsh clap surprised her mother, who looked up from the stone oven.  She was baking fresh bread; the smell of it was sweet and enticing to Erika’s nose.

            “What’s bothering you, dear?” her mother asked.  “You’ve been agitated all morning.”

            “I just . . . I need to practice for the contest,” she blurted, inspiration dawning.  Perhaps the lie would be enough for her to be excused for the afternoon.  “I won’t feel ready if I don’t prepare much before.”

            Marie frowned, brushing a few stray wisps of gold hair from her brow.  “You hardly practiced for the last part of it.”

            “That song was much easier, and I knew it better.  I’m less familiar with this one.”

            Her mother sighed, pausing to pull out the wood platter.  The loaves looked perfect; everything her mother cooked looked perfect.  Marie Deforest, the perfect wife.  She set her perfect bread aside to cool for the time.

            “Erika, sit down a moment,” her mother urged.  Erika hesitated before propping the broom against the wall.  She sat at the bar, boosting herself onto one of the stools.  Her mother turned to her, standing on the other side.  She reached across and took Erika’s hands in hers.  Her hands were warm from being so close to the oven.

            “I know you’ve always dreamed of being the troubadour,” her mother said.  “And your father and I have let you.  And you do stand a fair chance at winning.  I’ve never heard prettier singing, not even in the cathedral.  But I worry you’re using it as an escape from what being part of this family includes.”

            Erika frowned; the brief swell of happiness from the compliment dissipated suddenly.  “What do you mean?”

            Her mother brushed back some of Erika’s hair, tracing the shapes of the curls.  “The life of the tavern, Erika.  It’s yours by birth, as it was your father’s.  When we are too old to work, when we die, this place will be yours.  No palace job will stop that truth.”

            Erika leaned back, straightening her posture and lifting her chin.  “Women don’t own anything,” she countered.  Her voice had taken on a bitter, even angry note that darkened her words.  “One of Uncle Christophe’s sons can inherit it.  Will inherit it, likely.  That’s the proper thing to do.”

            “Not if you married first–”

            Erika barked out a sharp, bitter laugh.  “So that’s what this is about!  It’s time for me to settle down, is it?  I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there aren’t exactly men lining up at the door for my hand in marriage.”

            “I just want you to think realistically, Erika,” her mother said, keeping her voice low and steady.  “You dream like your father, and there’s nothing wrong with that.  But you need to consider what will happen in the future, regardless of whether you win the contest or not.”

            “I will,” she replied.  Erika stood up, brushing at her dress.  She didn’t dare to lift her head.  It was too likely that she might begin to cry.

            Her mother fell silent, but Erika could hear her walking around in the small space behind the bar, taking some things out and starting to cut them.  After a moment, she heard her put something down and slide it over.  Erika lifted her head, looking first at the basket and the wrapped contents in it, then to her mother.

            “Go out,” her mother urged.  “Get some fresh air.  Go somewhere alone and practice your song.”

            There was only bitterness in her as she picked up the basket and left the tavern.

***

            The woods were full of birdsong.  Erika sat beneath a tree, leaning against its broad trunk, eyes closed as she listened to it.  She was pleasantly full of her lunch, and the air in the wood was comfortably cool.  But she could not entirely relax.  No, her mind was too busy.

            Her frustration had gone out of her in a matter of seconds; after all, her mother made a fair point.  Being the king’s troubadour was a glamorous life, but it was not a ticket into the higher levels of society, even if she would brush elbows with them.  She was still a commoner at the end of the day, no matter what happened.  The tavern would fall to her, unless her husband adamantly refused to leave his own inherited affairs, where she would simply be his wife and bearer of his children.  Even then she was still useful; she could read and write and keep record of money.

            She hated to think of it.  It would be so boring, so predictable.  Wake every morning to make breakfast, care for the children and clean the house, help with the business, cook lunch and dinner, put the children to bed, let him bed her if he was in the mood before she passed out of exhaustion.  It would be on her shoulders to ensure the children could walk and talk, read and write.  She would be mother and teacher and servant all at once.  The thought was enough to nearly make her sick.

            But thinking of that would only matter if someone wanted to marry her, and no man had given any sign of interest.  Plenty of common girls would marry at sixteen, and that had been two years ago.  All that time and still no one had bothered with the tavern girl at the Forest’s Glen.  Perhaps she would never marry, and would simply die alone, old and withered and gray with no one to care for her.  That thought was even worse than the previous.

            There was a quiet rustling in the undergrowth.  Erika sat up suddenly.  Her hand fell to the hilt of her dagger.  For a moment she saw nothing, and then the wolfdog stepped into the open.  Erika relaxed, smiling a little.

            “Hello, Vardan,” she said softly.  She extended her hand, smiling even more as the canine perked his ears and trotted over to her.  He paused to sniff her hand, licked her fingers once where he detected a trace of food scent still, then lowered his head so his chin was on her fingertips.  Erika scratched his chin gently.  “If you’re here,” she mused, “Logan can’t be far.”

            “Right here, actually.”

            Erika looked up from the wolfdog, surprised to see Logan standing a few feet away.  “I didn’t hear you coming.”

            “You did, a moment ago,” he replied.  “But only because I wanted you to.  You had the right reaction.  You can’t know what’s in these woods.  But you don’t know a lot about wielding a dagger.”

            Erika smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.  “I told you that when you gave it to me.”

            Logan grinned, a brief flash of teeth in a lopsided smile.  “You did.  And there’s been no time to teach you.  But there’s time now, if you’re ready to start.”

            Erika hummed, resuming scratching the dog when he nudged insistently at her hand.  “That’s the only reason you wanted to see me?”  She barely recognized her own voice.  It had taken on a light and playful air.  She sounded like a fine lady flirting with a handsome lord.

            Logan didn’t seem to mind; in fact, her inquiry drew another smile to his lips.  “Would you be upset if I said no?”

            “Well that depends.  What other reasons would you have?”

            “I wanted to see you,” he said, walking closer to her.  Erika had to tip her head back to look at him.  “I wanted to hear your voice.  I wanted… you.”

            Erika smiled, a radiant warmth spilling through every inch of her being.  “I wanted to see you, too.”  She didn’t dare expand on that statement.  She didn’t dare to say that she had missed him since they had last been together, that she had thought and dreamed of him, wondered if he felt the same distant yearning she had experienced.  From what he said, it seemed he must have felt similarly.

            Logan reached a hand out to her.  “Come with me.”

            Erika didn’t hesitate before putting her hand in his.

***

            Logan kept hold of her hand the whole walk through the woods.  He provided idle chatter during their brief journey, telling her about the woods and the plants they passed by.  Erika wasn’t surprised when they ended up at the small cottage he called home.  Vardan passed by them, head bent as he sniffed around the yard.  Logan led her inside first to set down her basket before going back outside into the open.  The yard around the cottage was clear of most trees, leaving plenty of room for them to move without fear of running into anything.

            Standing before Logan, she felt almost suddenly ridiculous.  How should she hold herself?  Did he note her posture, her shape, the way the light played on her hair?

            “Relax,” Logan said suddenly; there was humor in his words.  “You’re so tense it’s making me uncomfortable.”

            “Sorry,” Erika replied, blushing slightly.  “I’m just… How do we proceed?”

            Logan hummed softly, falling quiet for a moment again.  “Fighting is a funny thing,” he finally said.  “I could teach you all the skills and movements I know, but in the rush of the moment, you won’t remember anything fancy or special.  You’ll remember what’s easy and practical.  So that’s what we’ll work on.  I want to make sure you know enough that, if something bad should happen, in the palace or in the city, you can protect yourself without injuring yourself on accident.”

            Erika nodded in understanding.  She had to admit that she felt better knowing it would be simple.  She didn’t need any fancy tricks to keep herself safe.  “Where do we begin, then?”

            “Handling.  There’s a trick to holding a blade and being effective.”  Logan nodded to her slightly.  “Go ahead and draw yours.”

            Erika curled her right hand around the hilt.  The blade slipped free of its scabbard with a simple tug.  She swept it around in front of her, blade tilted up and out, growing straight up from her fist.

            It was a handsome blade, prettier than she had noted before.  Under her hand, the handle felt smooth, well crafted.  The crossguard was engraved with a delicate design.  The blade itself was long and true, gleaming in the light, though narrow.  A fine blade, if a bit delicate; a lady’s dagger.

            Logan examined her grip a moment before nodding to himself.  “This can work.  But gripping a blade this way gives you limited options.  Do you think you’d hold it this way in the heat of the moment?”

            “You really think I know?”  Erika shook her head, lowering the blade.  She felt absurd standing there with the blade.  “I’ve never handled any weapon.”

            “No, but have you seen a nasty fight in the tavern?”

            “Of course.”  Erika had seen more than enough brawls.  Most didn’t escalate past fists and feet.  There were those who had drawn blades, though they rarely managed to use them.  Most fights were short lived before people yanked the quarreling parties apart.  Those that did draw their blades never held them the way she gripped them.

            Careful of the sharp edge, Erika turned the blade around in her grip until the tip was held facing down.  Even holding it in this way felt brutal.  She shivered faintly, adjusting her grip on the hilt.

            “Good,” Logan said.  His voice had turned gentler.  It made Erika feel a bit better, though the effect was small.  “Holding a blade like that gives you more mobility, for an attack and defense.  It’s practical in every situation.  The way you held it before would work for stealth, but I doubt you’ll turn into an assassin on us overnight.”

            The tease was so unexpected that Erika burst into a loud laugh.  “No, I don’t intend to do that.  I don’t think I’d like it much.”

            Logan smiled, clearly glad to see her relaxing some.  “I don’t think so either.  Are you ready?”

            Erika nodded.  Logan was suddenly moving around her, until he stood just behind her.  Her muscles sprang taut again.  What if there was an accident, if she cut herself or him?  When Logan’s hand curled around hers over the dagger, she jerked.

            “Easy,” he whispered.  “It’s all right.  No one’s gonna get hurt here.”  His other hand lighted gently on her arm.  Slowly, he started to stroke her arm, up and down, over and over, varying pressure.  Slowly, Erika started to loosen her shoulders and breathe deeper.

            “You need to relax,” he murmured, and even his voice eased her some.  “You have to be quick and light.  Softer grip,” he murmured, stroking her fingers with his so her hand relaxed.  “Have a strong grip, and firm, but not tight.  Too tight and you won’t be effective.  This blade is part of you now, and you’ll learn to move accordingly.”

            Part of her, and wasn’t that horrifying?  A dangerous thing extending from her hand, a thing that could kill.  What was her world coming to?  As mad a thought as it was, however, she knew it was useful.  “I’m ready,” she finally said.  “What do I do?”

            “Do you trust me?”

            Erika hesitated.  She didn’t know why.  She trusted Logan, deeply.  And maybe that was it.  She hardly knew him, yet he had every fiber of her trust, and every ounce of her affections.  How could she feel so safe and so happy with a man who was little more than a stranger?

            “I do,” she whispered.  Her voice trembled.

            Logan squeezed her arm, a gentle pressure.  “Then we begin.  Blocking a strike will be important, lifesaving even.  It requires alertness and speed.  You have to be faster than whoever is attacking you.”  His hand shifted over hers; Erika shivered under his touch.

            “One of the easiest ways is to use the blade and your arm.”  He shifted her hand, turning her wrist until the flat of the dagger pressed against her inner arm.  “Your arm provides support to the blade.  You can block a heavier blow like this.  But if you don’t have time to adjust your grip to hold it this way, you can use your blade as a hook.”  He loosened his grip, and Erika twisted her wrist back to the earlier position unprompted.  Logan led her arm into a forward sweep that went off to the side.

            “So I’d grab their arm using the blade?” she asked.  “Throw them aside?”

            “Basically,” Logan replied.  There was something like pride in his voice.  “We can try both if you want?”

            “Now?”  Erika turned her head, trying to see him over her shoulder.  “With real weapons?”

            “Now,” Logan echoed.  “I won’t hurt you, and you won’t hurt me.  Trust me.”

            Erika took a deep breath, fighting against the tension crawling once more under her skin.  She gave a jerking nod.  Logan moved away from her; his hand slipped away last, and Erika’s hand felt nerveless and weak.

            He came around in front of her again, a dagger already drawn.  It was larger than her weapon, and simpler, but far better suited to Logan.  He spun it around in his hand to mirror her grip.  Erika watched him with sudden wariness, noting how he seemed to hover on the verge of a pounce.  Predatory.  For a moment she thought of the Iron Guard, Victor, and her neck throbbed with memory of his bruising grip.

            Logan moved towards her, making a high strike, slower than she had expected.  Erika didn’t let herself dwell on her action; she raised her arm, dagger pressed flat.  The blade trembled as it blocked the blow.  Logan grinned at her, and Erika felt a flash of pride.

            Another strike.  Erika lashed out, catching his wrist with the blade and jerking aside.

            “Good!” Logan said, a faint hiss in his voice.  “Blade’s definitely sharp.”

            Erika’s eyes widened a little.  “Did I-?”

            Logan shook his head, turning his wrist out.  No scratch.  He turned the gesture into a sudden blow.  Erika scrambled to block it again, staggering backwards.  She moved light enough, but her feet her unfamiliar with the motion.  Her dress was a disadvantage she realized; it would be far too easy to trip over it.

            On and on it seemed to go.  They moved around the yard in ragged motions, Logan always pressing the attack, Erika always defending.  Exhaustion crept up her body, slowly sinking into her body.  Her motions grew slower, weaker; her breath came in great, heaving gasps.  It was no surprise when Logan grabbed her with his free hand and pinned her abruptly against a tree.  The edge of his blade hovered at her throat.

            Erika quailed against the tree, shrinking from the blade and his looming presence.  As she watched, Logan broke into a smile.  It was a soft expression, sweet yet full of pride.

            “Not bad,” he said, his voice pitched low, barely above a whisper.  His blade moved aside, replaced by his other hand that cradled the curve of her jaw.  His thumb brushed beneath her eye; his touch left a tingling trail of presence, of knowing his skin had been there.

            “You’re shaking,” he whispered.  His head leaned down, forehead touching against hers.  She was barely aware of him taking the dagger from her grip and slipping it back into its scabbard; she only knew she could touch him more that way, and gladly did.  She gripped his shoulder tight, fingers tangling in the soft-worn fabric of his shirt.

            “I’m all right,” she tried to speak, pushing through the trembling in her voice.  “It’s just…”

            His fingers pushed into her hair, massaging slightly at her nape.  Erika’s eyes fluttered, the exhaustion wrapping around her tight.  She leaned forward, sinking into his broad chest, his warmth.  Logan’s arm came around her tight, holding her to him.

            “You make me feel something strange,” Erika whispered against his shoulder.  “Something new.  It’s frightening.  I don’t know what to do.”

            “Is it so bad?” he rumbled in return.  “Would you rather not feel that way?”

            “No!”  Erika cringed at her haste in speaking, the desperation of it.  “No,” she repeated softer, “I wouldn’t want that.  It’s only that I’ve never known anything like this.  They talk of it in poems and stories, but in real life . . .”

            She felt Logan’s laughter more than heard it.  His whole body seemed to vibrate with the echoes in his chest. “Now you know,” he said softly.  He sighed, fingers sliding over the soft skin of her throat; more shivery aftershocks worked through her.  “I’m afraid I should let you go back home.  You’ve had enough practice today.  Wore you out entirely.”

            Erika hummed in agreement, slowly leaning away from him.  Back against the tree, its bark sharp and insistent through her dress.  Logan smiled at her, the expression soft.

            “Wait here,” he urged.  Erika hated the feeling of him moving away from her, but she knew it was an inevitable necessity.  She watched after him intently as he went across the yard to his little cottage.

            As soon as he disappeared inside, Erika sank back against the tree with a sigh.  It was too early for the feelings he stirred in her to be love, but Erika had little doubt it would escalate to that point.  How was it that the only man to show any genuine interest in her was the reclusive woodsman?  She could already hear her parents’ reaction to that.

            Still, she could not deny her own feelings.  When Logan stepped back out with her basket, Erika had the most wonderful smile for him.  She took her basket back and grasped his hand when it was offered.  She laughed at his jokes and smiled at his kind words the whole walk back through the woods.  Vardan occasionally came up to her side and nudged at her hand, and she gladly pet his soft head.

            Logan stopped only at the edge of the woods, just out of sight from the guards by the open gate.  For a moment, all three stood still, watching people traveling through the gate; farmers, mostly, heading home after a successful day of sales.  Neither let go of the other’s hand in that long moment.

            “We don’t have to go any further,” Logan said suddenly.  His voice was so unexpected that Erika jumped.  When she looked over at him, she found him staring straight ahead, jaw set in a sharp line.  “I’m not… a good pick for you.”

            Erika hesitated in replying. He had the same worries as her it.  They were vastly different people; Erika the dreamer, the singer, and Logan the woodsman, gruff and brusque and strong.

            “People find each other for reasons,” Erika said softly.  “There must be some reason we met in the woods.”

            Logan turned towards her.  He was smiling, just a little, and his eyes twinkled a warm shade of brown.  “Of course.  I was there to rescue you.”

            Erika smiled, tightening her hand on his.  “Yes.  But I think there’s more to it than that.  Maybe you’re only bound to help me in this strange time.  But I feel it’s more than that.  Don’t you?”

            “Yes,” he agreed, his voice barely audible, “but Erika…”

            “Hush,” she whispered, moving closer to him.  She reached up, pressing her palm against the dark scruff on his jaw.  He angled into her touch, his own hand covering hers.  Their held hands unwound, reaching out to the other.  His hand curled around her waist, and she grabbed onto his shoulder.

            Erika felt her stomach twist into a knot.  She knew nothing of what she was about to do; no man had kissed her before, and she had never thought she could dare to initiate a first kiss.  Yet she rose up through the distance between them, head tipping back.  Her hand slid up to his neck, gentle pressure to the back of his head.  Logan leaned down at her prompting.  She felt the callouses of his fingers brush across her cheek before his fingers dove into her hair.  The distance grew smaller, smaller, until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer and simply had to trust.

            At the first touch of her lips to his, Erika felt a spark surge through her whole body.  The sensation stole her breath, making her body tense and shiver.  Heat flashed through her after, as if the spark had lit a flame through her whole body.  She felt Logan wrapping his arm around her, and she gladly pressed closer to him.  Every inch of contact between their bodies seemed to throb and sing.  It was a nearly aching sensation that tore the breath from her lungs.

            Though Erika had started the kiss, it was Logan who commanded it.  His mouth came alive at her touch, returning her kiss almost desperately.  Erika opened to him, clinging to him as the kiss dizzied her and stole away her breath.  One kiss led into another with hardly any time to breathe, each one as deep and ravenous as the last.  She only burned more at each searing touch.  She ached for him, more of him; she wanted and yearned.

            Logan drew back suddenly.  Erika collapsed back onto her feet, breathless and shocked.  She drew in deep, desperate breaths to try and fill her lungs again.

            “I have to go,” she finally whispered.  “My parents, they’ll be expecting me.”

            “I know,” Logan replied.  His voice was soft as well.  His hand stroked through her hair.  “I’ll see you soon.”

            “Soon,” she echoed, the word only a sigh.

            He tipped her head up, gentle but still insistent.  Erika met his eyes, unflinching from the seriousness there.  “Promise me you’ll still be careful,” he said.  “In the competition and in the palace.  Nothing is as it seems there.”

            “I promise.  But how do you know that?  You’re just the woodsman.”

            Though he still looked at her, Erika felt that he did not see her in that moment.  His eyes had gone dark and distant, as if he were reaching for a far back memory.  But then he blinked, and the look was gone.  “Just trust me.  I know.  I know plenty.”

            As they said their goodbyes, Erika realized once more how little she knew of Logan.  Everything about him was a mystery.  Why did he live alone in the woods?  How did he come to be there in the first place?  What about his family?  He seemed so common, yet his speech implied he was well educated.  His familiarity with a blade seemed to run deeper than practical practice.

            As she hurried across the bare expanse of the field towards the main road and gate, Erika let herself wonder about him.  Much like with Vendetta, she let her mind conjure up possible answers to her questions.  Unlike with her friend, however, each beginning failed to find a logical end.  Perhaps he was the son of a merchant in another city; that would explain his education, but not his comfort in the wild woods, or his vast knowledge of them.  Perhaps his family had always been in the woods; but the few who spoke of him never spoke of other woods-people.  A former knight, or just a squire, perhaps hiding from abandoning his position; but he went through the city with ease and comfort, so that was impossible, unless he had been discharged; but why discharge a strong, healthy male in his prime, particularly one who was so comfortable and at ease with a sharp blade?

            I’ll just have to ask him next time.  Next time, yes.  The thought brought a smile to her face.  What would their next time together bring?  Another burning kiss that would fan flames in her soul?  Or just more training with her dagger?

            Did it matter really?  Erika would love every moment with him.  She always did.  Someday she would know him as well as she knew herself.  That she did not doubt.

            With a skip in her step, she hurried home.  The tavern door swung open with a low groan and clapped shut behind her.  Her father was there, cleaning dishes before business began.

            “Ah, there you are,” he smiled at her.  “How was the singing, little songbird?”

            “It was lovely!”  Erika couldn’t help from beaming as she set the small basket down.

            “That’s good to hear,” her father smiled.  “Did you run back?  Your color is quite high.”

            “A bit.  It’s just such a lovely day,” Erika agreed.  Let him think what he will.  Logan and their kiss would be her secret for a time.

            “That it is.  If only we could abandon work for a day and just lounge in a field and enjoy the wind and sun.”  Her father laughed to himself.  “Unfortunately, that isn’t how it goes.  Why don’t you go upstairs and refresh yourself?  You can help me finish a few things after.”

            Erika smiled brightly, leaning quickly across the bar to kiss his cheek.  She left her father with a smile, skipping up the stairs.  Wanting a bit of privacy, Erika closed herself in her personal room.

            It was a small space, filled almost entirely by her bed and the chest where she kept her clothes, as well as a small stash of rough paper and some charcoal wrapped in a cloth, her own small collection of artist’s supplies.  A small window stood over her bed, allowing just enough sunlight to keep her room bright during the day.  Small as her room was, Erika still loved it for the simple fact that it was her own.

            She sank onto the bed, the straw-stuffed mattress crackling under her weight.  For a moment she was still and quiet, even her thoughts stilled.  Until Vendetta’s voice popped up in her head, sudden and unbidden.

            I clean my blades every time I use them.  Old habit, I guess, but it keeps them shiny.

            Erika leaned over to the chest at the foot of the bed and quickly opened it.  Besides her clothes and art supplies, she kept some extra cloth in the chest, set aside to mend a dress or make a new one should the need arise.  She pulled her dagger out and carefully cut off a scrap.  She started to hum as she lifted the dagger and rag, but the tune died suddenly on her lips.

            On the edge of the blade was a small red smear.

            Erika sat for a long moment, staring at the stain.  She certainly had not cut herself; that she would certainly remember.  The dagger was always on her person, besides when she slept, and in the morning, it was always exactly where it had been.  But what else could that be but blood?

            Logan.  Logan had hissed almost as if he had been in pain during their spar.  She had been so certain she had nicked him with the blade.

            And maybe she had.  He had shown her his hand, and there had been no sign of injury.  Yet her blade argued otherwise.

            She had seen no proof that Logan was anything other than human, but in Genosha that was not always a safe assumption.  Perhaps Logan was like herself, and Vendetta, and Remy.  Perhaps he was more than human.  Perhaps he healed from a little scratch immediately.  He wouldn’t be the only person with such a talent.  The Iron Guard Creed healed quickly also.

            But what could that possibly mean?

            Erika turned her head to stare out the window.  She realized again that she was falling for a stranger and feared what harm that could mean to her heart.

Chapter 18: Greensleeves

Summary:

Erika proceeds to the final stage of the contest, but against all her hopes and wishes, so does Ameline.

Chapter Text

            Erika felt no true worry about performing “Greensleeves”.  She had lied through her teeth about not knowing it.  She had begged Vendetta to teach her the song shortly after their friendship had blossomed.  She did not perform it often; the song was popular across the narrow sea but had yet to rise to fame in kingdoms such as Genosha.  The people wanted to hear the usual ballads that they already knew, not new and untested songs.  Rather, she had familiarized the song with Brownyn.  The two had sung it together more times than Erika could count, in public and in private.  It was always a lovely experience in Erika’s opinion.  Though their voices were very different, there was a simple pleasure in harmonizing with another person.

            On the day of the contest, Erika entered the palace with utmost confidence.  She had practiced a final time in the morning with her parents as her audience.  They had both applauded her, particularly her father, who voiced his delight in her passion and pursuit of her desires.  It had warmed her to hear, even if her mother’s words lingered far longer than his.

            She was led to the same room as before to wait.  Dame Ameline was already there, resplendent in a dress of soft blue velvet.  The two men were also present; she recognized the one who stood in her defense earlier, a tall man with broad shoulders and a shadow of a beard.  The other man was small and pretty with a long fall of sunshine hair.

            Vivien suddenly swept up to Erika’s side, her hair braided and bound atop her head.  The girls smiled at each other, embracing in greeting.

            “How do you feel?” Erika asked, holding Vivien at arm’s length.  “You don’t look too troubled.”

            Vivien shrugged, her smile as bright as ever.  “You were right.  What happens is what’s meant to be.  I don’t expect to win this portion of the contest, but that’s all right.  I found a job at your tavern.  That’s more than I had before.”

            “I’m glad I could help you, then,” Erika replied with a smile of her own.

            “Ladies!” one of the men spoke up; both were approaching them.  The taller one seemed to be the one who spoke.  “Well met, Erika, Vivien.  I’m Branwell.”

            “A pleasure to meet you formally,” Erika said, nodding politely.  “I didn’t have the chance to thank you the other day for speaking in my favor.  I greatly appreciated it.”

            Branwell’s smile turned rueful as he stroked at his young beard.  “Someone has to keep churls in check.  Or at least try.”

            Vivien giggled beside her; Erika couldn’t quite stop herself either.  Erika saw Ameline glower at them but pointedly ignored her.

            “Come sit with us,” the other young man offered with a smile.  “It’s much more relaxing to talk with friendly company than fret over performing.”

            And so they went and sat, well apart from Ameline.  Erika learned the other man’s name was Samuel.  He was the son of a wealthy merchant and had been singing since he was young.  His parents said his voice was as pure and sweet as angels.  Branwell, or Bran as he preferred to be called, was from a situation more like Vivien and Erika.  His father was a wood-carver.  He decorated chests and tables and chairs.  They were rich enough, but not particularly so.  Both men had joined the contest in hopes of winning the position, though Bran seemed relatively detached from it.

            Erika also learned more about Vivien through the conversation.  She knew the girl’s parents worked one of the nearby farms that were under protection from Einsemar, and that the crops had been low and her mother unwell.  Her mother had improved some since the beginning of the contest, though the doctor seemed to think she had far to go before recovering still.  Vivien mentioned her siblings, two older brothers and another younger.  She had started singing in the barn with the cattle; her voice had seemed to soothe the handful of cows during milking.  It had become a habit from there, and she had come to the competition on hope for employment and pay.  “Even if I fail now,” she said with a laugh, “I won’t mind.  The purse I’ll receive will be enough to pay the doctor for his services.”

            “What about you, Erika?” Bran asked, his arms draped over the back of the couch.  “God knows The Forest’s Glen is one of the best taverns in the city.  Surely you don’t need a purse or pay to make do.”

            “No,” Erika agreed.  It was true.  The tavern brought in plenty of money, ample amounts to buy food for themselves and their guests, help keep the old family farm running, pay their taxes, and still have some left over to squirrel away for bad times.  “I just like singing.  I fell in love with it at a young age.  I was only ever taught by a travelling minstrel who showed me how to play and tune my instruments and sing on key.  I had to teach myself everything else.”

            “You just want to be troubadour for the fun of singing?” Samuel asked.  “No dreams of grandeur or glory, no hopes of marrying a high lord that adores your voice?”

            Erika shook her head.  “Nothing like that.  I’ve dreamed of this many a year now.  I never thought the opportunity would come.”

            “Lucky you, then,” Bran said.  “It timed out perfectly.”

            “Why is he looking for a new troubadour anyway?” Vivien asked.  “Did he lose his?”

            “She’s with child,” Samuel offered.  “She wanted to stop singing to be with her husband and the child when it’s born.”

            “Fair circumstances all around, then,” the blonde said with a beaming smile.

            The door of the room opened.  “Lord Samuel Tyron, the king will see you,” a woman’s voice said.

            Samuel smiled to them as he stood.  “Good luck to you, friends.”  He nodded to them before slipping past.  Erika turned to watch him; he passed by Ameline without even a glance, even as she stared after him.  Then Samuel walked through the doorway and vanished from view.

            “Well, would you look there,” Bran remarked, his voice rising to fill the room more.  Ameline jerked her head around, fixing him with a cool look; the delicate creases of her brow betrayed her anger.  “The king does not call the lady first!  You must be as shocked as we are.”  Bran’s voice was a sharp whip that tore at the air.

            Ameline did not flinch from him.  Her chin lifted, her gaze gone haughty.  “His majesty is simply saving the best for last.”

            Branwell snorted faintly but offered no verbal reply.  He looked back to Vivien and Erika and shook his head.  “I doubt she’ll be last if that’s so.”

            Erika only offered a faint hum.  She carried a bad feeling about Ameline.  While she had doubted anyone’s warnings that Vivien may become an opponent and that she could not be trusted, the words rang true for the lady.  There was something awful about her presence.

            Erika fell quiet after that.  While Bran and Vivien chattered away, Erika simply listened, only offering her input when it was required.  When the servant returned, Vivien was called.  Erika wished her luck with a tight hug.  Branwell followed later.  Erika made a point of ignoring Ameline entirely, and the lady returned the courtesy.

            Time seemed to drag once it was only them.  Erika ran through the lyrics for “Greensleeves” over and over, plucking at her skirt.  She could hear Ameline humming.  She fought to ignore how pretty that sound was from her.

            After what felt like hours, the door opened again.  “Dame Ameline.”

            Erika threw a startled look first at the escort and then at Ameline.  Ameline sat frozen for a moment before she rose to her feet.  She looked even paler than before.  She went silently, and Erika was left alone in the room.

            Time seemed even slower as she sat by herself.  The room was unforgivingly silent.  Unable to stand it, Erika soon stood and began to walk around the room.  She hummed the song to herself in desperate hope of distracting herself from her anxiety.

            The door opened again.  “Erika Deforest.”

            She hurried across the room.  A surprised smile came to her as she recognized the girl.  “Hello, Elizabeth.”

            The girl smiled in return.  “You remembered me?”

            “Of course I did.”

            Elizabeth beamed at her.  “I’m honored.  Come, the king would hear you sing.”

            They went quickly through the halls.  Soon Erika stood before the king, bowing again.  The king was joined once more by Lord Xavier and Lady Darkholme.

            “Hello again, Erika,” the king spoke.  “You’ve done well in the contest so far.  You have exceptional talent; particularly given you have had little training.”

            Erika blushed at the praise.  It was one thing for the common folk to say such things, but another entirely for the Iron King himself to speak so.  “Thank you, your majesty.  You honor me.”

            “I do,” he agreed.  “I am already certain that you shall proceed to the final stage.  We would appreciate if you would sing for us still.”  He waved his hand over to a harp.  “If you would please begin?”

            Erika bowed again before taking up the harp.  She plucked out the first few notes and soon began to sing.  Her voice rose clear and true, a touch of wistful sorrow in her words.

 

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

To cast me off discourteously.

And I have loved you so long,

Delighting in your company.

 

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my lady greensleeves.

 

Thy smock of silk, both fair and white,

With gold embroidered gorgeously;

Thy petticoat of sendal right,

And these I bought thee gladly.

 

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my lady greensleeves.

I bought thee kerchiefs for thy head,

That were wrought fine and gallantly;

I kept thee at both board and bed,

Which cost my purse well-favoredly.

I have been ready at your hand,

To grant whatever you would crave,

I have wagered both life and land,

Your love and good-will for to have.

 

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my lady greensleeves.

 

Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,

To God I pray to prosper thee,

For I am still thy lover true,

Come once again and love me.

 

            A least few notes on the harp and then the room was silent again.  A glance at her three listeners was all Erika needed to see to know they were pleased.  Each wore their own unique sort of smile.  Erika opened her mind just enough to feel their pleasure at her voice.  Her tensions bled out and she smiled to them shyly.

            “Lovely as before,” the king said.  “You’ll be escorted to wait with the others.  Let them know we’ll be in as soon as we finish our decision.”

            Erika bowed.  “Thank you, your majesty,” she murmured.

            Elizabeth returned and led her away in silence.  Erika couldn’t keep from smiling to herself.  The king’s words gave her hope.  If he was so fond of her voice, why would he pick anyone else to be his troubadour?  It was simply illogical!

            As soon as she was led into the room, Vivien rushed over.  The blonde grabbed her in a fervent embrace.  “Ameline is furious,” she whispered in her ear.  “You’d best avoid her.”

            Erika nodded as she returned her friend’s hug.  She shot a quick glance over to the lady.  Her back was turned, her attention seemingly fixed on a tapestry.  Her anger pulsed off her in waves, palpable even to Erika’s sealed mind.

            “I’m worried,” Vivien whispered as she drew back.  “I know I won’t make the cut, and Bran doesn’t believe he will either.  Samuel is our only hope.  But if Ameline is picked . . . I worry what she might do.  I don’t trust her, Erika.  She might try to harm you.”

            “If that is so, I will declare such to his majesty,” Erika replied.  “He won’t stand by such behavior.”

            Vivien arched a brow.  “You really believe that when he killed the king before him and took his throne with no hesitation?”

            “I have to believe it,” Erika breathed out.  “It’s my only hope.”

***

            It seemed a second and an eternity to Erika before the Iron King entered the room.

            As soon as he stepped in, all of them fell still and silent.  The king’s presence commanded attention even in the simple attire he had donned.  He was dressed in dark gray linen with a long cloak trailing behind him.  The back of the cloak was black, but it was lined in red silk, a vibrant contrast to his simpler attire.  His crown gleamed in the light, shining golden among his dark hair.  An Iron Guard followed him, armor gleaming, red cape cascading down his back.  Though she could not see his face, Erika knew it was not the guard Creed; the man was not tall enough, nor broad enough in his shoulders.

            “No need to bow,” the king said, waving a hand before any of them could rise and do so.  His eyes looked over them all for a moment, resting on each individual for a moment before moving to the next.

            “This has been a decision I have put much thought into,” the king finally continued.  “All of you have great talent; you would not have made it so far into my competition if you did not.  However, I can only choose two of you.  It was a difficult decision, but my companions and I concluded:

            “Erika Deforest and Dame Ameline shall proceed.”

            Erika’s relief and pride and pleasure at being chosen was marred by Ameline’s evident gloating.  It only worsened went she sent a look of daggers her way.  Erika lowered her eyes to the floor, not wanting to draw the lady’s attention to her any further.

            “I thank you Branwell, Samuel, and Vivien for participating,” the king said to the others.  “I have purses ready for you, as a show of my gratitude.  Elizabeth will escort you.”

            Vivien slipped past Erika as she was led out, briefly squeezing her hand.  Erika held onto her as long as she could, desperate to keep the comfort of the contact.  Once Vivien had left, Erika felt suddenly and deeply alone.  There were no friends around her now, only a singular, burning enemy.  Would Ameline dare to strike out at her?

            A slight smile was on the king’s face.  “Congratulations to you both,” he said.  “Your voices are both wonderful to hear.  The final test shall be not of talent, but of performance.  All my court shall be in attendance, as well as some of my lower lords and ladies.  You shall each perform a song of your own choosing.  Whoever’s performance is better accepted shall be chosen.  Is this fair to you both?”

            “Perfectly, your majesty,” Ameline purred.  “It shall be a delight.”

            Erika nodded when the king looked upon her.  “Yes, your majesty.”

            “Good,” he replied.  “In three days, you shall return here, at the same time you have been coming.  Don’t be late.  My guard shall escort you from the palace.  I wish you both the best of luck.”

            Erika and Ameline both curtsied a final time to the king.  He turned away with a swirl of his cloak and vanished through the doorway.  The guard motioned silently to the women, and they walked after him in silence.  Ameline refused to stand beside Erika, rather walking ahead of her and leaving Erika in the rear.  She didn’t mind; she would rather be able to see her opponent than have her at her back.

            The sun had sunk low in the sky once they exited the palace.  The guard left them with no hesitation.  Erika made to hurry across the courtyard to the gate, but Ameline suddenly grabbed her arm.

            “Ah, little Erika,” the lady purred.  “Such a mockery to have you as my competition.  You shouldn’t even bother coming to the final test.  You’ll lose, as simple as that.  And if you do come, I’ll make sure you lose.”

            Erika pulled her arm away with a jerk.  The words came pouring out of her in a flood she couldn’t stop.  “You’re far too confident, my lady.  His majesty told me personally that he had as good as decided I would proceed to this point before I even sang.  Did he say such to you?”

            Ameline’s cheeks blazed.  Against her pale pallor, her angry flush was as vivid as her ginger hair.  Her freckles stood out oddly against the red-tinged flesh.

            There was a sudden clap of sound as Erika’s face rocked to one side.  For a moment there was no feeling, and then the sting blossomed.  Her lower lip throbbed in protest; a quick swipe of her thumb produced a smear of blood.

            “You’ll regret this,” Ameline hissed.  With a swirl of her skirts, she turned and stalked away, leaving the palace courtyard with haste.

            Erika watched after her with a rueful smile.  The diva was not only furious, but also troubled and uncertain.  Ameline was not so certain of her triumph as she let on.  The thought made Erika bitterly pleased.

Chapter 19: The Cardinal and the Nightingale

Summary:

Ameline threatens to dismantle all of Erika's hopes and dreams, but a surprising individual comes to her aid.

Chapter Text

            Erika paced fretfully across a small portion of the market square.  Her dress swirled around her every time she turned around.  Her hair fell in thick curls, still damp from being washed.  Castle market was quiet that afternoon.  Erika was almost alone, save for her companions.

            Vendetta had offered to accompany her, and Erika had gladly accepted her offer.  They had left early, Erika humming her song to herself the whole walk.  It had been a surprise to see both Remy and Logan waiting in a shadowed corner of castle market.  She hadn’t hesitated to run over and embrace them both.  They had allowed her to practice her song once, but only once.

            “Too many nerves if ya keep doin’ it,” Remy drawled.  “And den you’ll mess up in de competition an’ beat yaself up over it.  No one wants dat.”

            So she paced instead.  It was almost time.  Her nerves worsened every moment that passed.  She had never been nervous for the other stages; Erika was sure of her talent and confident in her abilities.  But Ameline had sowed a seed of doubt in her.  How could Erika possibly be worthy of such a station?  She was so common.  The palace was no place for someone like her!  Ameline was right; they all were right.  Erika was out of her place.

            “Chere,” Remy said suddenly.  “Calm down.  Please.  You’re gonna get everyone upset here in a minute.”

            Erika winced, freezing in her spot. Her arms came around herself tight. “I’m sorry.”

            “Wot’s wrong?” Vendetta asked, her frown as sharp as any of the daggers hanging around her belt.  “You weren’t nervous like this any of the other times.”

            “It’s Ameline,” Erika replied, her voice a low mumble.  “She’s horrible.”  Her hand strayed up to her lip, pushing against the mostly healed cut on her lip.  Over the few days since the blow, it had healed well, leaving on a faint discoloring. It only hurt if she smiled too wide or pressed against it hard. She still didn’t entirely understand how her words had earned her such a harsh strike.

            Logan stared at her too hard.  Erika dropped her hand, her gaze shying away from him.  She didn’t want him worrying about her, though the look on his face indicated that he knew more than she thought.  There was an anger there.

            “Horrible seems like an understatement,” Logan drawled.  His voice was much calmer than his expression, to Erika’s relief.  “But you’re gonna win.  It isn’t even a real contest.”

            Erika folded her arms around herself with a sigh.  “You don’t know that.”

            “No,” he agreed, “I don’t.  But if what you’ve said about her is true, the king would be a fool to pick her.  Besides, I believe I heard everyone at the tavern insist you have the best voice in the city.”

            “That’s wot they say,” Vendetta agreed with a smile.  “I’m there most nights.  Everyone wants to hear the songbird of the city.  Besides, you have a perfect song for yourself.  And you said the king likes your singing.  You’ve got an advantage.”

            “I don’t belong in a palace,” Erika replied, her voice lowered to little more than a whisper.  “I’m just a common wench, a tavern girl.  A palace will never be my place.”

            “Who cares?” the redhead replied.  “You have a gift, Erika.  The king knows tha’, or you wouldn’t be here now.  Social status is bullocks anyway,” she continued with a wave of her hand.  “Commoner, lord, king, we’re all people in the end.  Jus’ because that dame is a lady doesn’ mean she deserves the title more than you.  Especially since she acts like a bitch and no’ a lady.”

            A sharp laugh sprang from Erika before she could stop it.  “You really shouldn’t say things like that, V.”

            “Probably,” she grinned, “but I think I will anyway.”

            Erika laughed again, her shoulders finally dropping into a relaxed posture.  She planted her hands on her hips, chin lifting a little.  “I can do it,” she finally said.  “I can win this contest, and if I do, I’ll have earned it by talent, not title.”

            “That’s the spirit,” Remy said with a grin.  “Think it’s time for ya ta get goin’, though.  De summons is soon.”

            She nodded, brushing off her dress.  It was dyed black but embroidered with red roses around the hem of the skirt and sleeves.  A series of roses and green thorns wound about her waist.  It was one of her nicest dresses; she had done much of the embroidery herself, though her mother had helped some as well.  Around her neck hung a thin chain of silver, a family heirloom.  If there were ever a day Erika needed to look her best, today was it.

            Her friends – for that was what they all were now, no matter how well or poor she knew them yet – wished her a last bit of luck and farewell before Erika turned away and started across the market.  She heard them parting ways behind her. She paused when she heard her name.  She turned, frowning, but was quick to smile when she saw it was Logan who lingered.

            They both walked towards the other, though Erika had to use all her will to keep from running.  In seconds Logan had his arms around her in a nearly crushing hug.  The warmth of his body bled into hers, making her shiver and sigh pleasantly.

            “Be careful around Ameline today,” he said softly.  His thumb brushed over the spot where her lip had been split open by the lady’s striking hand.  “She’s scared.  She’ll lash out.”

            “I try to be careful,” Erika replied.  She shifted away from the pressure of his touch and the ache it created – and the warmth that chased that ache.

            His hand brushed her hair back from her face with a few gentle strokes.  “That’s all I can ask.”  Logan bent his head, kissing her gently, careful not to hurt her.  Erika clung to him tighter, wanting the moment to last forever.

            Logan didn’t linger though, drawing back from her.  “Go on.  You’ll be fine.  Just don’t stress yourself out.”

            “That I can’t promise,” she said with a slight laugh.  She smiled as Logan stroked his hands down her arms.  The brief touch of his fingers across her hands made her skin tingle.  She lingered for a moment as Logan left, but she knew that it would soon be time for her to appear at the palace.  Erika turned away and hurried down the streets.

            As promised, one of the guards at the palace entry took her inside.  He walked swiftly, forcing Erika to hitch up her skirt so she could lengthen her stride without fear of tripping.  To Erika’s surprise, she was not let to the usual parlor that she had expected; rather, the guard took her directly to the throne room.

            The king’s throne was not alone at the end of the long room.  A long trestle table sat below the throne, at which sat all the lords of the king’s Iron Court.

            The Iron Court described the most prominent figures in the royal palace.  Most notable were the eight lords and ladies of the king’s council and inner court.  These were the last of the original ten families that had founded the kingdom.  Their names were known by all inhabitants of Genosha: Xavier, Darkholme, Summers, Drake, McCoy, Frost, Pryde, and Ravyn.  Not all families made the council every reign, but most monarchs had chosen many of the old noble houses to aid them.  Those who would not be on the council were still included in the royal court.  Lehnsherr had been the first in recent history to include all remaining families on his council; perhaps it was due to him being the last of his own family, which had once been one of the finest founding families.

            The Iron Court in whole encompassed a few other positions: the Iron Guard, the palace physician, and a master of magics.  Erika could easily see a few of the Iron Guards, both in armor and out, all easily recognizable by their beautiful armor, red cloaks, and impressive blades.  The palace physician and master of magics were also present.  Both were women, seated on one end of the long table the lords sat at, recognizable by their slightly less fine garments.  One was a pale woman with long red hair wearing a green dress with gold accents; Lady Jean Grey, she knew, from another prominent noble house.  The other was a dark-skinned woman.  Her blue eyes and thick white hair were a shock against her dark complexion, but the image was one of wild beauty.

            The sides of the throne room were also occupied by other lords and ladies of varying rank.  Erika had never seen the room so busy.  And to think all of them would hear her sing…

            But was it really any different from singing in the tavern?  This was higher society, no doubt, and she felt confident none of them were mindlessly drunk, but they were still people.  All they wanted was to hear a good song.  That was something Erika could easily deliver.

            Head held high, Erika walked down towards the end of the room.  The chatter and laughter of the audience meant nothing to her. They were here to see the conclusion of this contest, and whatever the result would be, Erika would take it graciously.

            The guard led her over to where Dame Ameline stood, slightly off from where all the lords sat.  The lady was groomed to excellence, her ginger hair ornately braided with strands of silver.  Her dress, a soft shade of green, complimented her coloring.  Behind her stood an elderly man and his younger wife; from their coloring and freckles, Erika assumed them to be the dame’s parents, whatever small ranking lord and lady they were.

            Ameline’s eyes fell upon her.  Erika was greeted with a laugh as she stopped a few steps away from her.  “My goodness, Erika,” Ameline said, her hand coquettishly falling to the large necklace on her breast, “you look like a commoner!  Oh… I suppose that would be because you are.  I’m afraid no little embroidered dress and tiny metal chain will change your status, or make you belong.”

            Erika felt poison crawl to her tongue again, but she forced it down, only blinking in response. Ameline may be right that the tavern girl was far out of her league, but she was still graced to be in the contest.  Erika smiled to herself, turning abruptly away from Ameline to look instead at the throne room and the people in it.  To be a commoner in the palace was a far greater accomplishment than to be a lady, no matter how low ranking among the noble families.

            Erika observed the room for a while.  Ameline continued to chatter behind her, raising her voice to make the occasional barb at her opponent.  Erika never turned to acknowledge her, simply standing with hands folded before her as she admired the pretty dresses and doublets and jewels all around her.  She felt people looking at her, saw some of them sneer and others simply move on.  Erika closed her eyes, steadying her breathing.  It would not bother her.  She would not let it.

            Movement to her left drew Erika’s attention.  The Iron King was standing up from his throne, one hand raised.  The assemblage fell into silence, all eyes turning upon the king and his assembled council.

            “I thank you all for coming,” the king spoke.  His voice rang clearly through the large room.  “Today, the new palace troubadour shall be chosen.  My past troubadour has retired to be with her husband as they begin their own family.  While we are happy for her, she will be missed, and has left a necessary position open.

            “Tonight we fill that space.  We shall hear a song, individually chosen by my final two contestants.  This song must show not only talent in singing and playing, but the ability to convey emotion through music.  A troubadour does not only entertain, but makes their audience feel their story.”  The king turned his gaze upon the two women.  “We shall begin now.  Dame Ameline, I would have you perform first.”

            “As you wish, your majesty.”  Ameline strode out to the center of the room where a large harp stood.  Ameline curtsied to the king before sitting on the offered stool.  Ameline began to play with no hesitation, the music lively, something well suited for a celebration.  Erika frowned slightly.  She knew countless songs, but this was not one she recognized.

            Ameline began to sing, and Erika listened attentively, not to her words but to her voice.  The lady’s voice was fine, certainly, though not overly strong.  Her voice was a high soprano, pretty enough, but Erika felt her pronunciation could use improvement; some words simply failed to come forth clearly.  Though the audience seemed to enjoy the song, Erika kept herself reserved, her reactions schooled into a vague interest.  She was certainly more interested in the reactions of the king and his court.

            None of them particularly showed their feelings towards Ameline’s singing.  Even as she finished, they offered nothing more than polite praise.  Ameline treated it as if it were the finest gem in her collection, waltzing back to her parents with it.  They preened over her with no restraint.  Ameline threw a smug smile at Erika.

            “Such a shame your parents couldn’t be here,” the lady said softly.  “But it’s bad enough to have a commoner like yourself here.  Two more would be a disgrace.”

            “It is only a disgrace if you care about it,” Erika replied.  “Our only difference is that you have more money than I do, and you’re far less polite than I am.”  Without waiting for a reply, Erika made her way over to the harp as she was announced.

            There was a faint susurrus of whispers from the crowd, but they did not last.  Erika brushed them aside.  She was more attentive of the harp.

            It was much larger than her own, but the mechanics were no different.  Erika sat down, spreading out her skirt both for comfort and to show the delicate embroidery she had worked so hard on.  Settled, she drew the harp against her.

            Her fingers moved delicately, plucking the strings for the opening notes.  She had chosen her song for the express purpose of meeting the criteria of the stage.  The song allowed her voice to flourish to its fullest potential and reached across much of her vocal range.  Though far less cheerful than Ameline’s bright performance, she had on numerous occasions drawn tears to the eyes of her listeners with the song.  The king wanted feeling, and he would have it.

            With a deep breath, Erika began to sing, her voice pouring out slow and sweet.

 

“’Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone,

All her lovely companions are faded and gone.

No flower of her kindred, no rose bud is neigh

To reflect back her blushes or give sigh for sigh.

 

“I’ll leave thee though lone one to pine on the stem

Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep now with them.

Thus kindly I scatter they leaves o’re the bed

Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead.

 

“So soon may I follow when friendships decay

And from love’s shining circle the gems drop away.

When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown,

Oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone?”

 

            The last few notes were plucked out from under her fingers before trailing into silence.  Erika sighed to herself, closing her eyes tight as she fought not to tremble.  She had done all she could, truly.

            The cheers and applause came sudden and loud as thunder.  Erika startled to her feet, eyes skipping around the faces.  There were smiles and tears and far more than a little admiration.  A smile flew to her, though she bowed her head against it to retain her modesty.  Erika curtsied deeply to the king and court before hurrying to her former position.

            Ameline wore a furious blush as Erika approached.  The lady stormed forward the last few steps; Erika froze in surprise at the rage twisting her face.

            “You bitch,” Ameline hissed under her breath.  “So smug in your little performance!  You’re no better than anyone else!  I told the king that Branwell had been rude to me, that he had caused my last performance to be poor.  He was cast out of the contest because of that, and you were chosen instead, you stupid wench.  I can do the same to you!”

            Erika grinned at her, one hand falling thoughtlessly to her dagger.  Her lip smarted where Ameline had struck her a few days back.  “You could, yes.  But you’ve been constantly crueller to me than I have been impolite to you.  And it is you who struck my face.  The king has not ignored me for my place in society yet; I doubt he would begin now just because you’re afraid.”

            Ameline’s hands balled into fists.  “We’ll see about that.”  She turned away and stormed back to her parents.  The lord and lady shot Erika a harsh look, but she only smiled and lifted her chin.  Let them be mad at me.  What could they do now?

            The king descended from his throne to talk among his court members.  He went to them individually, bent close so they could whisper in secret.  The acoustics of the room were complex; while a raised voice was amplified throughout the room, a whisper was unintelligible.  Erika watched the king travel down the table.

            The members of the Iron Court were a vision to behold.  Many claimed that everyone in the Iron Court was Gifted, much like the Iron King himself.  While all the lords and ladies looked like any other person in the city, Erika knew better than to believe that meant anything.  Only one of them gave any indication that they may be any more than normal; one of the ladies, dressed in a gown of green and white, had peculiarly colored hair; while her hair was mostly brown, a shock of white was parted to frame her face.  Lady Anna-Marie Ravyn, if Erika remembered correctly.

            The king stopped at Lord Xavier last.  His hand fell lightly on his shoulder, eliciting a small smile from the young lord.  Erika watched with bated breath, though she couldn’t particularly see the words that they formed.  Xavier finally inclined his head ever so slightly towards Ameline, causing the king to glance over as well.

            Ameline was too caught up in her preening to notice, but Erika saw, and her heart sank.  She had been so certain she could count on Xavier to approve of her singing.  He had been so kind to her when she had joined the contest, offering her all the hope she could desire.  Was he throwing his vote behind Ameline after all?

            The Iron King returned to his throne, sitting down slowly.  The two rings he wore flashed as he drummed his fingers.  Erika watched him, barely daring to draw breath in case movement would attract his attention and he would realize that she didn’t-

            No.  No thinking that way anymore.  I have the talent, I belong as much as her.

            “Ameline, Erika,” the king spoke.  “Step forward, please.”

            Ameline led the way as she always did, Erika trailing just after.  Both sank into a curtsy to the king.  The king made a brusque, impatient gesture.  Erika frowned, looking closely at the king, reaching out with her power to try and feel him.  She met a vague sense of agitation, perhaps even anger.  She dropped her gaze hurriedly, teeth catching on the inside of her cheek.

            “You have both done well,” the king said briskly, finally folding his hands.  “And you are both talented singers.  However, something has been drawn to my attention by my right hand, Lord Xavier.”

            Ameline lifted her chin.  Erika looked at her askance, hating the smug smile she wore.

            “Dame Ameline,” the king intoned. His voice was as iron-hard as his fist. “According to my lord’s observance, you threatened to cheat, to lie about your opponent so you could win the contest.  Is this true?”

            Ameline’s mouth gaped open.  Erika knew she was wearing a likewise shocked expression, but for far different reasons.  Xavier was defending her – Ameline was going to lose without a doubt!

            “Your majesty,” Ameline spluttered, “I did not threaten the girl!  She said very rude things to me before we sang-”

            “Such a coincidence that you spoke the same words about Branwell earlier,” the king cut in.  His voice had gone cold and harsh.  “Were you going to cheat and lie to me, your king?”

            “Your majesty, please, let me-”

            The king flew to his feet and lashed a hand forward, palm open briefly before he made a sharp fist.  Ameline fell into silence with a faint whimper.  Erika gasped, gaping as the lady’s fancy necklace rose off her breast and pulled taut against the back of her neck.  Ameline trembled, her eyes damp with tears. The Iron King jerked his fist closer to himself, and Ameline’s necklace jerked, yanking her forward a step by her throat.

            “Explain yourself,” the king replied.  He descended slowly from his dais.  His voice was as biting as a winter wind and as cold as ice.  “Speak the truth!”

            Xavier stood suddenly, one hand pressing against his chest.  “Erik, please,” he hissed.

            The king lingered a moment, his jaw a hard line, his eyes dark as a storm.  His fist uncurled suddenly, hand dropping to his side.  Ameline’s necklace fell back to her breast as she sobbed, covering her face in shame.

            “Mercy, your majesty, please!” the lady sobbed.  “It’s this competition, I only wanted to win!”

            “Leave,” the king spat.  “You have acted dishonorably, Dame Ameline, for selfish purposes.  This shame and dishonor are punishment enough; I hope you have learned something from this.”

            Ameline turned and fled from the throne room, her parents chasing after her.  Erika stood frozen, not daring to watch her competition’s flight of shame.  Her attention was fixed warily on the king.  How many times had her friends, new and old, told her to be wary of the palace court, or the king?  They were right all along.

            The king seemed tired.  Xavier still stood by him; the lord’s face was shuttered into an unreadable expression. A staying hand still rested on the king’s breast. Erika couldn’t look away from them.

            “Erika Deforest,” the king spoke after a pause.  “You have shown great talent in this competition.  No one here can deny that your singing is both beautiful and passionate.  It is because of this that I am choosing you to be my new troubadour, should you accept the position.”

            There was an unspoken understanding.  He knew that his outburst had altered her opinion of him, that she may not wish to be in a place where such behavior may arise.  It was her choice now to accept or decline with grace.

            Erika looked around the room, taking in the watchful gazes, the beautiful art and glass windows.  Her eyes stung; relief, delight, and fear all swarmed through her.  How could she ever say no to all she had dreamed of? How could she ever say yes?

            Erika sank into a deep bow.  She may as well have sat on the floor.  “I would be honored, your majesty.”

            The applause was overwhelming.  Erika stood with her head bowed, the picture of modesty; but she only wanted to hide her tears.

***

            The sky was a dark blue, star-flecked dome as Erika trudged through the streets back towards her home.  The rest of the evening had been a long, arduous affair.  Everyone in the room had to congratulate her on her singing, on her new position, on her poise with Ameline and how graciously she had handled it.  Erika had only smiled and nodded and uttered a modest ‘thank you, you’re too kind’ over and over and over until she felt as if she were no longer a true living being.  It was good to be free, and to let herself cry if only for a moment.

            Her victory tasted bittersweet.  Ameline’s disgrace had been undeniably satisfying.  Erika felt nothing positive towards the lady, not after all her harsh words. Yet she had been thoroughly disgraced; the gossip would last for a time, and perhaps even linger forever, a shadow attached to her name.  And just what had Erika gotten herself into?  The king was a creature of rage on the inside.  What if that rage fell upon her?  She would have to tread with great caution.

            But nothing stopped her from feeling some happiness.  After all, her dreams were on the cusp of reality.  She was to return to the palace tomorrow for a more formal tour and to learn more about the expectations of her new position.  Already a heavy purse hung on her belt, cupped by her palm to keep it safe.  It had to at least be the amount of coin the tavern made in a month, if not more.  It was magic brought to life.

            The voices seeping out of the tavern seemed louder that night than usual.  Erika stopped between one of the windows and the door to rub at her eyes and put on a smile.  Everyone would want to hear the good news, and there would be even more congratulating, but she hoped she could at least sit down for it this time.

            The door gave way easily under her hand.  Erika halted as soon as she stepped inside, staring with wide eyes at the room.  The tavern was quite large by the standards of most buildings, with an open floor that made it seem even larger.  Tonight, it was packed full of more people than Erika had ever seen.  She saw Vendetta’s shock of red hair darting around tables to serve food and drink, helping poor, swamped Vivien.  She spotted Remy, easy to see with his height, and next to him was Logan.  Erika recognized many others, regular customers who had known her for years, neighbors, her aunt and uncle and cousins.  So many people; it was well beyond overwhelming.

            “There she is!” someone cried out over the conversations.  The silence was so sudden it made Erika’s ears ring.

            She looked around at all the excited faces.  She wanted little more than to shove through them and stagger upstairs, strip down to her smock and collapse into bed to sleep.  Instead she took a deep breath and shoved the words out of herself, intelligent but to the point: “I won.”

            The burst of cheers was so loud and ribald that Erika flinched.  No one seemed to notice.  Rather they swept forward to swamp her with their congratulations.  Erika thanked them as best she could, her tongue tripping over her teeth.

            Erika was pulled free of the crush of people suddenly.  Her smile finally turned genuine as Vivien embraced her.  Uncle Christophe hugged her tight after, then her aunt and each of her three cousins.  Her parents swept in and Erika began to cry, clinging to them for a long moment.  She wanted to tell them about the purse hanging so heavy on her belt, how they wouldn’t have to work so hard, but she couldn’t speak beyond her tears.

            Her father stroked her hair slowly, speaking in a low, sweet voice that Erika could just remember soothing her when she had been so young and the war had raged.  “It’s all right, songbird,” he said so sweetly.  “We’re so proud of you.  But you’re so tired.  Go up to bed, dear one.”

            A last kiss on her cheek from each parent before the released her.  Erika hurried to the stairs.  She caught Vendetta’s eye and motioned her to follow with a quick wave of her hand and a grin.  Her parents would be busy for a while still and wouldn’t notice if a friend or three came up for a moment.

            She wasn’t surprised when Logan and Remy accompanied her friend, but she made sure to usher them in quickly.  Erika sank back against the door, head collapsing against the wood and eyes drooping shut.

            “We won’ stay long,” Vendetta assured her, “but we wanted to get in our own hugs and whatnot.”

            “That’s all right,” Erika mumbled.  “I’m just tired.  It’s been . . . quite the day.”  She stood up straighter, pawing at her eyes.

            “Did Ameline go out in a burning flame of embarrassment?” Vendetta asked.  She sounded far too eager to know.

            “Oh yes,” Erika replied.  “It was sad in a way.  She threatened me, in front of king and council, quietly yes, but somehow Lord Xavier heard her.  He told the king, and he was so very mad.  He disgraced her in front of everyone.  It didn’t help that she all but admitted to cheating and then tried to lie, but she was so upset.”

            “She earned it,” Logan said simply.  “She hit you.”

            “Deserved more’n tha’,” Vendetta snapped.  “Someone should teach her anothah lesson or two in mannahs.”

            Erika shook her head wearily.  “The shame is enough.  You look thoughtful, Remy; what is it?”

            “Xavier,” Remy replied.  “De fact he overheard is interesting.  I doubt he would’ve in normal circumstances, so de lord must have used his own gifts.  Mind reading,” Remy expanded before any of them asked.  “Dat’s what dey say, at least.  He must have been in de mind of one of you, or someone nearby, and heard t’rough their ears.  It’s interesting dat he’d want ya ta win.”

            “At least he has good taste in singing,” Vendetta replied.  “Our favorite songbird wins and now gets to sing for the court.”

            “Not just any songbird,” Erika said softly.  “A nightingale.  The cardinal may be a prettier bird, but the nightingale has the sweeter song.”  She trailed off into a lengthy yawn, covering her mouth with her hand.  “But I’m sorry.  I’m happy to see you all here, but I’m so tired.”

            “Get some sleep, chere,” Remy said with a smile.  He stepped forward first, hugging her for a quick moment.  “You’ve earned it.”

            They each offered her congratulations and wished her goodnight.  She relished each of their hugs, for their warmth and comfort.  Though she may not have known Remy or Logan as well as Vendetta, she was so happy to know them, and hoped to know them better soon.  And Vendetta, who had been such a wonderful friend the past couple years, who had supported her wishes to sing since she first mentioned them to her.  Erika wasn’t surprised to find herself crying again as the redhead hugged her fierce and tight.

            As Erika lay down to sleep that night, she knew she was the luckiest girl in the kingdom.

Chapter 20: The Palace

Summary:

Now the royal troubadour, Erika returns to the palace for a tour and to learn when her first performance is. Creed warns Erika to keep to herself and avoid trouble.

Chapter Text

            Erika hastened through the city streets, skirt hitched up above her ankles, slippers flashing from beneath the bright folds.  Her hair fluttered and bounced around her face as she scampered into the more open space of castle market.  The fountain burbled at her, encouraging her to hurry even more.  Her morning chores had run later than she expected, and she was afraid of being late for her first day as the palace troubadour.

            The thought still thrilled her deeply.  Her dream, a reality!  She had pinched herself a few times already, repeated checks if she had someone woken in a dream.

            But if she were late it would be taken away.  Her steps quickened, nearly at a run across the market.  She ignored the sharp glares and words that the members of higher society threw at her as she ducked by them.  She had more important concerns than the opinion of the gentry.

            The portcullis and drawbridge were open and guarded by members of the city guard.  Erika slowed to a calmer walk, chin lifted with dignity.  She swept a gaze over the guards, wondering who would escort her to where she was wanted in the palace.

            It was no guard.  To Erika’s surprise, Lord Xavier stepped out of the shadows of the guard house.  The young lord smiled warmly and raised a hand in greeting to her.  Erika drifted forward, stopping a few steps away to curtsy.

            “You honor me, my lord,” she spoke.

            “It’s the reward you deserve for standing up to Ameline and putting up with her.”  Xavier’s smile tightened.  “I do apologize for her.  Had we known sooner, she would have been cast out.”

            Erika shrugged. “We can’t know everyone’s plans. She wanted to win and would do anything for it.  Her actions were not predictable, and you shouldn’t feel guilty for it.  I would have heard her words from someone else in time.”

            “Unfortunate, but true.  People can be most unkind.”  Xavier sighed to himself but brightened to a smile.  “But congratulations on succeeding.  Erik is most pleased with your singing, and that you accepted.  I volunteered to give you a tour of the palace today.”

            “That’s most kind of you, my lord.”  Erika tried to mask her surprise.  One of the finest lords in the land, showing her around the palace?  It was unbelievable.  She was glad to have a tour, but she had expected one of the king’s servants to show her around.  This was an unprecedented honor.

            Xavier smiled, bowing his head as he extended an arm to her.  “It’s certainly my pleasure.  Come, there’s much to see and only so much time in a day.”

            Erika took his arm with a word of thanks and let the lord take the lead.  The palace was a vast, sprawling structure, not only long but also tall.  The main structure composed of the public rooms; the throne room and dining hall, and other large rooms that served a variety of variable functions.  Most of those rooms were like the ones Erika had waited in during the contest.  They were occupied with fine furniture, paintings or tapestries, thick rugs, and sometimes books.

            Between rooms, Xavier spoke of the palace and its history.  Though the narrative was broken by the occasional pause to talk about a specific room, Erika was thoroughly intrigued by what the young lord told her.

            “This palace has been here through all of recorded history, and likely longer,” he spoke.  “It was built by our first king and was first little more than these rooms.  The king’s council only had four lords the stories say, and no one knows where any of the palace staff lived.  The city began as a sprawl of farms seeking shelter in the castle’s shadow; a glorified fiefdom, really.  After the first king, it was some time before the castle began to be expanded into the palace we see now.  Over centuries, opulence was introduced to the halls in chandeliers, paintings, tapestries, exquisite woodwork; more rooms were added for an expanding court and services, not to mention the king’s personal quarters were expanded into a suite of rooms.”

            Xavier spoke of some of the best builders to work on the palace, and the artists whose work decorated the rooms and halls.  She let herself admire the craftsmanship he pointed out, but her mind wandered to whether her father’s work could possibly be worthy to grace the structure.  It was not until he led her into a vast room that Erika’s attention was once again thoroughly rapt.

            “Here it is!”  Xavier’s voice betrayed that he was also excited by the contents of the room.  The far wall was dominated by a a series of large tapestries, upon whose surfaces names and lines were stitched.

            “Each of these represents one of the ten founding families.  We’ve kept them all up in respect – even the lost family.  Such a tragedy,” he said softly.  Erika glanced at him and saw that his expression bore a small frown.  She followed his gaze to one of the earliest banners and skimmed a cursory glance over its far shorter length.

            “The lord and lady were massacred over a hundred and fifty years ago,” Xavier said, his voice soft and sorrowing.  “Their son was never found.  It is possible he lived and that the line continues to this day, but no one knows for sure.

            “Of course, all the other nine lines are still living, to a degree.  Our king is the last of the Lehnsherr’s; another massacre, though thankfully a loyal guard saved him.  When he marries and has children, his line will once more be as secure as the rest of ours.”

            “Your house is one of the longest,” Erika said softly, nodding towards the vast banner that bore the Xavier tree.  It took a studious eye to find Charles Xavier’s name on it.

            “I belong to one of the oldest noble houses in Genosha’s history.”  His pride in that claim was evident, and well deserved.  The Xaviers had always been admired throughout history.

            “Genosha was broken originally into ten fiefdoms,” he expanded, “one for each of the original houses.  A king ruled over us all, but within the fiefdoms, each house was charged with maintaining justice, safety, and ensuring all and everyone was well with the help of lower lords – our bannermen, as we call them.  It remains this way still.  Of course, you may not be interested in such talk of history and politics . . .”

            “Oh, no,” Erika countered quickly.  “It’s all very interesting, if a bit past my understanding at times.  Are there paintings of the past lords and ladies, kings and queens?”

            Xavier smiled at her.  “I’m not surprised you ask that.  You seem to have quite an admiration for art.  There are old paintings, yes; they’re quite valuable however, so we keep them in the treasury.  Perhaps another day someone could show them to you, if you like.

            “But that can’t be today unfortunately.  We’ve finished our tour of the most important rooms, though you’re welcome to come and explore at your own leisure.  I didn’t want to tell you this immediately as I worried it might give you undue stress.  Of course, you know that our past troubadour left because of her pregnancy.  We were so quick to find a new one because there is an upcoming feast, in seven days, to celebrate a lord’s birthday.  There should be enough time for you to have a dress made and to practice a few songs and poems to perform.”  Xavier offered a sheepish smile.  “I do apologize for the short notice, it was not our intent to spring this upon you so quickly.”

            Erika shook her head.  “It’s no trouble, really.  I’m used to performing whenever asked, so I have plenty of material I can work with.  But you mentioned a dress being made?”

            “Just one of the perks of being the troubadour.  The royal tailor will prepare a gown for you, no cost.  She’s here today if you have time to start the fitting.”

            “I do, I’d love to start,” Erika offered.  “Thank you for the tour, my lord.  You didn’t have to yourself.”

            Xavier smiled, his teeth radiant.  “I wanted to, Erika.  You’re a special woman, anyone would be lucky to have time with you.”

***

            Evening was settling over the city as Erika left the palace.  She was still thinking about the fabrics for her dress.  The tailor had been incredibly sweet, talking Erika through the process of fitting her, showing her an array of colors and fabrics to choose from.  It had been almost overwhelming, but she had finally settled on purple silk and sheer fabric of sky blue.  The seamstress seemed to already have perfect ideas of what to do with the material.  When Erika had left, she was furiously sketching a few designs that Erika could choose from at her next visit.

            She would be returning throughout the week to have her dress worked on and to practice within the dining hall of the palace.  It was a daunting thought to perform officially before the noble class, but Erika had faith in herself.  How different could it be from performing for a room full of mostly drunk men?

            Castle market was quiet as Erika crossed the open space, her slippers pattering on the cobbles.  The large fountain still ran.  Erika paused by it, studying its shape.  It was much larger than the fountain in her usual market, but no more or less pretty.  Still, it was impressive enough for a look.

            A shadow fell over part of her back, accompanied by a dark and looming presence.  Erika stiffened, her eyes darting around the marketplace.  There were a few shops nearby that people will still milling in.  If she had to scream, she would be heard.  Settled and feeling at least somewhat secure, Erika turned around.

            Sunlight on polished metal dazzled her eyes.  Erika raised a hand to block the light, but she already knew who had come upon her.

            “Hello, songbird,” Creed spoke.  Erika shivered at his sharp-toothed grin.  “Congratulations are in order, I believe.  His majesty has chosen you as his new bird to cage.”

            “Considering I am leaving the palace tonight, I would not say I am caged,” Erika replied.  As much as she wanted to snap out a farewell and leave, she knew her place.

            “Fair enough.”  Creed fell quiet, head inclined faintly to one side as he regarded her.  “You’d do well to remember that it’s safe to keep to yourself.”

            Erika shifted backwards from him.  “What do you mean?”

            “I mean to mind your own business,” he growled.  Erika flinched from the sound. “Now there, pretty thing; don’t be so frightened.”  Creed’s voice mocked gentleness, and only served to worsen her anxiety.  “I won’t hurt you; the king wouldn’t like that, and neither would your so-called friends.  Odd company you keep, girl.  Do you even know who you walk and talk with these days?  The woodsman is awfully rough for you.  And Vendetta,” he sneered, “with her childish insistence on that stupid name.  And the southerner.  You need to guard yourself closely with all of them, but with that Thief you need to guard your back, too.  You wouldn’t be the first person he let be stabbed in the back.”

            “You don’t know them,” Erika countered.  She had meant the words to be bold, but they came out as barely more than a tremble of sound.  What did he possibly mean by any of that?

            Creed grinned, fangs flashing in the evening light.  “You don’t know them, either.  Not really.  You’re an open book about who you are, but they’re all silent on their pasts.  What other reason is there unless it’s something horrible?”

            Erika balled her hands into fists.  She turned away quickly, walking away.  “Leave me alone, Victor Creed,” she called back over her shoulder.

            “As you wish, songbird,” Creed growled in return.  “But when you get hurt or abandoned by them, just remember I tried to warn you.”

            Erika only walked faster, trying to outrun the chills skipping down her back.

Chapter 21: Spies

Summary:

Erika discovers the true reason that Remy LeBeau has come to Genosha.

Chapter Text

            The last week of spring kept Erika busy.  In the mornings she ran errands for her parents, buying goods in the market and cleaning around the tavern or their modest home above it.  Around high noon, she would head to the palace.  There she practiced a repertoire of songs, poems, and stories she would perform at the feast.  The dining hall of the palace carried her voice in a different way, but she adjusted to it quickly.  She sounded even better there than at home.

            Most importantly, Erika began to meet others who served the king and court, as well as members of the court.  The palace servants were some of the most polite and proper people Erika had ever met.  They bowed to everyone, though the slight dip of their bodies that they offered to Erika was nothing compared to the elaborate displays shown to the king and his court.  Still, they were kind to her, giving her directions when she became too twisted in the still unfamiliar halls, and offering conversation when she wanted it.

            The members of the court were far more variable.  The Iron Guards she met in the palace halls were all stoic and unfriendly.  Erika counted eight individuals.  The king was often guarded by two at a time while the others would patrol the city or palace.  Erika had been surprised to see that two of the guards were women.  They were a bit more friendly than Creed and the other men, but not much.

            The regular guards were far too many to count.  They were slightly more prone to chatter than the Iron Guards, but not by much. They would escort Erika to and from places if she asked.  Their chill persona drove Erika to keep her distance, surely to their delight.

            The lords and ladies were the most surprising, though. Xavier had already proved himself friendly, but Erika had not expected any of the others to pay her any mind.  While not all the lords and ladies were as friendly as him, they all did acknowledge her and introduce themselves.  Even the king spoke to her on the few occasions that they crossed paths.  Sometimes it was hard to remember that he had been so filled with rage on the final day of the contest.  He seemed like an entirely different man, particularly when he and Xavier were together.  There was kindness in him, evidenced by the way he always inquired after Erika and her family, if they were living comfortable and healthy, and how he would ensure she was comfortable and at ease in his palace.  It was touching, and relieving, to see that he was not constantly full of rage.  Or perhaps he was and had simply mastered control of it, only letting it out when it aided him.

            After her afternoons in the palace, Erika returned home to help at the tavern for the night.  The tavern had grown even busier since she became troubadour, and most nights were hectic.  Erika obliged requests to sing with good nature and enthusiasm, and often coerced Vivien to join her for a duet.  Vivien had grown to be adored in the patrons’ eyes just as much as Erika was.  Her sunny demeanor aided her in that.

            All was well, except Erika was busier than she liked to be.  She could only squeeze in brief conversations with her friends at odd moments.  Vendetta she saw often, either performing her street shows in the market in the morning or at the tavern in the evening.  As always, Vendetta was her first and foremost confidant about everything.  Once Remy joined her at the tavern, and Erika chatted with them both.  And on one occasion Logan and Remy came together, and ultimately had been joined by Vendetta.  The tension that had first threaded between Vendetta and Logan had seemingly vanished since the day in the forest, and the three talked and joked and laughed among themselves.  Erika watched them from the outside, feeling oddly and suddenly out of place.  But every time she passed by, they managed to rope her into their conversation, and the feeling would dissipate.

            It was Logan she saw least of them, and it left a strange ache in her chest.  She had seen him only one other time in that week, only for a moment in the market.  They had passed each other, both busy about their day, but the heat of his gaze meeting hers had been a haunting presence since.  She hadn’t been able to push it from her mind.

            But the week was almost over, and summer was finally touching the land.  The sun ruled the sky, the crops grew, all seemed well.  Erika’s dress for her first official performance was finished, fitting as perfect as a dream.  She was as ready as she could be, and with two days to spare.  She felt no guilt as she skipped visiting the palace that day, instead making her way to Vendetta’s house as soon as she had finished with her duties at home.  It would be good to have a genuine conversation with her best friend.

            She had dressed in her simplest clothes; a long, white dress, loose and baggy all over, with a leather underbust worn over top.  The thick straps and tight cinching kept the loose material from slipping too far down her bust.  It still revealed a fair amount of skin on her chest and shoulders, but it certainly was no inappropriate amount.  An ample draping of pink fabric served as her proper skirt, tucked and folded over her girdle both to stay in place and to form a variety of pockets in various sizes.  Logan’s dagger hung at her hip, as it always did, and always would. Erika looked like the common wench that Ameline had repeatedly called her, but she didn’t mind.  It was who she was at the end of the day, and she saw no shame in being herself.

            Erika stopped outside of Vendetta’s house, looking up in the windows to see if her friend was in sight.  She saw no sign of her, but the window was open.  Vendetta never left it open when she was out.  Erika felt confident in approaching the door.  A quick test of the handle proved the door was unlocked, further proving Vendetta must be home.  Erika opened the door and slipped in, taking a breath to call out and ask if she could come upstairs.

            Except Vendetta wasn’t alone.

            “Oldgarde.  Lausau.  Hallheim.  Vollstadt.”

            A pause.  Then, “Those are all the places it’s happening?”

            Erika frowned, closing the door as softly as possible.  That was Logan’s voice, and the first she recognized as well, but it was not Vendetta’s.

            “Oui.”  Remy, then, was the first speaker.  “Dat’s all my reports have indicated so far.  What ‘bout you, chere?”

            “Tha’s all I’ve heard, too,” Vendetta replied.  Her voice was tight.  Erika could imagine her standing there, arms folded across herself, or hands in tight fists, a scowl half covered by her hair.  Whatever the conversation was about, Vendetta didn’t like it.

            Intrigued, Erika crept forward, moving carefully across the floor to the stairs.  She was careful of where she put her feet, taking care to avoid squeaking planks.  She knew that, if they heard her, the conversation would stop.  And she wanted to know what was happening.

            She climbed the stairs as quickly as she could, crouching as she drew closer to the top.  When she could just peer up into the upper room, she stopped and sat down on her step.  Vendetta, Logan, and Remy stood around the large table that always seemed to dominate the room.  Erika couldn’t make out what was on the table, but she recognized the first words she had heard.  They were names of some of the northern towns of Genosha in the Drake fiefdom.  That part of Genosha was far enough north to be bitterly cold come winter, and snow was prominent.  The mountains died into hills in the eastern part of the fiefdom, providing one of the few open parts of the northern border.

            “The common folk are agitated,” Remy continued.  His southern accent was all but gone.  Remy LeBeau was all business today.  “And for good reason.  Note that these towns are all in the north.”

            “By Alyria,” Logan growled.  “Please tell me anything but what I think you’re about to say.”

            “I’m afraid I can’t.  My source reported that Alyrian riders have been coming close to the border.  Lord Drake’s men have been keeping a vigilant watch, but it’s only a matter of time before there’s a strike.”

            Erika gasped sharply – immediately covering her mouth and cowering lower on the stairs.  She could feel the sharp rise in surprise among the three, mixed with something dark and hostile.  She cringed, crawling backwards down the stairs, suddenly desperate to get away-

            “Erika, wait-!”

            Logan’s voice wouldn’t stop her from fleeing, though.  Erika scrambled down a few more steps before she could stand straight and run down them.  She wanted, needed, to get away.  Alyrian riders!  How could it come to this?!

            Her feet slammed into the floor at the bottom of the stairs.  She lunged forward, already reaching for the door-

            Something solid struck her ribs.  Erika cried out, momentum lost; her body staggered back before collapsing into a trembling heap.  A sob wrenched out of her, hands flinging over her face.  Footsteps thundered down the stairs, but through her fingers, she watched Vendetta floating down before her.  Normally she would have admired such a display of prowess, but today she could only focus on the storm in her breast.

            “For the love of God,” Logan snapped, “did you have to stop her like that?”

            “It was quicker than coming down and catching her,” Vendetta replied at her side.  “She’ll be bruised, but it’s no’ the pain making her cry.  She’s upset for othah reasons.”

            There was a quiet after Vendetta’s comment, and Erika tried to hold in her loud, trembling breaths.  But the tears were there.  She didn’t know how to stop them.  It was like she was nine years old again, the knights riding off to battle, the fathers in the tavern drinking themselves to oblivion, the quiet of Einsemar as everyone feared and grieved.  King Shaw sat on the throne again, observing his war, riding through the city streets and assuring weeping mothers they would see their sons again.  It was war, and it was terror.

            A sob cracked out of her again.  Erika drew her knees up, dropping her face into the softness of her skirt.  It was a struggle to remind herself that she was eighteen, a woman now instead of a girl.

            Logan made a low growling sound.  Erika, wide open in her terror, could feel his anger, but she knew it was not aimed at her.  It still sharpened her tears, dampening the fabric further.

            “Kings and their damn wars,” Logan snarled.  “Can you calm her down?”

            “I think so,” Vendetta replied.  She had crouched down beside her, and now her hand touched on Erika’s arm.  “Come on, luv.  You need to get up.  We’ve got some things to talk about.”

            It took a little coercion, but Erika finally stood and shuffled back up the stairs.  She kept her head down, as much to try and hide from the shame of eavesdropping as hiding her red, tear-streaked face.

            Vendetta waved her hand.  Her telekinesis dragged over the chairs that had been shoved away from the table.  Erika rubbed ruefully at her ribs; the invisible barrier she had run into was one of Vendetta’s favorite tricks. It was bound to cause bruising.  Erika sank into the nearest chair, folding her hands in her lap.  She kept her head bowed, looking at the large map that was spread out on the table.  It was a map of Genosha, the neighboring kingdoms marked on their borders.  The northern part of Genosha was to her right; a few red markers were scattered through that fiefdom.

            Logan, Remy, and Vendetta sat across from her.  She could just see their shirts from her lowered gaze.  The differing fabrics were interesting.  Vendetta was dressed in a similar fashion to Erika, a light tunic underneath a plain leather underbust.  Logan’s shirt was simple wool, a green that had faded in washing.  But Remy wore something finer.  Erika was unfamiliar with the material, but she recognized it as something common among members of higher classes.  The southerner’s purple-lined cloak was not on him, but Erika had no doubt it was somewhere in the room.

            “You probably think poorly of us right now,” Remy spoke up.

            Erika barked out a strangled laugh.  “Poorly of you?  How?  I understood nothing of what you spoke, besides the riders.  We’ll go to war again.”

            “Not if his majesty keeps in check,” Vendetta replied.  “But it’s doubtful he’ll manage.  He’s never been good at holding his tempah.”

            Erika thought back to his outburst at Ameline.  The Iron King, waving his powers about, waving his anger about.  She shivered in her seat.

            “Dere’s other problems den Alyria,” Remy said.  Erika glanced up enough to see him scrubbing at his face.  His jaw was shadowed in reddish scruff, drawing the copper from his hair.  Dark shadows hung heavy below his strange eyes.  “I haven’t been very forthcomin’ on my business here in Genosha, other den wit’ Logan, and recently wit’ Mademoiselle Vendetta.  And now it’s your right to know, Erika.”  Remy smiled, the twist of his mouth tight and bitter.  “Associatin’ wit’ me ain’t de safest choice, but it ain’t dangerous either.”

            Erika had lifted her head.  Her composure was mostly back, her empathy under wraps again.  Her face was still flushed, and her cheeks felt tacky from dried tears, but she was intrigued by Remy’s words.

            The southerner sighed, hands folded on the table.  When he spoke, his accent had faded away again.  “I was hired some time ago by the young Lord Xavier.  He was concerned about a report from the Drake fiefdom – townsfolk growing restless, talk about deserving a better king.  Young Charles wanted someone who could serve with discretion and be able to act if needed.  He’s smart to pick a Thief.

            “I have no shame in admitting my reputation precedes me in my line of work.  I was a bit surprised by the job description; spying is in our repertoire, but it isn’t usually the main purpose of a job.  But Xavier wished me to spy on the land, so to speak.  I’m to keep an ear to the ground and gather the whispers of the townsfolk.

            “Genosha is too large for one man to handle, so I work with a small team of other Thieves.  Since coming to Einsemar, I’ve been working with Logan to keep an eye on the capitol directly; Vendetta has . . . inserted herself in our group, if you will, for reasons that are her own to share or keep in her sleeve.  We’ve been meeting once a week to go over my agents’ reports and what we’ve managed to gather here.  My northern report today was troubling.  As you heard, there’s Alyrian riders stirring up trouble along the border.  But there’s also something with the people.”

            “An uprising,” Erika replied.  She shrugged a little at Remy’s startled look.  “It happens all the time, and quite frankly, it’s incredibly overdue.  The guards will whisk them away in the night, and that will be the end of it.  I’d be far more worried about Alyrian riders.”

            “I would be as well, except the guards haven’t managed to end it.  One person goes missing; three rise in their place.  It’s spreading like a fire.  There are unconfirmed reports of it starting in new towns, spreading south, west, east.  It’s growing.”

            “It still won’t reach Genosha.  And if it does, it will end here.  The king won’t stand for it.”

            “Only time will tell,” Remy drawled, his accent rising again.  “Hopefully Xavier can find a way ta stop it.  We all gathered ya don’t like bloodshed.”

            Erika blushed in shame at her hysteria.  “The war was very frightening.  I was only a child.”

            “No one’s blamin’ ya for it.  Bloodshed’s an awful thing, chere.  It’s not something you should ever forget.”

            “Tha’s all well and good,” Vendetta cut in.  “But Erika knows enough.  You should go home.”

            Erika opened her mouth, but Logan spoke first.

            “What about in the palace?” the woodsman threw out.  “You’ve got agents all over the kingdom, and the three of us here in the city.  But you have no eyes or ears in the palace, and everyone knows that kings and queens are killed by servants if not on a battlefield.  Erika can walk in and out as she pleases, keep an eye on everyone there.”

            “Oh, no,” Vendetta replied, clearly adamant on the issue.  “Knowing wot you’re up to won’ kill her, but if she sticks her nose in the wrong place for you, it will.”

            Remy held his hands up, waving them slightly.  “Ya both are right.”  He met Erika’s eyes, shaking his head.  “Dis can be dangerous.  Ya can get hurt.  Some of your neighbors may end up disagreein’ wit’ you, mark you on de king’s side if de rebellion makes it dis far.  I won’ force you to do anythin’ for me, for us.  We’re spies now, but you don’t have to be.”

            Erika flicked her gaze across all three of them.  Vendetta was scowling, but her visible eye was bright with worry.  Logan was simply watching her, unreadable, but interested; there was the heat she had felt every time around him just beneath the surface, making her want to shiver.  Remy was calm, tired, troubled.  Erika felt that he already knew her answer.

            “I want to help,” she said softly.  “My duty is to my king and my country.”

            “Fuck your duty,” Vendetta snapped.  She rose to her feet, her chair toppling backwards.  “And fuck the king!  Let the people take him!  He deserves it!”

            Erika grimaced slightly, bowing her head.  “Perhaps he does.  But the people do not deserve the violence and death an uprising will bring.  If I can help stop it, I want to.  I don’t . . . I don’t want more bloodshed in my lifetime.”

            “Tha’s all very honorable of you,” the redhead snarled.  “But it’s unrealistic.  As long as someone like the Iron King rules, violence will be the only option.”

            “Then why are you here even?”  Erika shook her head, waving a hand at the map.  “Why try to help save his rule if you don’t like him?”

            Vendetta’s hands clenched into fists.  In the shoddy cabinets, wooden dishes and utensils clattered.  A spark started in the wood piled in the fireplace.  “I don’t have ta explain my choices to you!” she hissed through gritted teeth.  “I have my reasons – tha’s all you need to know.”

            Remy laid a hand on her arm.  Vendetta flinched under the touch, then eased.  Her chair stood back up and she collapsed in it again.  Her hair flopped forward, shading her face more than usual.

            “Are you sure about this?” Logan asked.  Erika met his gaze, which had gone dark and solemn.  One dark brow was arched up sharply.  “There are risks.  You could offend nobility, cross the guards, your neighbors may turn on you if things escalate too far.  Other things.  Worse things.”

            Erika shrugged a bit.  “They’ll turn on me anyway.  I work for the king now.  And you’re right, I have an advantage, I can offer another perspective.  I want to help.  I’m sure.”

            “You can stop whenever ya want,” Remy offered.  “If ya ever feel you’re in danger, stop.  I’m not gonna get an innocent girl hurt over dis job if I can help it.”

            “I will,” Erika replied.  “I promise I’ll keep myself safe.”

            “All right, den.  As long as you wanna help, ya can.  Just listen, observe, the lords and ladies and servants alike.  Trust no one, save for Charles.”

            Erika nodded, but all she could possibly think was that it was the beginning of the end.

Chapter 22: A Lord and A Spy

Summary:

Erika attempts to gauge the attitudes in the palace. Lord Xavier promises to aid her in her investigations at the palace.

Chapter Text

            Erika felt a strange sort of guilt as she greeted and passed the guards at the portcullis. She couldn’t be wrong to be helping Remy; he was being paid by the young Lord Xavier to protect the king.  If anything, she was doing a service. But her mind kept coming back to the way the Iron King had attacked Ameline.  Her sobs as she was wrenched forward by her necklace.  Erika found her hand wrapping around her throat.  She was suddenly glad for her lack of jewelry.  The king could not attack her in that way if she did something wrong.  But he would find other ways if he had to.  Erika hoped, desperately, that he would not feel a need to.

            Erika drifted through the palace halls, listless as she had been since yesterday’s revelations.  Her thoughts oscillated between Remy, Logan, and Bronwyn trying to protect the king, and the news of danger on the Alyrian border.  Would the worries of an uprising come to be?  Would Alyria strike out at Genosha again?  Who would die; who would live?  What was her role in all this chaos?

            Her mindless steps had taken her to the dining hall.  Far from surprising with how much time she had spent there in the week.  Erika wandered over to the raised platform at the end of the room.  She collapsed onto the edge, elbows propped on her knees, head in her palms.  Her mind could not stop spinning.  She wanted to tear her head apart and let the thoughts spill out.  Perhaps then they would stop tormenting her.

            “I doubt they would, but the thought is somewhat cathartic.”

            Erika startled at Xavier’s voice.  She staggered to her feet to drop into an immediate curtsy.  “Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t hear you come in-”

            “Oh no, please,” the young lord said quickly.  “Do sit back down.  I suppose I should apologize for prying.  Sometimes when I don’t focus on it, it slips out of my control and I can’t help but overhear things.”

            For a moment Erika wondered if she had spoken her wish aloud.  Then she remembered what Remy had said about the king’s primary advisor; Remy had claimed that Xavier could read minds, that it was his power as a Gifted.  The idea struck her as odd yet terrifying.  Sitting again, she folded her hands in her lap.

            “I understand, my lord.”  It was all she would dare to say on the matter.  She understood all too well.  Even after eight years of dealing with her own abilities to feel emotions and influence them, Erika had her slips of control.  Whether the young lord knew of her own abilities or not, she could not be certain.

            Xavier sat down next to her, though there was plenty of room between them to remain polite.  “I understand that Gambit has informed you of his business here, and that you know my role in it.”

            “Yes, my lord.”

            “He said you would help?”

            Erika sighed, glancing hurriedly around the room, stretching out her power as well.  Neither sense showed anyone nearby except the two of them.  “He has everything outside of the palace in observation, but he has no way of watching the court.  He asked if I would.”

            “And you said yes?”

            “It’s my duty to serve my king however I can.”

            Xavier shook his head; a few locks of dark hair tumbled onto his brow.  He seemed to be marveling at her choice.  “There are plenty in this kingdom who would have laughed in his face.  His majesty’s subjects don’t always think highly of him.”

            Erika wanted to point out that the king had his cruelties, that the people did not appreciate their friends and family vanishing.  But she could not.  Slander could be said in the city if one dared, and certainly in the countryside, but to speak such in the palace was a death sentence.

            “I appreciate your help though,” Xavier continued.  “Erik is a dear friend of mine.  To see him overthrown, or worse . . . I couldn’t bear it.”

            “You two are quite close,” Erika said, her voice hesitant.  “Is it because you’re his advisor?”

            “We’ve been friends since we were children,” Xavier replied.  He sounded cheerful; clearly the memories were fond.  “Our families have been close, historically, and we were no different.  After the tragedy, he came to live with us.  We grew up together.  I know Erik better than anyone.”

            “You mentioned it before.  A massacre you said, on my first day?”

            “Yes.  It was most unfortunate.  Shaw was only a lord then, but he had set his rise to the throne in motion. He felt that the Lehnsherrs were opposing his rise at every turn – which they were, to a degree.  He sent an assassin in the night to kill all of them… His most loyal guard whisked him off and rode through the whole night to save him.  He was brought to my family’s castle, and of course my parents took him in, gave him asylum.  He was only twelve at the time, but he was a man full grown from that night on.”

            Erika blinked a few times to banish her tears.  She loved her parents more than anything; to imagine a life without them was simply painful.  Had the king loved his parents?  He must have if he was so angry at their death.

            “Forgive me,” Xavier said softly.  “I did not intend to upset you.”

            She wiped at her eyes, shaking her head.  “It’s all right.  It’s just so sad.  But he had you.  That must be better than nothing.”

            “I’d hoped it would be.  But there was such rage in him, such pain.  Nothing we did eased it.  Even after he took his revenge it remains, locked up inside him.  It’s brought him nothing but trouble.”  Xavier sighed, shaking his head again.  “But enough of this sorrow.  Gambit wants you to help – by spying on the court?”

            Erika blushed sharply at the choice in words, even though she knew no other way to describe it.  “I suppose so.  He just wants to be sure that no servants or lords are participating in whatever this rebellion is.”

            “A wise decision.  It’s often those closest to us who betray us.  I can try to help you, let you know what I know, who I think you might need to worry about.”

            “I would appreciate it, my lord.”

            Xavier grew pensive for a moment.  When he frowned, he looked older, though Erika knew he could hardly be more than ten years her senior, likely even less.  And the king was not much older than him, surely.  It seemed so strange to her, that people of such power were barely older than her.

            “There are few members of the Iron Court you can’t trust – or so I would hope,” Xavier finally said.  His bright blue eyes had gone dark with worry.  “The lords and ladies were all chosen for their loyalty, and the Iron Guard has never failed our king yet.  But it wouldn’t be the first time a king’s personal guard turned on him.  I believe we could include the captain, Creed; he’s the most loyal guard I’ve ever seen.”

            Erika pressed the tips of her fingers to her throat.  She couldn’t imagine speaking to Creed again, not after what he did to Vendetta, let alone what he did to her.  “I don’t particularly feel comfortable approaching him, my lord.”

            “Yes.  He is aggressive at times.  I can speak to him for you, at first at least.  He may want to see you himself though.”

            “If he does, I shall agree to it.  I would prefer not to be alone in that situation, though.”

            “Of course, I can surely arrange my schedule to accompany you.  His majesty may wish to hear of this as well, in which case we can all hold a meeting, the four of us.  We likely should, at some time, just to be safe.  But I’m rambling, thinking out loud.”  Xavier smiled, shaking his head.  “I don’t know of anyone in particular that we would not be able to trust in the court.  I would worry more about the servants.  Their loyalty is the least of any.”

            Erika nodded in understanding.  Servants were not paid well.  Their service was demanded; failure to serve when needed could lead to being locked in the stocks, or worse for repeated offenses.  There was no love lost between them and their ruler.  If offered a healthy sum of gold, a servant would be likely to turn on their sovereign.

            “Are you genuinely worried something will happen?” she asked.  She did not shy from looking Lord Xavier in the eye when she asked.  She wanted the truth.  If he lied, she would know; lies left an oil-slick feeling around a person.

            Xavier’s eyes were a blue dark like the twilight sky.  “I do worry,” he replied, his voice dropping to something close to a whisper.  “I worry for my friend, that he digs his own grave.  I worry that his people will turn on him.  And what a disaster it will be.  He has tried so hard to bring this land safety.  But I fear the price was too steep.”

Chapter 23: The Troubadour

Summary:

Erika performs in the palace for the first time.

Chapter Text

            Erika’s palm slid over the silk fabric of her dress.  The softness was a marvel to her; nothing in her own wardrobe was so soft.  And the color!  A rich purple, something worthy of royalty.  She had always adored the color, but it was not easy for someone of her status to acquire.  The plants to make purple dye did not grow well in the soil of Genosha, and as such pre-dyed fabric was incredibly expensive.

            She stopped stroking the fabric, looking up instead to her reflection.  The full-length mirror let her see everything; the low scoop of the neckline, the way the long skirt pooled at her feet.  She shifted a leg forward, watching with delight as the skirt fell back to flash the light blue kirtle.  None of her kirtles were so bright; they were dull and plain, but nothing in the palace could be dull or plain at a feast.

            Unlike her own kirtles, the sleeves were short, ending above her elbows along with the sleeves of the dress itself.  A gold-tinted cuff was attached, off which hung a gauzy fabric that flowed with every move of her arms.  The seamstress called it a tippet, and Erika recognized it from the gowns the ladies wore, but she could hardly believe she wore them herself.  A tippet on her own dresses would be a waste of fabric.  To have such a fashion statement was a sign of wealth.

            “Are you sure you want this dagger on your girdle?” the seamstress asked.  Erika shifted her gaze to her in the mirror.  The woman’s face looked distraught by the idea.  “It’s so plain.  And you won’t need it, there will be a bounty of guards.”

            “I carry the dagger with me everywhere,” Erika replied.  She shrugged, perhaps a bit excessively just to see the gauzy fabric fluttering again.  “I would like to have it.  My dress is so lovely, I’m sure no one will notice it.”

            The seamstress tutted to herself but conceded.  Erika raised her arms and let her fasten the girdle around her hips.  The wide fabric was knotted at the front with thin leather strips.  The belt itself was made of simple fabric and embroidered with an intricate pattern.  Her dagger hung at her left hip, the weight of it pulling on the belt intimately familiar.

            “You do look lovely,” the seamstress said, fussing at her curls.  “I suppose you are ready for your debut.  Though, perhaps one last thing . . .”

            Erika stared at herself a moment longer as the seamstress fluttered about.  She looked like a stranger, dressed in such fine garment, her flyaway hairs smoothed down with oil that made the dark curls gleam.  Even her face was different, touched up with cosmetics; her face and breast powdered pale, cheeks tinged a rosy pink, lips stained with a flush of red.  A stranger indeed, though the tilt of her head and curve of her mouth was the same as she had ever seen in the foggy mirror at home.  Still, she raised a hand to her cheek, touching her face to assure herself that all this was real.

            “Yes, perfect!”  Erika startled as the seamstress once more filled her space.  The woman’s delicate hands came before her, and Erika marveled at the glimmering chain in her hands.

            The metal was a burst of cold on her breast.  Erika dared not breathe as her hair was pushed aside and the necklace was clasped shut.  The seamstress’ pride was clear in her smile, and Erika couldn’t help but agree that the gilded chain and modest purple stone were a lovely touch.  But Ameline flashed in her mind’s eye, screaming and sobbing, clawing at her heavy necklace as the king used it to drag her forward.  Would his majesty do the same to her if she displeased him?

            “It’s lovely,” she finally managed.  Erika turned away from the mirror.  She smiled as best she could, though it felt strained.  “Thank you very much.  You’ve been incredibly kind.”

            “It’s my pleasure.  You’re a beauty, and it’s a joy to dress a beauty.  But no need to look so nervous!”  The seamstress patted Erika’s cheek lightly.  “You’ll do fine!  There’s plenty of wine and mead and ale at a feast, the men will be as drunk as in the tavern.”

            Erika laughed along with her, letting the woman think her anxiety was simple nervousness for performing.  She could not dare to voice her fear of the king.  Not in his palace.

            A last wish of luck to her and the seamstress ushered her out of the small room they had commandeered for Erika’s transformation.  A guard was already there for her.  Erika was escorted in silence through the palace to the dining hall.  Even through the closed doors she could hear the chatter of many people.  The twisting in her gut was nerves this time.  She clutched at the gauzy strips spilling from her sleeves, focusing on her breathing.  Singing for the king and court was no different than singing for the tavern patrons.  The king would not tear her down, he had chosen her over all others.

            The door to the dining hall swept open.  “His Majesty Erik’s new troubadour,” the herald announced, his voice ringing over all the other words, “Erika Deforest.”

            The conversation dwindled, but Erika forced herself forward with her head high.  She didn’t look at the long tables where the various lords and ladies sat according to rank.  Her eyes were on the instruments on her little stage, seemingly the same lute, fiddle, and harp from the early days of the competition.  It settled her somewhat, to have even that small piece of familiarity.

            Erika mounted the stage with careful steps.  The skirt of her gown was long enough that she worried tripping – and what an embarrassment that would be on her first performance.  But the steps were no trouble and her feet did not tangle; soon she was standing before her audience, all eyes on her as she picked up the lute.  Normally she preferred the harp, but tonight was a party; the lute and fiddle it would be.

            Her audience was quieter than when she had first entered, but the first notes of her music did nothing to silence them.  A flutter of relief filled her.  If conversation was that important to them, few would notice if she made any mistakes.  The realization gave her the courage she needed.

            Erika opened her mouth and began to sing.

***

            Her performance was, at its heart, no different than what she had ever done before.  Her singing came from her heart, full of every passion the song required.  She danced and skipped around the stage, moving between instruments at a whim, playing whatever song came to mind, or in the rare case was requested.  Her audience laughed at the humor, gasped at the excitement, cooed over the romance.  By the time everyone had worked through each course, Erika was out of breath but riding high on the pleasure of her audience.

            She sang and danced and recited poetry until the night had worn long and fallen dark.  The feast seemed to carry on forever, but finally it began to wind down; the dishes stopped being brought in, the courtiers slowed to picking at their plates, then ignoring them entirely. As the celebration slowed, Erika turned to the harp, playing quiet, pleasant melodies. Toasts to the lord for his birthday went around the table. He was a lower lord; Erika only recognized his name as one of the bannermen in the Xavier fiefdom.

            The king gave his own toast, polite and sincere.  His words lacked the warmth he carried when he spoke or listened to his closest lords and ladies, his Iron Court.  When the toasts finally drew to a close, the king stood, holding his own glass.

            “I am grateful to you all for coming,” he said, his tone brisk but not unkind.  “You are always welcome at my table.  Many of you shall be leaving early tomorrow to return to your fiefdoms, though, and as such I believe it is time to draw our celebration to an end.”  The king raised his glass to his guests.  “I wish you all fair rest and safe travels.”

            The lords and ladies raised their glasses in a final toast and polished off their drinks.  Slowly they began to filter out from the dining hall, pausing to wish their king well one last time.  Erika leisurely played the harp, a slow and gentle melody to fill in the quiet.

            Soon it was only the iron court left.  Erika noted that the king grew swiftly more relaxed, smiling more readily as they spoke among themselves.

            “It was a lovely feast,” the king noted, “but I do hate these formal events.  I’d much rather have something smaller.”

            “Unfortunately, they would not approve,” Xavier replied.  “Politics, my friend.  We must always obey politics.”

            “And even then, they don’t treat you well,” Lady Darkholme said with a bright laugh.  “You never can win, Erik.”

            “What I do is for the good of my kingdom,” he shrugged. “Perhaps in history they will realize that.”

            Erika finished her melody slowly, watching the interactions among the court members.  They were all friendly, among themselves and with the king.  Surely none of them could be a traitor.  But then, what better traitor could there be than a friend?

            “Ah, Erika,” the king said suddenly.  “No need to play anymore.  You performed wonderfully tonight.  I am most grateful to you for coming.”

            Erika moved from the harp, rising to fall into a curtsy.  “It was my honor, your highness.”

            The king regarded her for a moment before beckoning with a curl of his fingers. “Come down.  I imagine you are hungry and thirsty, and there is food left if you desire it.”

            “Oh.  Thank you, your highness.  Thank you very much.”  Erika drifted down from the stage in a daze.  She was certainly hungry, she had been much too nervous to eat before the feast.  That the king would so freely offer her the leftovers of a royal banquet… she had simply never expected such a thing.

            She sat at the long table, in a seat where nobility had sat.  The servants brought her trays of every dish.  Erika knew she would not have room for all of it, but she took what looked best.  Someone poured her a glass of wine.  She fell to her meal, trying to mask her excitement at eating royal fare.  All around her the court members were talking, though the conversations meant little to her.  Noble gossip, about people she didn’t know, involving jokes she didn’t understand.  But it was all right.  She was in the palace, she was troubadour.  All her dreams were blooming around her.  It seemed impossible that it could last.

Chapter 24: The Order of X

Summary:

Erika and Vendetta meet with Remy and Logan in the woods to discuss events in the kingdom.

Chapter Text

            “I have no official duties for a while it seems,” Erika said.  She sighed, deep and long.  Already she had been paid more than the tavern made in a normal month.  Her parents were at a loss of what to do with the money.  So far it was safely tucked away, perhaps to establish a stronger dowry for their daughter.  The thought curdled Erika’s stomach in a vague way.

            “Not like you have nothing to do,” Vendetta drawled at her side.  Erika had been going to the market to buy fresh supplies, as she often did, and Vendetta had appeared seemingly from nowhere to join her for her shopping.  It was so normal that for a moment Erika wondered if everything had been a dream.

            “There is never nothing to do.  If there were, it would mean I was ignoring something I should or could be doing.”  Erika shifted the basket on her arm.  It was heavy, laden down with the day’s shopping as they made their way back to the tavern.  “But there were very few chores today.  Vivien has been wonderful help lately.”

            “Guess I was wrong abou’ her.  She’s a nice girl.”

            Erika could not quite keep from casting her friend a smug smile.  She had known from the moment she saw the blonde that she was a good person, and her judgement had been right.  Vivien had gladly stepped up to pick up the things Erika couldn’t handle with her new position; she even went some mornings to the market, allowing Erika to rest more.

            “So wot are you gonna do today?” Vendetta asked, kicking a rock out of her way as they turned the last corner before reaching the tavern.

            “I’m not sure.  The king has no need of me, and I feel rude coming and going at whim still,” Erika replied.  She hitched another heavy sigh.  It had only been a day since the feast.  So much excitement in such a short period of time made the return to her normal life feel tedious and dull.

            “You could come along with me,” Vendetta offered.  “Remy was trying to get us all to meet up sometime.  Today’s as good a day as any.”

            “I suppose so…”  Erika was still reluctant about being a palace spy, even with Lord Xavier’s approval.  It still seemed wrong to her in a way, to be going about behind the king’s back when he had been so kind as to choose her for his troubadour.  But the other option was the let uprising come and sink its teeth into the kingdom’s flesh.  In that frame, there was no choice.

            “I’ll make sure I don’t have anything else,” Erika continued, firming her voice into resolution.  She stopped by the door to the tavern, holding one hand out to Vendetta.  “Wait here a moment.  If I’m done, we can go now.”

            Vendetta nodded, leaning against the tavern wall.  Erika ducked inside, brushing past her father as he swept the floor.  “Mama, I have your groceries!”  She set the basket on the tall counter in front of her mother.  “Is there anything else you need?”

            Her mother smiled, cupping her chin with a gentle hand.  “You are a wonderful girl, Erika, and so selfless.  Take the day off.  You’re always running around for Charles and I – and now the king as well!  You should rest.”

            Erika smiled, leaning over the counter to kiss her mother’s cheek.  “Thank you.”  She skipped over to her father to kiss his cheek before running outside.

            “Free for the day,” she said to Vendetta.  “Do you know where Remy is?”

            Vendetta pushed off the wall, starting down the street in the direction of the city gates.  “Said he’d be at Logan’s place.  Drew up a rough map and gave it to me.  I think we can find our way.”

            Erika couldn’t deny the little flip her stomach did as she hurried along beside her friend.  It had been days since she had seen Logan.  Her lips tingled in remembrance of his kiss, a common reaction to thoughts of him.  But what if he regretted that fevered kiss at the edge of the woods?  Did he realize now that they were ill suited for each other?  That their lives were not on converging paths?

            Or was it only that there was no time for love in the shadow of war and rebellion?

***

            Vendetta navigated them through the woods effortlessly it seemed.  The map was a rough sketch, yet she seemed to understand every aspect of it as if she had written it herself.  Erika had checked it at a glance to make sure she hadn’t, but the handwriting proved to be unfamiliar.  She had to admit, the quick hand that had written it seemed well suited to Remy.

            As the women drew closer to the cabin, they began to hear the sharp clash of wood on wood.  An occasional bark of laughter would rise above, or a word of praise.

            The trees and undergrowth did not gradually fade as they approached the cabin.  One moment they could just glimpse the rough chimney of the cabin and the occasional flash of Remy and Logan moving; then the woods fell away to the rough clearing and the image was clear.

            The pair were sparring with wooden swords, and must have been practicing for some time.  Both were streaked in sweat, shirts discarded from the heat their vicious dance produced, hair damp and stuck to neck and brow.  Their wood practice blades were crossed, locked together for a moment.  Muscles in their arms bulged as they tried to push through each other.

            They broke suddenly, Logan pushing himself away.  For a moment to they studied each other.  Then Logan lunged in, wooden blade twirling around his hand before it came careening down towards Remy’s head and shoulder.  Remy just managed to block it, laughing uproariously in what could only be described as delight.  Logan’s hard attack began anew, driving Remy back across the clearing.

            Their styles were in dichotomy.  Logan moved with sharp precision, his blows hard and unforgiving, sword gripped in both hands.  There was a brutality to it that was chilling.  Remy, however, moved light and agile, focused on defending the heavy attack Logan used.  When the tables turned and Remy pressed the attack, he focused on speed, flurrying blows down one after the other. He held his sword in only his right hand and stood with his body more sideways, leaving less of himself open to attack. He conserved his strength, focused his energies in moving quick around his opponent.  Logan was overpowering intensity; Remy was defense and agility.

            The end came suddenly.  Remy seemed to be swinging a blow to Logan’s right, and Logan moved to block it accordingly.  Remy arced his wooden stave up suddenly, grip switching to his left hand abruptly.  This time he struck like Logan, hard and sure, the wooden blade slamming into Logan’s exposed side.

            Logan grimaced, jerking back and lowering his blade as one hand came off the hilt.  He pressed a hand lightly to his side, hissing out a little breath.  “Good one.  I keep forgetting you prefer using your left hand.”

            “Dat’s de point,” Remy grinned, settling the training sword on his shoulder.  “And dat was two outta three.  Thought ya said ya were good?”

            “Out of practice,” Logan grunted.

            “Whatevah the case,” Vendetta chirped up, “we’re here and you’ve had your fun.”  Vendetta planted her hands on her hips.  “And you should put your clothes back on and stop bein’ heathens.”

            Remy grinned, dropping the sword from his shoulder.  “What, chere?  Not enjoyin’ the view?”

            Erika glanced at her friend in time to see her roll her eyes.  “No, actually,” Vendetta snorted.  “Hard for you to believe, I’m sure.”

            Erika found it hard to believe, certainly.  Remy was quite handsome, something she had appreciated in an absent way before.  He had a gorgeous face, chiseled features that were easy and quick to smile. Normally Remy wore his shoulder-length, auburn hair loose, which softened his face some. For the spar, he had braided it back from his face, accentuating his chiseled features.  His physique was lithe and trim, muscles defined under tan skin.  Scars littered his skin, but rather than distracting from his appearance, they added a strength to masculine beauty.  Really, how couldn’t Vendetta at least admire him?

            And Logan…  Well.  It was the same for him; Erika had admired his appearance before, but now stripped of his shirt, it was only more obvious.  The dark hair on his arms and chest was slicked down from sweat.  His broad shoulders tapered into narrower hips, further defined by his belt.  The muscles of his arms and abdomen were defined from hard, manual labor.  His skin was smooth, unscarred, a rich olive tan.  He looked hard, unyielding, but so agonizingly handsome, and the longer she looked the more a simmering heat curled low in her stomach.  Not to mention his brown-green-gold eyes and the light arch in one eyebrow and the smirk on his lips–

            Erika dropped her gaze, embarrassment flooding heat to her cheeks.  She had been staring, and he had seen her staring.  The warmth that had built in her only added to the burning blush.

            “Your loss,” Remy drawled to Vendetta.  He ambled easily across the yard to where a couple nubby towels had been dropped with their discarded shirts.  He picked them up easily with the wooden sword, tossing one to Logan and using the other to work at sweat-tacky skin.  “But now dat de ladies are here, we can get down ta business.”

            And so they did.  The bantering was pushed aside as soon as they had settled into the modest cabin.  Remy, with his shirt back on, unrolled the same map on Logan’s smaller table.  He set out a few small markers and rattled off the names of the towns:  Oldgarde, Lausau, Hallheim, Vollstadt, Winterson, others still.  As he did, Erika reported what Xavier had told her about trusting the court, but not the servants, and voiced her own observations that the king’s closest advisers all seemed friendly with him.  Remy didn’t seem particularly surprised, but it was clear from his smile that he was pleased to have the information.

            Once Remy had finished setting up the map, it was clear to see that the rebellion had expanded since their last meeting.  All the major towns in the Drake fiefdom had had at least one report, and it had spread to the other northern fiefdom, ruled by Frost.

            Remy traced a finger along the light border that marked the lines between fiefdoms.  His good cheer from out in the yard was gone.  “At this rate, this little rebellion is going to cross into Pryde land.  And then…”  He traced his finger down through the Pryde family land, into the Xavier fiefdom, stopping at the capitol city Einsemar.  “It’s only a matter of time before it reaches us here.”

            “I haven’ heard a thing about trouble these last few days,” Vendetta said.  She leaned over the map, her red hair spilling into the eastern pieces of the kingdom, where the Ravyn and Darkholme families presided.  “If it’s this spread, people should be disappearing left and right.”

            “That’s just it,” Remy replied as he sank into his seat.  He propped his chin on one palm, fingers rubbing over his shaved smooth cheek.  “No disappearances, no executions.  Just one arrest, a few days back, in Winterson.  A man began to give a speech in the market.  He was trying to recruit for the rebellion.  He called it by a name:  The Order of X.”

            “X,” Vendetta echoed.  “Like Xavier?”

            “Exactly.”  Logan tapped the noble family’s name on the map – one of the most central fiefdoms.  “Xaviers have been known to be wise, fair, slow to violence.  The young lord is a perfect example of all their traditional values.  He’s the opposite of the king.  It makes sense that the people would want him on the throne.”

            Remy nodded to him.  “The Order of X wants to remove Erik Lehnsherr from the throne and replace him with Charles Xavier, by any means necessary.  I have a member of my team initiating for better reports.”

            “Aren’t you worried about them?” Erika asked.  “There’s a risk they could be found out and hurt, or worse.”

            “Thieves don’t get caught,” Remy replied with a shrug.  “I checked with the patriarch; he allowed it.  It’ll help us in the end, give us an advantage in knowing what’s coming.”

            Erika looked down at the map.  It was safe for now.  But how long would that last?

            “Is there anything else?” Vendetta asked.

            “No,” Remy replied.  “For the time, we’re all right.  It won’t last, but we can enjoy the calm a little longer.  We can all go.”

            “Erika should stay,” Logan said.  “More dagger work.  If things are gonna get bad soon, she’ll be in more danger.”

            Remy nodded in agreement.  “That’d be for the best.  I’ve got work to do, I’m afraid.”  He stood, stripping the markers from the map and wrapping it up.  “I’ll call a meeting again soon, I’m sure.  But for now… Vendetta, I’d like a word wit’ you.”

            Vendetta narrowed her eyes.  She made a noncommittal hum but stood.  She cast a glance at Erika, a kind but meaningful look that simply conveyed not to do anything foolish.  Her glance at Logan was less kind, cold even.  Then she stood and walked out.  Remy frowned after her a moment before shrugging and bidding them both goodbye before following her out.

            The door closed behind them with a soft clap.  As soon as it did, Erika felt a hum of tension begin in her body.  She could feel Logan looking at her but she couldn’t dare raise her head yet.

            “You’ve been busy,” he said.  His voice was a low and familiar rumble.

            “I’m sorry,” Erika whispered.  “There was the feast, and it kept me so busy, and there was no time-”

            “Hey, easy.  It’s all right.  You’re meant to sing.  There’s nothing wrong with it keeping you busy.”

            “But I thought… You aren’t mad?”

            “No.  God, no.  Why would I be mad?  Erika, this is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

            “Of course.  I’ve dreamed about it for years.”

            She finally looked up.  Logan was smiling.  He dragged his chair closer to her so he could curl his hand around her jaw and neck.  The pressure of his hand coaxed her in close.  His lips were a gentle pressure, a chaste kiss, yet it still lit a spark in her.  “Then I’m happy for you,” he whispered.  He kissed her again, just as sweet and brief.  “Come on.  I’ve got a lot to teach you before I feel safe with you wandering around the city and palace.”

            She took his hand and let him lead her out to the yard.

***

            The woods were full of bird chatter and sunlight.  Everything was calm and peaceful.

            Vendetta walked beside Remy.  They agreed without a word exchanged that a slower walk was best.  Remy kept a polite distance between them, and in some ways it still was not enough for Vendetta.  She didn’t want to be close to him.  Not after how he saw her that night when she had been weak.  He hadn’t brought it up since then, and she had already decided she would punch him if he did.  Maybe he would be smart and never bring it up.

            “Are ya gonna tell Erika de truth?’

            Then again, maybe he would be stupid.

            Vendetta grabbed his arm and jerked Remy to a halt.  “Don’t,” she snapped at him.  “Don’t you go preaching to me on wot you think I should do.  It’s my life, no’ yours, Remy LeBeau.  I can do wotevah I want in my life – and tha’ includes not telling her.”

            Remy jerked his arm free.  There was no anger in his face, though; there was a sadness, a disappointment.  “She’s gonna find out someday.  Dis ain’t a secret ya can keep forever.”

            “I’ve kept it this long.  Wot’s a little longer?”

            “Bronwyn-”

            “Don’t!” she shouted.  The trees around her shivered in the spike of her anger.  “You don’ have the righ’ to call me by my name!  You don’t know me!  You migh’ know who I was and wot I did, but you don’t know who I am now.  And until you do, you call me Vendetta, or you call me nothing at all.”

            Remy pushed a hand slowly through his hair.  His strange eyes were hard to read; she didn’t try to, too afraid of what they might convey.

            “I know enough,” Remy spoke up.  He started walking again, back towards the city.  “Ya left, ya ain’t goin’ back.  Ya don’t have many friends, so Erika is important to ya – understandably so.  And dat’s why I think ya should tell her, on your terms.  Dis ain’t somethin’ she can just shrug off and move on from.  It’ll hurt her, and confuse her, and maybe frighten her, too.  Would ya rather risk losin’ her just cause you’re too proud ta tell her who ya were?”

            Vendetta shook her head again.  “I won’t lose her.  You’re underestimating her, Remy.  She may seem sof’, but there’s more to her than tha’.”

            “Den why were ya so worried ‘bout her gettin’ involved?”

            “Because she’s…pure.  Pure and sweet and good.  And if she gets dragged into a war, it’ll rip it righ’ out of her.  I can’t stand to see tha’.”

            Remy’s hand touched her shoulder, just for a second.  “I’m sorry.  Believe me, dis ain’t what I wanted either.  I wish dere was peace, dis wasn’t happenin’, dat Alyria would leave de border alone.  And believe me dat I don’t wanna see your friend hurt, or you, or Logan, or anyone here.  Dis is a good place, a safe place for people like us, and dere ain’t many o’ those.  If I could stop it all on my own, I would.  But I can’t.  And it’s gonna get worse, and worse yet.  People will be hurt, people will die.  I don’t see a way around it.  And nothing will be the same again.”

            Vendetta shook her head, tucking her hair behind an ear.  “Nevah the same again,” she echoed.  “God help us all.”

Chapter 25: From the Border

Summary:

Dangerous news comes from Genosha's northern border. Erika fears for the future.

Chapter Text

            The night lay heavy and quiet over Einsemar, but the peace would not last.

            The young man stood atop the city walls on the north side, leaning on his spear.  His unfocused gaze stared out over the road, looking for any movement in the dark. The sky was clear and the moon hung large overhead, illuminating the road. It was not his first night shift, but it was his seventh.  He had slept most of the day to prepare for staying up so late, but the familiar dark of night urged his eyelids to droop shut.

            It was after one of his long, drawn out blinks that he saw movement.  The youth stood straighter, leaning over the edge to try and see better.  The figure was moving fast, racing down the road.  A rider, he realized.

            “Look!” he called out.  “Someone’s coming!”

            The other guards on his section of the wall came hurrying over, chain mail rustling.  They congregated over the gate, a bristling nest of spears, ready to defend the city if they needed.  The guards watched in silence as the rider approached.

            The horse slowed until finally halting below the gates.  Its head drooped, sides visibly heaving as it caught its breath.  The rider waved his hands up at the guards.  “I’m one of you!  I’m a Genoshan knight, from the border!  I have news for the king!”

            One of the older knights pointed his spear down at the rider.  “Prove yourself; recite our oath.”

            The rider drew his sword, raising it in salute.  “I draw my blade to serve and protect the people of my land and our king.  I fight to protect the equality of all, be they human or Gifted or other.  This is my oath, this is my vow.”

            The guard nodded, turning to the younger guard who had first seen the rider.  “Tell them to open the gates, quickly!”

            The young guard set his spear aside before running to the small turret beside the gate.  He ducked inside it and scrambled down the ladder.  “Open the gates!” he called as he raced down.  “There’s a rider from the border, he needs to see the king!”

The gates were opened with as much speed as possible.  The rider saluted to the guards a last time before urging his horse into the city streets.  He rode as fast as he could all the way to the palace, hoping he was not too late.

***

            Only two days ago Erika had reveled in her time in the woods with Logan.  He had worked her hard again, but it had been rewarding in the end when they had lain in the grass for a time.  They had talked back and forth about anything that caught their fancy; Erika mostly about growing up in Einsemar, and Logan about what living in the woods was like.  Vardan had lain with them, close at hand so they could both pet at his thick fur.  She hadn’t learned anything about Logan’s past, but she had come to understand him better.  He liked the simple things in life, appreciated and practiced hard work, was patient and incredibly wise.  He had brought her home in time for the tavern to open, stealing a last kiss before he left her for the night.  Erika’s happiness had been impossible to hide, and she felt sure her mother at least was growing suspicious, but she couldn’t care at all.

            She was wondering when she might find Logan again as she approached the castle.  She had no official duties, but it wasn’t possible to spy on the palace servants if she remained at home daydreaming about the woodsman.

            As soon as she set foot in the cool halls though, Erika knew something was wrong.  The servants were often out of sight and out of mind, but today they were visible, fluttering about and whispering among each other.  Their emotions were chaotic and tinged with fright.  It set a heavy knot of anxiety in Erika’s chest.  Had something happened since she had been in the palace?  She had to find Xavier, or anyone who would explain the dark energies and emotions.

            She hurried through the palace halls, searching in vain for any of the lords and ladies of the Iron Court.  Frustration began to claw at her throat.  She needed to clear her head from all the dark feelings choking the air before she had some sort of accident.

            Erika hurried back out to the courtyard.  It was a sprawling space, surrounded by curtain walls.  The courtyard smelled equally of baking bread from the kitchens, and the sweet smells of hay and feed from the stables.  A light whistling hung in the air, from one of the stable boys as he turned the royal horses out into their well cultivated paddock.

            From past the paddocks came the sound of swords clashing.  Erika could see the source; a small training ground, set aside for palace and king’s guards.  Two figures were sparring.  Intrigued, Erika made her way over, pretending to dote on the horses.  One did approach her as she stopped by the fence, and she obliged in petting its neck and letting it snuffle at her palm as she watched the two guards.

            They were Iron Guards, as evidenced by their swords and one arm that wore armor.  Their red cloaks had been cast aside for their mock battle.  One of the present guards was one of the two women who served; her silver-blonde hair was drawn back in a long braid that swung around her as she fought.  The other was a man, his hair a darker blond than his companion’s.

            Their spar ended abruptly as the woman knocked the man’s sword away.  The woman grinned, clearly pleased.  “Better luck next time, John.  That’s enough for the day I think.”  She turned away, clearly done with him.  Her eyes skipped over Erika before bouncing back.  The woman sheathed her sword and grabbed her cloak – and approached Erika directly.

            “You’re the new court singer,” the woman said, stopping to lean against the fence beside her.  “I’m Eileen, one of his majesty’s guards.”

            “I noticed,” Erika replied, nodding towards the sword at her hip.  “I’m-”

            “Erika, I know,” Eileen replied, grinning a bit.  “We’re in the palace regularly, and everyone’s been talking about you.  You made quite the impression on the court.  I suppose you’re looking for some of the court members today?”

            “I only wanted to see if there were any celebrations soon I’d be required at.  I couldn’t find anyone inside.”

            “Unsurprising.  They’ve been in council all day.”

            Erika tilted her head curiously.  “It must be very serious to take so long.”

            “Very.  A rider came in last night, one of the knights from the Alyrian border.  He reported an attack from Alyrian riders, going after us.  One of our men died, and another was badly hurt and likely won’t survive.  The king sent reinforcements this morning.”

            Erika felt herself leaning more against the fence.  An attack…  Only war could follow such a transgression.  It was all starting over again.

            “Don’t frighten the girl,” John said, elbowing Eileen.  “It won’t amount to anything.  It was just a little skirmish with a lot of blood.”

            “I find that hard to believe myself,” Eileen remarked.  “The Alyrians have always hated us, particularly our kind.  This would be just like them.”

            “What do you think will happen?” Erika blurted out.  “Will it be war again?”

            Both Iron Guards looked at her a moment, but it was Eileen who softened.  “How old were you during the war?”

            “I was nine when it began.”  She could still remember it all so clearly…

            Eileen’s hand clasped her shoulder.  “His majesty fought hard to end that war, Erika, and it cost him dearly.  He won’t want to go back to war, not with the people restless again.  It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

            Erika wanted to ask her what would happen if it wasn’t all right.  What if the king had no choice?  Would it be the same as her childhood?  Or would it be worse, now that she was old enough to understand the violence and bloodshed even better?

            “I should go,” she said suddenly, pushing away from the fence.  “I imagine the court won’t be finished for some time.”  She didn’t give the guards time to try and reassure her any more.  The fear had sunk its teeth in her throat again and nothing would help.

            Erika walked blindly through the city, letting her body guide her back home.  Panic was settling in, making her chest feel tight.  It would be war and violence and bloodshed-

            “Erika!”  Hands clapped in front of her eyes.  Erika jumped, shaking her head as the voice registered.  Her eyes agreed with what she heard; Vendetta was standing before her.  Erika looked around; she had made it to the tavern but had apparently frozen outside.

            “You’ve heard the news then.”  Vendetta sighed, the left side of her hair fluttering back a bit.  “Dammit.”

            “You know already?  The king only found out last night.”

            “I have my sources,” Vendetta replied, shrugging.  “I told Remy, but his sources are as good as mine.  He wen’ off to tell Logan.  I came here to tell you gently.”

            “I was at the palace,” Erika said.  “I wanted to see if I was needed, and if not then I was going to talk with people, but everyone was so worried and tense.  One of the Iron Guards told me.”

            Vendetta swore again, this time under her breath.  “Come on, le’s get you inside, get some wine in you.  You’ll feel bettah then.”  She took Erika’s hand gently and led her inside.  Erika was grateful to see that neither of her parents were present to see her in such a state.

            Vendetta sat her down at the bar before going around and pouring them each a glass, ale for herself and wine for Erika.  Erika took her glass, downing half of it in one long drink.

            “I know you’re scared,” Vendetta said.  “You’ve got every righ’ to be.  But for what it’s worth, I don’ think he’ll go to war, not in these circumstances.  And a bordah skirmish doesn’t have to make war.  He can let it go.”

            “But will he?” she asked.  “He has such a temper.  I’ve never felt someone so angry inside.”

            “Xavier will talk him ou’ of it if he tries.  He’s a smaht man, he knows wot a new war will cost.”

            “But if it isn’t war, then it’s an uprising.”  Erika sighed, swirling her drink.  “There will be blood either way.  Violence is inevitable.”

            “Yes,” Vendetta agreed softly.  “I’m afraid it will be.”

            Erika reached a hand out to her friend.  Bronwyn clasped it, lacing their fingers together.  The women held onto each other, anchoring themselves together in the rising sea of dread.

Chapter 26: The King's Harp

Summary:

Erika is summoned to the palace late at night. The king confides in one of his spies.

Chapter Text

            Erika woke slowly, aware of her father’s hand on her shoulder and his voice coaxing her awake.  It was much too dark to be morning.  Erika grumbled unintelligibly, nuzzling into her pillow.

            “Erika,” her father whispered a bit louder, “wake up.  The king is summoning you.”

            The words struck her like a blow to the face.  Erika floundered upright, clutching her blanket to her chest.  “The king?  Now?”

            Her father nodded, handing her a simple dress.  “Dress and go downstairs.  There’s some guards waiting to escort you to the palace.”

            Her fingers felt clumsy and numb as she hurried to get dressed.  Her mother came into her makeshift room; Marie’s hands were deft and sure, and Erika let her own hang like dazed birds at her sides.  She was clueless to the time, but she knew it was terribly late.  What could the king possibly need his court singer for at such an hour?

            Erika hurried downstairs.  The guards stood up from the table they had sat at.  Erika froze at the gleam of moonlight on a metal-covered arm and the shape of a tall figure.

            “Still sure you aren’t a bird in a cage?”  Creed’s voice in the dark made Erika shiver.  She did not offer a reply, only walking towards the door.  The guards fell in step with her.  She was aware of Creed looming next to her.  The feel of barely contained violence that always followed him made Erika’s muscles ache with tension.

            The silence as they began their walk to the palace only made the sensation worse.  “Why does his majesty summon me?” Erika dared to ask.  Her voice was softer and slower than normal, her brain still mussed from sleep.

            “The king is troubled,” Creed replied, his voice a low rumble in the dark.  “Since the news about Alyria, things have been growing increasingly tense.  Though I hear you know about some of that.”

            Erika did not reply.  It was true; there had been a surge in the number of towns that the Order of X had appeared in.  Word of the attack had spread with the speed of a wildfire, and the people were frightened.  They needed someone to blame, and the Iron King was the easiest to choose.

            Creed didn’t offer any conversation, and Erika couldn’t stop dwelling on it all.  Her mind had hardly stopped in the days since the news had come.  She kept remembering how scared she had been during the war.  She had slept with her parents often, needing their warmth and the sound of their breathing to remind her she was safe, if only for the moment.

            Erika hardly noticed as she was led into the palace.  She came to attention only when she realized they were entering a part of the palace she hadn’t seen before.  The staircase was small, secretive, and opened into a lightly decorated hall; compared to the grandeur of the other parts of the palace, the hall was bare and desolate.  The walls were decorated with simple wood carvings, pretty landscape paintings, charming tapestries, but nothing like the elaborate works displayed elsewhere.  They had entered the king’s private spaces.

            The guards led her past closed door after closed door.  Erika could only assume they were private chambers for the royal family or any court members staying in the palace, or perhaps guest rooms for visiting dignitaries. Erika was finally ushered through a door.  Creed followed her, an overgrown shadow.  She did her best to ignore him and instead focus on the room.

            It was a beautiful room.  A window let in the moonlight, illuminating a luxurious foreign carpet that covered most of the floor.  The furnishings were fine, carved from dark wood, and the chairs were given plush cushions to accommodate comfortable seating.  On one wall hung a large crest.  It bore two gray swords, crossed as if in battle, on a maroon field.

            “It symbolizes valor in battle,” the king’s voice came.

            Erika turned towards his voice.  The Iron King sat in his bed, leaning against his pillows.  A few candles had been lit near his bed.  By their light, Erika could see dark circles beneath his eyes.  It was clear that the king had not slept well in the days since the news from the northern border.

            The king gestured towards a chair that had been set close to his bed.  “Please, sit.  I wish to speak with you for a time.”

            “Of course, your majesty.”  Erika dipped a curtsy, feeling terrible for her slip in manners.  She took the offered seat, folding her hands in her lap.

            For a time, the king remained silent.  Erika felt Creed watching them, steadfast and unwavering; his unfaltering glower stiffened the hair on the back of her neck.  She held herself as still as possible, not wanting the guard to mistake her slight movement as an act against the king.  She could remember Creed’s hand around her throat all too well.

            The king finally heaved a sigh.  “I’m sure you heard of the Alyrian skirmish.  The whole city is buzzing with it.”

            Erika hesitated, but when the king fell silent again, she pulled her courage together.  “Yes, your majesty.  I heard of it from one of your guards.”

            “It’s terrible news,” the king said.  His voice was low and hollow, but Erika could feel the anger and pain that weighed him down.  “They came and attacked our outpost, unprovoked; two of our men are dead because of them.  It is aggression against us, against all the Gifted in the world.”

            It was no secret that the ruler of Alyria, a man by the name of Traask, hated all Gifted.  Throughout Erika’s life, the occasional Gifted One crossed the northern border.  Since the Iron King had come to the throne, these people were always brought to Einsemar; the king, being one of them, felt it was right to give these brave and frightened souls some money to buy food and shelter, and to promise them a paying job where he could.  But his reasons were also selfish.  Those who safely made it across the border were always made to report what atrocities Traask continued to perform.

            Their words always seeped out of the palace, through servants or courtiers, out into the city and across the kingdom.  Heated whispers were exchanged.  Traask tortured them, had his court sorcerer perform magic to try to banish the curse of their birth, threw them into slavery when he could.  Those he thought too dangerous were slaughtered; executions by decapitation, by fire, by stoning, by hanging, each time was different depending on what the Gifted was capable of.  It was no wonder why these people fled.

            Most Gifted were like Erika – harmless civilians with a strange and useless ability.  There were those who could understand and speak all the known languages, those who could tell the weather anywhere across the kingdom, those who could change the color of their hair or eyes or skin at will.  Erika could feel emotions, induce emotions, perhaps lightly hypnotize someone by the emotional input she gave out; her uncle was the same.  A Gifted One was not inherently dangerous.  Even those like her friend Vendetta, or Gambit, or even the Iron King himself, who were capable of great and possibly dangerous feats, were not born killers.  Yet men like Traask wished them all dead out of fear of what was different and unknown.

            The Iron King’s hands curled into fists, clinging to his duvet.  There was a faint rattle of metal against stone; Erika glanced to the corner where an ornate sword was propped up.  It shivered for a second longer before stilling, followed by a sigh from the king.

            “Forgive my anger,” he said into the quiet.  “It’s incensing, what he does to us.”

            Erika felt herself tense.  “Us, your majesty?”

            “Us,” the king replied.  He waved a hand between himself and Creed – and then to her.  “I know you are a Gifted One.  Victor mentioned your little run in together in the market.”

            Erika blushed right red, bowing her head.  “I am sorry.  There was a fight –”

            The king waved a dismissive hand.  “I know the story.  I already reprimanded him for his misconduct.  Your power is interesting, to be able to do such a thing with a mere voice.  And you are like us, like my court and many of my people.  Traask has been quiet since the war, but no longer.  An unprovoked attack means he is testing our border.  If he comes into Genosha, he will kill all of us.  We are born wrong in his eyes,” the king sneered, “and he wishes us destroyed.”

            Erika shuddered, though she tried to mask the motion.  Her mind spilled back to when she was a child, the war, the violence, the fear.

            “You remember the war, don’t you?”  The king’s voice was gentler now, a low and soothing rasp.

            “Yes,” Erika replied – and found the words spilling from her.  “I was nine when it began, when Shaw was still the king.  I remember it all.  Plenty of the time, most things were normal.  More people at the tavern I think, drinking their fear down, but that was all.  But every few days news of the dead would come home, and there would be all this wailing, and the cathedral bells would toll forever, and the funeral processions in their honor.  And Shaw riding through the streets, telling us all lies that the war would be over soon and people would come home.  And the year just before you took the throne, when the Alyrians had Einsemar under siege briefly... They made it into the city I remember, and everyone was hiding.  We were in the cathedral.  I’d never seen so much terror.  And we could hear the fighting in the streets, until eventually the tide turned and we drove them out.  After we were all safe, the choir started singing praises.  I’d never heard something so lovely...”

            For a moment they were both silent, each lost in their memories of the war.

            “I do not wish for another war,” the king finally said.  “I do not wish for more violence.  I wish only for a safe land where our kind can live without fear of genocide.  I have done everything in my power to make Genosha such a place, but men like Traask would destroy us.  To sit by idly is to accept our destruction; to engage in war is to enrage the people.  But I will not let him.  I will do everything in my power to prevent another war.”

            The Iron King’s hands were fists, his arms shaking with tension.  Small metal objects around the room shivered.  Erika could feel his anger swirling just beneath his skin.  She met his eyes, icy blue and harsh with conviction.  “Is there anything I can do for you, your majesty?  You called me for a reason.”

            The king’s eyes softened.  “Yes.  I called you because I wished to hear you play.  I cannot sleep; I hoped some music would put me at ease.”

            “It would be my pleasure,” Erika replied.  “What would you like to hear?”

            “I wish you only to play on the harp.”  The king gestured towards the darker side of the room.  Erika could just see the harp’s shape.  She stood, walking around the king’s bed to sit at the stool by the harp.  She plucked at the strings, taking a few moments to tune it.

            “May I ask... Do you play?”  Erika glanced at the king, hesitant and shy.  It was a personal question, certainly, and she did not wish to intrude.

            “Yes,” he replied.  His voice had gone soft and gentle.  The anger, though still present, was eclipsed by a soft, grieving fondness.  “My mother taught me.  That harp belonged to her, and her mother before her.  It is a part of my family, as is playing it.  But I wish to listen tonight.”

            Erika stroked the wood frame.  How many memories it must hold for the king – and how much grief.  Did he remember the death of his parents every time he saw it?

            She set her fingers to the strings and began to play.  At first the music had no shape, a simple string of pretty notes tied together by her fingers.  Then she settled into a lullaby she remembered from her childhood.  Her father had played it on his own harp.  She had reshaped the simple melody to her own desires, and now the sweet music spilled through the king’s chambers.

            She played for a timeless stretch, losing herself in the music.  She would have played forever if Creed hadn’t stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.  Erika startled out of her own trance, the music dying off abruptly.  A glance to the king’s bed revealed that he had fallen asleep.  There was no peace in his expression, but Erika was still glad to see he managed to find rest.

            Creed’s hand, surprisingly gentle on her shoulder, fell away.  Neither of them spoke as they retreated from the room.  Creed closed the door, careful that it did not make a sound.  He still did not speak as he began to lead Erika back through the palace.

            The silence weighed on Erika as they continued through the palace.  Creed had never been kind, had always taunted her in some fashion whenever they crossed paths.  Why was tonight so different?

            “Wait,” Erika finally said as they stepped into the palace courtyard.  She stopped, expecting the Iron Guard to snarl something at her that would make her scamper onward again.

            To her surprise, Creed stopped.  He turned to face her, face dark and closed, eyes black in the dark of night.  “What?”  His voice was not quite as snappy as usual.  Erika wanted to ask what was troubling him, but that was a conversation for another time.  Tonight she wanted other answers.

            “The day you spoke to me in castle market,” she said, “you implied that you knew my friends.  Do you?”

            Creed’s eyes rolled as he snorted.  Annoyance flashed off him.  “I’m the captain of the Iron Guard, girl.  Of course I know the trouble makers, the new people, the self-imposed outsiders.  You didn’t take my advice to walk away from them, and now they’ve pulled you into their spy ring.”

            “His majesty is my king–”

            “That wouldn’t be enough for most people and you know it,” Creed snapped back.  His teeth bared in a snarl, flashing in the dark.  “Erik Lehnsherr’s friends among his people are few and far between.  What makes you want to risk yourself for a king that everyone hates?”

            “You heard what I said about the war,” Erika replied.  “His majesty ended that.  What kind of impact do you think that has on a scared child?  I want to avoid a war, and riots in the streets.  I don’t want to see the streets of my home red with the blood of men ever again.”

            Creed stared at her for a long moment.  But he finally nodded, satisfied by her words.  “C’mon,” he grunted, turning his back to her, “it’s time for you to go home.”

            Erika sighed, relieved and exhausted.  As she followed the guard back to her home, she couldn’t help but think on what the king had said, or the tears that stung at her eyes.

Chapter 27: Thunder

Summary:

Erika approaches some palace servants in hope of determining whether or not the king is at risk.

Chapter Text

            Thunder rumbled above the city.  Summer in Genosha brought fair weather often, but the summer rains could be hard and sudden.  The storm rolled in before dawn and still hung above by afternoon.  Dark clouds loomed over the city, blocking out the sun.  The day promised to be dim and dreary.

            Erika was soaked to the bone and exhausted.  The storm had woken her from a fitful doze.  She had already struggled to find sleep after returning from the palace that night, her mind too muddled over what the king had said; the storm only made sleep more impossible.  But Remy had called a meeting, and his summons were not to be ignored.  She had scurried through the rain to Vendetta’s house, bundled in her cloak to try and stay dry. But the rain was merciless and driving, bent on soaking everything it touched.

            The small ring of spies stared at the map dominating Vendetta’s table.  With Alyria now an active threat, the people in the north were frightened.  Tiny markers littered the Drake and Frost fiefdoms.

            Remy stroked at the sharp line of his jaw.  His inhuman eyes were hard to read, and he kept his feelings under lock and key.  Erika did not know how to read him yet, though she was learning.  He was thinking, scheming, arranging his information.

            “I have a report from my men,” he finally said.  He was all business, his accent as hidden as his emotions.  “The Order of X is growing still, even with Traask’s open threats.  The hope is that if Xavier becomes king, he will be able to deflect Traask’s wrath.”

            “Xaviers have always been strong negotiators,” Logan rumbled.  “But it won’t do him any good.  Traask wants our blood.”

            Erika blinked, shooting Logan a glance.  Our blood; was that verification that he was Gifted as well?

            “It’s negotiation or war,” Vendetta added.  “There aren’t exactly othah options.  And we all know the king isn’t one for peace.”

            “Yes and no,” Remy said.  “It depends how you look at it.  He ended a war – and killed to do it.  He kills to keep the peace, even when it’s his own people.”

            “Tha’ doesn’t mean he’ll avoid war now,” Vendetta argued.  She shook her head, fiery hair fanning out.  The rain had caused the redhead’s hair to show its true texture of loose waves and frizz.  It was an odd look; Erika was used to seeing her hair heated straight and oiled smooth.

            “And it doesn’t mean he’ll throw himself straight into battle,” Logan countered.  “He might surprise us.”

            “Doubtful,” the redhead snorted.  “You don’ know him.  The man craves violence like othehs crave a good fuck.  Migh’ have to do with his poor parents.”

            “He doesn’t want war,” Erika found herself saying.  “He doesn’t want to fight.”

            Thunder rumbled in the pause.  She felt them all looking at her, so she explained: “His majesty summoned me last night.  He couldn’t sleep, so he had me play the harp for him.  We spoke before I played.  He said he wants peace, a safe place for all of us.  He said he’d do everything in his power –”

            “Quite the powahs he’s got,” Vendetta sneered.  “Do you know wot’s happened to everyone who would have destroyed us?  They’re assassinated, tha’s wot.  And everyone knows it’s by his ordahs.”

            “All kings have assassins,” Remy cut in.  “Believe me, I know most of them.  We can’t know if he intends to assassinate Traask.  And even if he does, that ain’t our problem.  We’re here about a rebellion.  I’m worried about the palace.”  His red-black eyes bored into Erika.  “Have you seen anything in particular that would be concerning?”

            She was already shaking her head.  “Not yet.  I’d meant to look into it the other day, but then the news about Alyria...”

            “I understand.  It’s been a hard past few days.  Try to befriend some of the servants and see what you can learn.  Might need ta talk wit’ Creed sometime, much as I hate ta say it, but he might be able ta lend a hand.”  Remy’s accent was slipping through, an indication that most of the deep seriousness of their meeting was past.  He picked up a stack of papers, a bit damp from the rain, but in fine condition still.  He riffled through them, refreshing himself on their contents.  “Everythin’ else is quiet still, but it won’t last.  Most o’ de news ties in wit’ Alyria, and the responses of each fiefdom.  Most are ready to defend de land.  At least everyone agrees dat de Gifted Ones are wort’ protectin’.  You’re all very lucky ta live here.”

            Erika frowned at his remark.  “Is Orleen not kind to our people?”

            Remy shrugged.  “Depends.  Most o’ de time it’s fine, but not everyone is lucky.  Bigotry isn’t a crime dere by any means, though most know better than ta pick a fight.  Nowhere’s perfect, chere, but Genosha is better den most.  Now, I’m afraid I need ta report ta my employer.  Xavier will want ta know what insights my agents have.  Doubt any of it’ll help much, but maybe we can step up de guards somewhere and stop dis ‘fore it gets worse.”  He tucked his notes somewhere in his purple tunic before grabbing his cloak.  Like all of theirs, it was still dripping water.  “Logan’s place next week – assumin’ it’s dry, dat is.”

            And that was the end of it.  They each bid the others farewell before going their own ways; Remy to the palace, Vendetta to stay in her own home, Erika to return to the tavern, and Logan to the woods.

            Erika pulled her hood up as she walked down Vendetta’s stairs.  She could feel Logan behind her, his presence soothing and exhilarating all in one moment.  When she opened the door, he pulled it further, stepping out immediately after.  For a moment they were crowded together in the doorway, each pulling their cloaks close around them.  The rain had lightened, if only a little, but still fell hard.

            Logan sighed, heavy and weary.  “Is it too early for a drink?”

            “Maybe by some standards,” Erika replied, “but we wouldn’t turn away an early visitor.”  She nudged his hand with her own.  Logan’s hand slipped around to grasp hers.  His hand was a comfort, strong and protective, yet gentle at the same time.  Erika found herself smiling even as she stepped into the rain.

            The rain was too miserable to allow for a slow, pleasant walk to Forest’s Glen.  Erika led the way, hurrying them both through the streets.  There was no time to share words, but Erika hoped Logan would be willing to linger in the tavern for a time.  She wanted to speak with him, if only for a brief time.

            Erika swept the tavern door open, eagerly stepping inside.  “Hello, Papa,” she said to her father as she tossed her hood back.  “Do you mind having a customer this early?”

            “Of course not!” Charles replied, already grabbing a glass.  “Is it dear Bronwyn?  She’s always welcome.”

            “Um – not Bronwyn,” Erika said, stepping in further, allowing Logan to step further inside.  “Papa, this is Logan.”

            There was the briefest pause as Logan pulled down his hood.  The two men stared at each other for a moment.  But then her father smiled, bright and cheerful as ever.  “What would you like to drink?”

            “Ale would be good,” Logan said as he shrugged off his wet cloak.  Erika took it, hanging both his and hers by the fire to dry.

            Her father drew up Logan’s drink, coming back around the counter to hand it to him.  Logan said a quiet thank you before slipping away to sit down.  Charles watched after him a moment before looking at Erika.  “Marie is visiting the cobbler’s, taking some medicine over for their littlest.  I was just about to go join them.  But if you want me to stay-”

            “I’ll be fine,” Erika replied.  “Go on.  Give the family my well wishes.”

            Her father nodded, shooting a last, curious glance at Logan.  He dropped a light kiss on Erika’s brow before grabbing his cloak and slipping out into the rain.  Erika sighed once he left turning to Logan.

            He was grinning that sly grin she was coming to know.  “I think your dad’s a little surprised,” he teased.  “Am I your little secret?”

            Erika laughed as flicker of heat rose in her cheeks.  “Not as much anymore I’m afraid.”

            “Well I promise I’ll be well behaved,” he continued, still grinning.  “I’ll only think about kissing you for the whole time we’re alone.”

            “There’s nothing wrong with a kiss,” Erika countered, sitting down next to him at the table he had taken.  “In fact, I’d be disappointed if there were none.”

            Logan chuckled into his drink.  “We’ll see.  I actually did want to talk to you,” he continued.  His demeanor shifted, his expression turning more somber.  “I know I haven’t been very forward about myself.  If there’s ever anything you want to know, you can ask me.”

            I want to know everything she thought, but she did not say that aloud.  Erika lowered her gaze to the table, rubbing her fingers over the smooth wood.  She knew better than to push for too much at once.  Logan was like Vendetta in some ways; he wore his feelings close, and his past even closer.  In the few times they had spoken in depth, he had never mentioned his youth, his family, anything beyond his current life in the woods.  It had left her burning to know more.

            “Today, during our meeting,” Erika said, voice slow and hesitant, “you said Traask was after our blood.  You’re Gifted, like us?”

            Logan sighed again, wearier this time.  “Yes.”

            Erika was quiet, waiting for him to elaborate.  He didn’t; he only took a long drink, his eyes lowered, Adam’s apple working in his throat.  His shoulders had gone tense.  “You don’t want to talk about it,” she murmured.

            “No,” he replied.  “Some of us discover our gifts in terrible situations.  I was lucky enough to be in that group.”

            “You don’t have to tell me,” she said softly.  “I wouldn’t ask you to relive something that hurt you – in any way.”

            He relaxed, if only a little.  “Thanks.  It’s nice to have someone who cares.”

            “As opposed to being in the woods all alone?”

            “Yeah.”  Logan paused again, lingering over his drink.  “I didn’t always live in the woods.  I grew up in a different part of the kingdom, in the north.  Drake land.  I had to leave after some bad things happened, traveled and worked all over.  I decided here was as good a place as any to call home.”

            “Why the woods?  Why not in the city?”

            “I like the woods.  It’s quiet, peaceful, no one else around.  No guards to tell me what I can or can’t do.  It’s better than the city.  I can go where I please, when I please.  I can bathe in a stream and lay in the sun to dry off; I can hunt and forage when I need food; I can live my whole life without a day of trouble.”

            Erika smiled, a bit sad.  “As idyllic as that sounds, I don’t think I could manage it.  I’d miss all the city noises, all the activity.”

            “It isn’t for everyone,” Logan replied.  He finished his drink, then took a moment to fish some coins out.  “And it isn’t forever.  Someday I imagine I’ll be ready for something else.  Maybe we’ll all be there, even after whatever the hell happens.”

            Erika’s smile turned genuine as she thought about it.  They would all meet at the tavern for drinks and she would have the night off to enjoy with them.  Logan would help her on shopping trips to restock the tavern.  Vendetta would open slowly over time and talk of her journeys from before Einsemar, and then Remy would talk about his most memorable jobs as a Thief, and perhaps Logan would tell them about his life before being the woodsman as well.  Remy would teach them all the native tongue of Orleen and they would use it as a secret code among themselves.  Maybe she would still be the troubadour, or maybe Logan would want to marry her, or maybe both were possible.  Maybe anything was possible.

            But her smile faltered.  There was so much between the present and the idea of that future.  An uprising and war, two dark storms brooding on the horizon.  Could they withstand such trials and tribulations?  Would they all remain close?  Would they all survive?

            “Hey,” Logan murmured.  His hand was warm against her cheek.  His eyes found hers and she could not look away.  “Don’t think about the bad.  Hold onto that smile.  Hold onto hope.  It’s all that can get us through this.”

            She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat.  Tears welled in her eyes – tears of fear, of hope, of so many other emotions that tore at her soul.  Her hands reached out and clutched in his shirt.  “Logan,” she whispered, hoarse, “give me something to hope for.”

            He didn’t hesitate.  His lips caught hers in a firm kiss.  It was commanding, overpowering, leaving no room for doubt.  She surrendered to him, leaning into his warmth.  His arm wrapped around her waist; she listened to the quiet beckoning, crawling from her chair to straddle his thighs and wrap her arms around his shoulders.  She let his mouth devour her.  He coaxed her lips apart with his tongue and coaxed heat to flush her body.  His hands moved over her, tracing the curve of her spine, drawing her closer, closer still.  She was crushed against him, so close they might have been one flesh.

            She would have kissed him just so forever, but her chest ached for air.  They broke apart, both panting.  Logan nuzzled into her jaw, kissing at delicate skin, coarse hair tickling her.  Erika shivered, arms tightening around him.  Her damp hair fell around them like a curtain, blocking the world out from anything but their lover’s embrace.

            But it could not last.  Erika breathed a reluctant sigh before leaning back.  She smiled at Logan, tracing his jaw, familiar with the rasp of his close-cut beard.  “Thank you,” she murmured.  “For everything.”

            “You’re welcome,” Logan rumbled.  That grin came back, sharp and breathtaking.  “I should probably go before your father sees us like this.”

            Erika blushed again even as she laughed.  She stood easily, crossing the room to grab Logan’s cloak.  It had dried enough to not be uncomfortable anymore.

            “I’ll see you soon,” Logan promised.  He gave Erika a last kiss, soft and quick.  Then he was gone, a swirl of cloak stepping out into the rain.  And Erika was alone with a fragile hope in her breast.

***

            The next day dawned dry, though the sun remained in hiding.  The city folk stirred early, eager to finish as many errands and such before the rain would continue.  And the rain would continue; the air was thick with moisture, the clouds a steely gray and brooding blue.

            Erika made her way through the streets in the early hours of the morning.  The markets were just beginning to fill with farmers and other peddlers.  She was not bound to the markets though.  Her destination was the palace.  Today would be the day she would speak with the servants.  She simply had to find a way to avoid suspicion.

            She stopped for a moment on the bridge crossing the river.  King’s River it was called, for it swept just past the palace.  King’s River marked the shift from the common folk to the nobility.  On the south side stood the homes of the merchants and peasants, fanning out to the city walls.  On the north stood the pretty homes of the gentry, all the way up to the palace itself.  The palace towered above all, even over the cathedral.  The king’s banners flew from the spires, snapping in the wind.  The dark red field was bright against the brooding sky; she could just make out the gold leopard and the crossed swords behind it.  It made a pretty sight from the far side of King’s River.

            Erika had dreamed of what it must be like to live like the gentry.  They were the wealthy merchants, those who owned the trading barges that slid down the river and out towards the western bay where their contents would be loaded onto trading galleys and sent to Europe, and the caravans that travelled the roads out of Einsemar and to the other great cities of Genosha, and even farther than that.  They were the fine artisans who crafted the wares sold in castle market.  They were the knights and their families; the sirs and dames of the kingdom.  They were the people Erika had always dreamed of being.  Now she walked among them – but she would never be one of them.

            She shook herself from such thoughts and crossed the stone bridge.  From the bridge it was a short walk to the palace.  The city guards at the gatehouse greeted her with silent nods and let her pass.

            The palace courtyard was already busy with servants.  The smell of baking bread hung in the air.  Horses in the royal stable nickered and snorted for their food; stable boys called reassurances back to them as they prepared oats and hay.  On the training field, palace guards were training, their synchronized motion clanging above everything else.  For a moment, Erika could only stand in the middle of it all, lost and unsure where to go.  The palace servants were numerous, too many to count.  She could never hope to speak to them all and know all their thoughts.

            After a moment of deliberation, Erika made her way to the sprawling kitchens.  The door swung open easily and she stepped into the enclosed heat.

            The cooking fires were all burning merrily away.  Fresh loaves of bread were already set out on windowsills to cool.  She could smell bacon and bread and fruit in every breath.  Trays were being loaded with fresh food; slices of fresh bread spread with fruit jam, eggs that had been boiled or scrambled, delicate cuts of meat or small links of sausage or strips of bacon.  There were glasses of apple cider and rose water.

            For a moment she could only stand and watch.  No one was static.  Every person in the kitchen was doing something; tending fires, stirring pots, preparing dough, cutting meats and vegetables, preparing all sorts of dishes that Erika had never seen on her own plate.  At first it seemed to be chaos, but the longer Erika looked, the more she saw the order to it.  Everyone had their task, and each task had its space.  They worked together to help each other in what ways they could.  She felt herself relaxing the longer she stood there.

            “Can I help you?”

            The woman’s voice made Erika turn.  A servant had come in behind her.  The girl wore a look of polite curiosity, but it shifted when they stood face to face. The girl’s face illuminated suddenly.  “Hello, Erika,” she greeted.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Erika declared with a quick laugh. “Well met, Elizabeth. How have you been?”

            “Oh, well enough.  Busy.  A royal servant’s work is rarely ever done.”  Though she said that, Elizabeth looked well.  She was not too thin, nor did her eyes carry dark shadows beneath them.  Her hands were those of someone who labored regularly, but not constantly.  Elizabeth smiled with ease, revealing slightly crooked teeth that added to her sweet charm. The readiness of her smile spoke volumes.  “What of you?  Are you enjoying the title of troubadour?”

            “It’s all I ever wanted,” Erika replied, and she felt the truth in her heart.  “Though I haven’t done much.  There was the feast, and an occasional summons.  Otherwise I’m free to live my life, and free to visit the palace, to acquaint myself with it.”

            “It can be tricky to navigate at first,” Elizabeth agreed.  “You’ll adjust.  The guards are always willing to help if you get confused.”  The girl paused, breaking into a sudden grin.  “I wish I could linger, but I need to bring the lords and ladies their food.  If you stay here, I’ll meet you when I’m done.  I always snag a sweet or two after.”

            Erika found herself beaming as well.  “I’ll be here.”

            Elizabeth bobbed a tiny curtsy in parting before drifting on.  Erika watched as the girl began to lift some of the platters.  A few other servants appeared and began to help her.  Elizabeth was already chatting away with them as they paraded out of the kitchens.

            Once Elizabeth had left, Erika found herself uncertain of what to do.  She did not belong among the busy atmosphere, where everyone had their place.  She milled about the space, exploring the different parts.  The air smelled divine and made her stomach feel hollow.

            Elizabeth returned soon enough, her tray this time laden with a plate of sweet breads, still steaming from the oven.  She motioned for Erika to follow her with a nod.  She led the way through the kitchens to the back, and then through a small door.  It opened to a small room with some stools and chairs.  Some of the seats were already taken by a few other servants who were chatting among each other.

            “There she is,” one of them said.  “We were wondering if the king killed you for bringing him a wrong food.”

            “Not this time,” Elizabeth replied.  She set the tray down and started to pass out the treats.  She handed one to Erika last, then turned to her companions.  “Everyone, this is Erika, the king’s new troubadour.”

            The greeting was not warm.  Everyone looked at her with wary, uncertain gazes.  The first who had spoken, a young man, finally piped up again.  “Why did you bring her?”

            “Erika is like us,” Elizabeth assured them.  “She’s just a commoner.  Not a drop of noble blood.”

            That seemed to set them at ease.  The young man even nodded at her.  “Go ahead and sit then.  I’m Rickon, and you’ve already met Liz.  The others are Meribelle and George.”

            Erika glanced at the group, then back to Rickon.  “You’re all palace servants?”

            “That’s right.  We do all the work and have none of the glory.”  Rickon’s smile was cold, his dark eyes even colder.  “We can’t even count on a thank you from his majesty.”

            “Rick,” Elizabeth snapped.  “Hush.  You know better than to talk like that here.  You never know who could be listening.”

            “No one here is,” Meribelle pointed out.  Her voice was a low burr, the accent thick with the drawl of southern kingdoms.  “We all know each other, and ya must trust her.”

            Erika remained quiet, tearing off a small piece of the bread.  The taste of apples burst on her tongue, and the sweet glaze on the outside left her fingers sticky.

            “I do,” Elizabeth agreed, “but I still wish you all would keep quiet.  The king does as he likes, and he’s allowed to.  That’s part of being a king.”

            “A king should take his people into consideration,” Rickon countered.  “Their opinions, their wellbeing, everything.  Lehnsherr doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone who isn’t some gifted freak.”

            Erika must have flinched though she fought not to.  An awkward beat of silence fell over the room.  A glance at the man proved he was not contrite; his face was set in a stubborn glare, fixed now on Erika.  She dropped her gaze back to her feet, nibbling on the apple-flavored sweet.

            “You’re such an ass,” George muttered.  “Maybe think before you open your mouth in the future.”

            Elizabeth put a gentle hand on Erika’s shoulder, pinching at the fabric of her dress and tugging a bit.  Erika stood without argument and swept out of the room.  When the door closed behind Elizabeth, she realized her hands were shaking.

            “I didn’t know he would say that,” Elizabeth blurted.  “I’m sorry.  Rickon’s always angry, but I didn’t think he was... like that.”

            Erika shrugged.  “I’ve heard it all before.”  It didn’t matter how safe a place was, there were still people who were cruel and hateful.  Bigotry was punishable in Genosha, the king had made it so, but there was too much to catch it all.  “Is he always so angry towards the king as well?”

            Elizabeth sighed.  Erika didn’t need her to say any more, but she did.  “He is.  He blames his majesty for the war and the repercussions that came after, even though the blame belongs to Shaw as well.  The news of this group, this Order of X... Rickon’s always talking about it, admiring their actions.  I worry what might happen if it isn’t stopped soon.”

            “You and I both.”  Erika folded her arms around herself.  A sigh slumped her shoulders.  “I should go.  Thank you for trying to include me.  I do appreciate it.”

            “Of course,” Elizabeth replied, “and I’m sorry about all of them.  If you come by another morning, we can enjoy some sweets by ourselves.”

            Erika agreed to it before saying her goodbyes.  She left the kitchens and made her way straight to the palace gates, slipping back into the city streets.  She didn’t need to speak to anyone else.  Rickon’s words rumbled like thunder in her mind and left fear sour on her tongue.

Chapter 28: Drowning Sorrows

Summary:

Vendetta has too much to drink and shares too much.

Chapter Text

            The rain began again in the evening.

            The weather made for a quiet night in the tavern.  The patrons were more subdued, the conversations a low hum of background noise.  The soft patter of rainfall against the walls and windows wove a constant whisper below the voices.  A savory soup had been prepared for the night, and the beer and wine flowed freely.  The tavern felt companionable and safe.  Erika could almost forget all the terrible things looming overhead.

            Almost, but not quite.  Erika found herself drifting back to everything that had happened.  The attack on the northern border, the Order of X, the servant Rickon.  Her head was full of it all and it was driving her to distraction.

            Vendetta’s presence didn’t help.  The usually fiery redhead had grown sullen and quiet, and the mood seemed to deepen the more she drank.  And drink she did, a constant flow of golden ale as the hours crept by, as if she could drown her sorrows.

            The night had slowed due to the rain, and Vivien insisted Erika rest instead of work.  All her worrying had left her pale and haggard, and though she had tried to relax before the usual flux of patrons, her attempts had failed.  She knew she couldn’t relax now unless Vendetta calmed down.  It was doubtful she would be willing to speak, but Erika felt she had to try.  She dared to sit down on the stool next to her.  Vendetta didn’t react, only staring into the amber colored beer.

            “What’s wrong?” Erika finally dared to ask.               

            Vendetta remained quiet, nursing her tankard.  A sigh heaved from her finally.  “I’m afraid.”

            Erika startled, turning to look at the woman beside her.  Vendetta had pulled some of her hair back, to try and tame the frizz brought on by rain.  It was even pulled back from the left side of her face, revealing the three scars that crossed over her eye.  She was pale as a ghost, with dark shadows under her eyes.  Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, green eyes dull and dark.  Erika felt her stomach sink.  Vendetta was never afraid.  She had faced Victor Creed alone without hesitation, had taunted him and laughed in his face.  But she was afraid now.

            Vendetta polished off her drink, then waved the glass towards Charles.  Erika locked eyes with her father, trying to express her concern and uncertainty.  Charles only shrugged at her a bit before he picked up the glass to refill it.

            “Everything is happening all at once,” Vendetta muttered.  “I feel like I can hardly breathe.  It’s crushing me.  I’m so tired, but I can’ sleep half the nights.  I remembah everything I did, and it won’ leave me alone.  All the people screaming, dying –”

            She cut into silence as Charles came back.  The man hesitated, glancing again at his daughter before turning a frown on the redhead.  She had not raised her head to look at him.  Instead she watched her fingers as they tapped on the bar.

            “Bronwyn,” Charles said.  His voice was low, soothing; his father voice, the one he had used on Erika when she was afraid as a child.  “You’ve been drinking a lot tonight.  Are you all right?”

            Vendetta shrugged.   She lifted her head, a smile schooled on her lips – but it did not brighten her eyes.  “Just been a long week, Charlie boy.  I can handle my beer jus’ fine.”

            “I’m sure you can.  But I’m not giving you anymore after this.  I don’t want you getting sick.”

            Vendetta’s smile dropped.  “I can handle myself,” she repeated.  Her voice took on a sharp edge that made Erika flinch a little.

            Charles just nodded and set the beer down.  He exchanged a final look with his daughter before drifting away.

            After a pause, she took another drink.  “It’s bad,” she whispered, “and it’ll only ge’ worse.  I don’ trust the Iron King to make the righ’ choices in this situation.  His history with handling violence isn’ pretty.  Everyone dies when he’s threatened.”  She paused to take another drink.  This time she turned to look Erika in the eye.  Erika felt dread curl in her breast.

            “Traask is going to die within the yeah.”

            The blood rushed from Erika’s head.  She grabbed onto the bar, dizzy for a second.  “Bronwyn,” she hissed, “you can’t just say things like that.”

            Vendetta’s lip curled, flashing pale teeth.  “Not say wot?  Tha’ his majesty will assassinate anothah king?  He does it all the time.  How do you think the wah ended?  He drew up a peace treaty?  No.  He had everyone killed, struck the feah of God in the whole continent so no one would dare attack him.  He’s a monstah in a human’s skin.”

            Erika grabbed onto her arm and squeezed.  “You need to stop talking before someone hears you and reports you to the city guards – or worse.”

            Vendetta jerked her arm away.  Her eyes flashed green fire.  “Erik Lehnsherr can’t do anything to me.”

            “Of course he can, he’s the king.  He can do anything he wants.”

            Vendetta shook her head; her hair fanned out in an inferno around her face.  “No’ to me.  He nevah can, he nevah will.”

            Erika’s mouth opened, but no words came out.  Her mind whirled to make sense of her words.  “Why –?”

            “I can’ tell you.  It’s best you jus’ don’t know abou’ that.”

            Vendetta tipped the beer back and finished it in a few long swallows.  She waited long enough to pull out her payment for the night before standing.  She wobbled on her feet, and Erika lunged up to grab onto her.

            “M’fine,” Vendetta slurred.  “I’m going home.”

            “Let me walk with you,” Erika coaxed, threading just a whisper of her powers through the words.  “I’ll worry about you less this way.”

            Vendetta hesitated, but finally nodded.  They donned their cloaks before stepping out into the rain.  Erika walked close to Vendetta, one hand holding her elbow, the other on the hilt of her dagger.  There was little crime in Einsemar – the Iron King carried out heavy punishments for any crime – but the city streets could still be dangerous for two lone women in the late hours.

            They reached Vendetta’s home without trouble and soon stepped inside.  As Erika pushed the door shut, she heard Vendetta’s breath flutter out around a hitch.

            Erika hurried around to stand in front of her friend.  The lower room of the building was dark, but there was enough light to reflect on the wet tracks on her face.  The watery gleam in her eyes told Erika that it was not all rain.

            “Oh, Bronwyn,” Erika murmured.  She wiped at the wetness on her friend’s face before coaxing her upstairs.  Vendetta trailed along willingly, even sat down on the bed when urged.  Erika pulled off her cloak and boots and set them aside, then stripped her own cloak and sat down next to her.  She put her arm around her, one hand smoothing back damp red hair.  “Talk to me?  Please?  You’re worrying me.”

            A faint sob hitched out of her.  “It’s all horrible,” Vendetta gasped out.  Though she had drank far too much, her words were clear.  “Everything is jus’ falling apar’ and I can’t do a damn thing but watch.  All I’ve evah been able to do is watch.  I’ve nevah had control.”  Her body collapsed, trembling, against Erika.  “No control and so many people get hurt and killed and ruined by me, evah since I was fifteen.”

            Erika hugged the woman close, rocking her a little as she began to cry in earnest.  “We all have trouble controlling our gifts sometimes,” Erika said, as soft and gentle as she could.  “You can’t blame yourself for what happened before you learned to control yourself better.”

            “I can,” Vendetta groaned, “I do.  Wouldn’t have happened if I weren’ there.”  She snuffled once, then plunged ahead.  Erika didn’t cut in, didn’t know what she could possibly say to make this any easier.  “I’m as horrible as the king.”

            Erika shook her head, though Vendetta hadn’t lifted her head.  “I don’t believe that.  You’re good.  I’ve never seen you be cruel for the sake of cruelty.”

            “You don’ know my past.  If you did, you’d run away screaming.”

            “No I wouldn’t.”  Erika’s voice was firm and certain.  “You’re my best friend.  Nothing will pull me from you.”

            They sat there for a timeless length, clinging together.  Erika stroked over the fiery red hair and down her back.  Vendetta’s tears lingered, then petered out into the occasional hitch in her breathing.  Once the redhead had calmed, Erika ducked her head to kiss the top of her head.

            Vendetta abruptly pulled back to sit up.  Erika blinked, opening her mouth to ask something.  But cool hands on her cheeks made her freeze into silence.  Vendetta’s pale face was suddenly much closer, and Erika heard herself make a tiny, confused sound before soft lips touched hers.

            It was only a second, but it seemed far longer, as if time itself had stopped in surprise.  Vendetta was kissing her.  Her lips were a bit chapped, yet soft in their fullness.  Vendetta had drunk too much; the kiss was just off center and Vendetta’s head was angled rather far.  Her mouth tasted like beer.  There was none of the heat that had chased after Logan’s kisses, and none of the hunger.  It was chaste and sweet and almost delicate.

            Vendetta drew back a second later.  One of her hands brushed some of Erika’s hair back.  They both sat in silence, wide eyed and looking at each other.  Vendetta looked almost as surprised as Erika felt.

            “Why?” Erika asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

            Vendetta trembled out a sigh.  She sounded so tired that Erika almost wanted to take her question back.

            “I’ve been with men and I’ve been with women,” Vendetta said, shrugging a little.  “I prefer women for the mos’ paht.  Mos’ men repulse me, if I’m honest.  I’ve been at their mercy too many times to want them around.

            “But it’s funny.  Sometimes I wish I was a man.  Feel like sometimes I’m a man trapped in a girl’s body.  I’m rough and mean and bittah and I’m no good at girly things.

            “And then there’s you.”  Vendetta waved a hand up and down Erika, a broad gesture to encompass her.  “You make it look so fuckin’ easy to be a girl.  All pretty and sof’ and sweet.  If you sang out in the woods all the animals would come ovah and si’ with you like in those stupid paintings of naked girls.  You’re effortless and confident.  I’d trade anything to be so comfortable in my own skin as you are.

            “And somehow you put up with me.  Fuck knows why.  I nevah tell you a damn thing abou’ me, but you’re still so willing to be my friend – so much that you’d put your life out for mine.  I don’t deserve you.  And you’re my bes’ friend, too, and I’d do the same for you.  And I’m more drunk than I should be, and I’m a mess, and you’re here for me, so I just... kissed you.  I’m sorry.  I know you don’ like girls, but I –”

            “It’s all right,” Erika replied.  “I understand.  I’m not mad or upset, you only surprised me.  It changes nothing.”

            Vendetta managed a weak smile.  “Good.  Remind me no’ to drink tha’ much again, or I migh’ do something even more foolish.”

            “There’s nothing foolish in showing a friend you care for them.  But you should go to bed and rest.”

            Vendetta hummed in agreement.  “I will.  Thank you, for walking me here.”

            Erika smiled, hugging her friend a last time.  “It’s what friends are for.”

Chapter 29: Bloody King

Summary:

The people in Einsemar are growing restless. Erika witnesses a troubling encounter between the king and the common folk.

Chapter Text

            Erika couldn’t help but worry.  A few days had passed since Vendetta’s night of binging and tears.  The woman acted fine, but Erika could feel the sorrow still coiled around her friend’s heart.  It felt right to worry.

            The market was busy and lively.  Erika had come for her usual shopping, and there was no surprise in finding Vendetta among the crowd.  She wore her usual performing attire; a light, gauzy dress, a bit indecent with its low-cut bodice and thin fabric.  Mothers steered their children away from the fire-haired woman, worried that their babes would be corrupted by her presence.  Vendetta never seemed bothered by the judgement.  She juggled knives and danced with a wild abandon.  She even performed one of her wilder tricks – she held up an unlighted torch, stared at it for a dramatic moment, then used her powers to set the torch on fire.  It was a taxing action, but the audience responded with intense enthusiasm, both in voice and in coinage.

            Though Vendetta beamed for them all, Erika still worried.  She stood off to the side, her basket slung on her arm, frowning as she watched her friend.  Vendetta showed no signs of despair, but the heart could not hide from an empath.  Erika wished more than anything that she could do something for her friend.

            Her attention was diverted by the wave of a hand in her peripheral vision.  Erika turned her gaze away from Vendetta and towards the motion.  She broke into a smile when she saw it was Logan.  He came over, and when he reached her side, his hand automatically moved out to touch her.  Even through all the layers of her clothing, the brush of his hand at her waist sent shivers through her.

            “Fancy seeing you here,” Logan said.  “Taking a break from the palace?”

            Erika hummed in agreement.  “There’s only so much for an outsider to do there, and only so long I can feel comfortable loitering about.”  She trailed off into silence, eyes sliding back towards Vendetta.  She had started to sing, her voice a thin chord above the hubbub of gossip.  Vendetta had a fine voice, a contrast to Erika’s vocal gifts.  Vendetta’s voice was warm and a little raspy, a hint of seduction and dark promise; Erika’s was satin smooth and sweeter than the finest summer wine.  The contrast worked well for duets, a rare treat for the patrons at the tavern.  Vendetta looked so happy seated on the edge of the fountain, strumming the simple lute she had bartered from an old man.  But the shallowest search proved that her smile was only a façade.

            Logan’s hand smoothed along Erika’s side.  Her body shivered and leaned into him, seeking more of his addicting contact.  Her body yearned to lean into him and seek comfort, but her mind refused to turn away from her friend.

            “You shouldn’t worry so much,” Logan murmured.  Erika shuddered at the feel of his breath warm on the side of her neck.  “She’s gonna be all right.  She’s tough.”

            Erika sighed, turning away from Vendetta to try and focus on the moment.  “I know she is.  I may not know everything about her, but I know she’s been through horrible things and come through them.  But I’ve never seen her like this.  She isn’t well.”

            Logan skipped his gaze to the redhead.  Vendetta put on a good front, but he could see the cracks that had Erika so concerned.  “No,” Logan agreed, “but she isn’t alone.  She has you to help her through.”

            “What if I’m not enough?  What if I let her down when she needs me most?”

            “Then you have us to help.  We’re bound together in this.”

            Erika felt the weight in her chest give, if only a fragment.  It was so easy to think she was alone, but she had others; she had her family, she had her friends.  They would find their way through this together.

            “I admit I have selfish reasons for stopping your brooding,” Logan said.  He grinned, bright and a little crooked, the exact expression that made Erika’s heart flutter.  “I was hoping you might like some company on the rest of your shopping.”

            “I’m afraid you’re a bit late to be asking that.”  Erika lifted her basket for him to see.  It was full of carrots, potatoes, a head of cabbage, a few wrapped pieces of meat tucked in the bottom.  “I’ve already found everything.  But I’m not opposed to company on the way home.”

            Logan held out his arm.  “Shall we then?”

            Erika hesitated, glancing back towards the fountain.  A smattering of applause filled the air.  Vendetta bowed to her audience amid a brief shower of shimmering coins into the jar she had set out.  Should she leave her alone?  Could she?

            Erika may never have decided, but the decision was torn from her by the shrill call of a trumpet.  She jerked her head towards the sound.  A gasp slipped from her when she saw the flutter of a maroon banner.

            “The king,” she murmured.

            Excited mutters erupted in the market.  Everyone scattered to make a path for the royal party.  Erika flew a hand out, latching onto Logan’s sleeve; his hand grasped onto her at the same moment.  They anchored to each other, letting the crowd move around them.

            The trumpet blew again as the royal party entered the market square.  The town crier led the way, mounted on a small horse.  “Make way for his royal majesty, King Erik,” he called out, his voice a bellow in the quiet.

            Behind the crier rode two city guards, dressed in simple chainmail and maroon surcoats.  Each carried one of the king’s banners.  The golden leopard snarled above them, twisting in the morning’s breeze.

            Logan wrapped an arm around Erika, pulling her into him.  She could feel the tension in his body, the quiver of muscles ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.  Erika realized with a sinking feeling that only one person stood between them and the king’s path, a small and delicate woman.  Countless people were crowded behind them.  If someone were to act against the king, if the guards parading past would draw their weapons to flay the crowd, they both stood in the path of danger.  Escape would be a struggle with too many people behind them to push through quickly.

            The number of foot-guards were few, their armor light.  Erika had seen the king, both Shaw and Lehnsherr, parade through the city to survey the people and the streets.  This was not a king’s parade; this was a casual affair.

            The Iron King drew close, followed by a wave of bows from his people.  As he drew abreast of them, Erika and Logan both sank into a bow.  Logan kept his head down, obscuring his face; Erika dared to glance up.  The king turned a gaze in her direction, and for a moment their eyes met.  Before Erika ducked her head down again in proper decorum, she caught what might have been a hint of a smile on the king’s mouth.

            Once he drew past, they straightened again.  Erika turned to follow him with her gaze.  The king wore simple linen clothes and was absent of any court members; not even Xavier was with him.  Guards flanked him on foot, and four Iron Guards rode with the king.  All their weapons were drawn and held ready.  When the Iron King was out, peace was never a guarantee.

            Ahead of the procession, a brief ruckus broke out.  “Stand back,” a guard snapped.  Erika could just make out the shape of him pushing someone back.

            “No,” a woman wailed, “I need to speak to the king!  I need to!”

            The king drew to a halt.  He turned in his saddle, revealing his profile to Erika’s gaze.  “Let her speak,” the king declared.

            Erika felt her stomach sink.  She reached out with her powers to confirm what she already knew; the woman was grief-stricken and furious.  The woman could cause trouble with only a few words.

            “Your majesty…”  The woman’s voice wavered, brimming with emotion.  “My son – you killed him!”

            Gasps erupted all around, yet the king remained unphased.  “How so?”  His voice remained calm, even, rational, a stark contrast against the woman’s trembling accusation.  “I have not raised my blade in combat in some time.”

            The woman sobbed.  Erika could just see her, held back by two guards.  She was dressed head to toe in black, her hair covered, her mouth twisted into a rictus of agony.  “You sent my son to die at the border!  He died and nothing can bring him back!”

            The Iron King lowered his head; the simple diadem he wore glinted in the sunlight.  He pressed a fist over his heart.  “I did not intend for anyone I sent to guard our border to die.”  Lehnsherr raised his head, sweeping his gaze over the crowd.  When he continued, he raised his voice for all assembled to hear.  “I did not order for our men to attack.  It is Traask who crossed the border, and Traask who instigated.  He is the one who killed and injured our brave knights.”

            The woman shouted a wordless cry that spoke of all the pain a heart could bear.  She heaved forward, but the guards jerked her back again.  “My only son is dead, and all you can give me are these empty words?  You murderous king!  Do you feel any regret for what has happened?  You’re the Bloody King!  You killed my sweet boy, my sweet Tomas, ohhh-”

            “Bloody King!” someone roared out.  “He’d kill us all to save a few.  Short live the Bloody King!”  A scattered few joined the shout, growing louder and louder and louder-

            “Silence!”  The Iron King drew his sword, a silvery arc in the light. “I have saved more lives than you know,” he shouted.  “Shaw started the war, the war in which our city’s streets ran with the blood of our men, the war where we lived in fear, the war of funeral processions and false promises.  Shaw started a war he could not or would not finish – but I finished it and spared us all.  We would still be dying had I not – or worse, we would be slaves to our enemies.  Blood is spilled to start wars and to stop them.”  The king leveled his sword at the sobbing woman.  “I did not murder your son.  He died a noble and knightly death, with great honor, defending us all from Traask.  You should be proud of him.  Yet you throw yourself at me and accuse me of murder.  Turn your rage to Traask!  He is the Bloody King, not I!”

            The grieving mother threw herself forward again.  “Death follows you like a black cloud!” she screamed.  The guards jerked her back, but the woman thrashed harder against them.  One of the guards raised their hand as if to strike her.

            A man behind her lunged forward, his fist colliding with the guard’s face.  A spray of blood spurted from his nose.  Gasps and shouts surged.  The second guard dropped his hold on the woman, rushing to help his comrade; other people in the crowd rushed to aid their fellow common man.  The king’s courser pranced and snorted as the ground around it erupted into chaos.

            From it, the mother rushed forward.  She grabbed at the king and his horse, but the beast jerked back, shifting onto its back legs as if to rear.  The king kicked with his heels and pulled the horse’s head about.  The black horse bolted forward; the guards, both mounted and on foot, rushed after the king.

            All but one; his grand armor and red cloak belied his status.  Erika knew it was not Creed, but as the man drew his sword, he proved to be no less brutal.  Erika saw only a gleaming arc of metal before Logan spun her around.  He dragged her away from the scene, but Erika could hear the scream as someone met the violent edge of the ornate blade.

            Logan shoved a way through the excited crowd.  Erika was nearly wrenched apart from him in the surge of human flesh, but Logan held her fast.  His hand gripped her wrist in an unbreakable vice.  He hauled her away, never stopping, never looking back.

            By the time the market was well behind them, Erika’s chest felt constricted.  A single tear streamed from her eye.  “Logan, wait,” Erika begged.  “Please, stop.  We’re safe.”

            He stopped and released her.  Logan stood rigid and tight, eyes flickering all around.  Finally satisfied, he sighed and moved to lean against the nearest wall.  His hands scrubbed at his face.  “That was a disaster,” he said, muffled behind his palms.

            Erika didn’t offer any comment; there was no possible argument otherwise, and no better way to describe it.  She tried to breathe quietly, but her throat could only manage wheezes and gasps.

            Logan dropped his hands, sighing again.  He pushed away from the wall to approach her.  Erika sank into his arms, welcoming the comfort he offered.  When he spoke, his voice was a murmur in her hair.  “We need to meet.  Soon.  That’s exactly the type of attitude that’s ready to turn on him again.”

            The words confirmed what Erika had already known.  Too many forces had drawn together to keep the people of Genosha quiet.  There would be blood before it was over.  Erika only wondered whose blood it would be.

            “I need to find Gambit,” Logan said.  “Hopefully we can meet up later today.  Until then, you should go home and stay there.  Enough people know you’re associated with the king, it might be dangerous out here.”

            Erika nodded.  Even without her association to royalty, she didn’t feel quite so safe today; not even the dagger at her hip helped.  There was anger in the city, and anger often led to violence.  She took hold of Logan’s arm and let him guide her back home.  Her thoughts unwound and scattered as they walked.  All she could think of was the danger they were all in.

            She felt numb by the time they reached the tavern.  She let Logan press a gentle kiss to her cheek; he spoke, but the words had no meaning to her.  He slipped away from her as if he had never been there, and Erika drifted inside.

            She set the basket down on the bar top.  She didn’t linger to be questioned about her trip.  She didn’t want to recount the events.  Instead she wandered her way to her bed and hauled the blanket over her head.  Her eyes closed and darkness took her to sweet nothing.

***

            Someone was shaking her.  “Wake up, luv.  We need to go.”

            Erika groaned, curling up tighter under her blanket.  “G’way,” she mumbled.

            The blanket jerked away.  Erika groaned again, covering her eyes with her arm.  Sunlight streamed through the window, making everything too bright.  Hands pulled her arm away and dragged her to sit up.

            “Come on,” Vendetta ordered.  “Remy wants a meeting, now.”

            “About the marketplace I assume?”

            Vendetta didn’t reply, but it was answer enough.  Erika stood up, letting Vendetta grab her by the hand and haul her away.  Vendetta had changed into her more usual attire of a simple shirt and pants.  Her normally white shirt was replaced with a dark gray.  She looked as broody as Erika felt.

            Vendetta hurried them through the streets and out of the gate.  The route through the forest was more familiar now, though Erika knew she would still be lost if she wandered off alone.

            Remy and Logan stood in wait outside the cabin again.  This time they were not sparring.  Remy paced across the clearing, his cloak shed, leaving him only in a loose shirt and breeches covered with daggers.  Logan stood still, leaning against his cabin; Vardan lay by his feet, panting, gold eyes watching the pacing Thief.

            “We’re here,” Vendetta said, stepping into the clearing.  Erika trudged after her, feet scuffing on the ground.  She wanted to be anywhere else.  Anything would be better than hearing just how dire the situation had become.

            Remy stopped pacing; his hands twitched at his sides.  His restlessness made Erika tense.  “I’ll keep it short,” the Thief said.  “We all saw the events today.  This is exactly the kind of attitude I worried about.  The Order of X can use this anger all too easily to find a hold.”

            “It’s always like this,” Erika cut in.  Her voice cut like a knife, irritation and anger making her short.  “The people have little love for our king.”

            “But has anyone ever challenged him in the streets?  Has anyone stood before him and called him a murderer?”

            Erika wilted, the bolt of anger already fading as she shook her head.  “I suppose this is worse than normal.”

            “It’s all worse.”  Remy raked his hands through his hair.  His unusual eyes darted between them all.  “The Order is spreading.  It’s scattered all through the north, it’s coming down across the whole kingdom.  It could reach Einsemar in weeks, a few months at most; my inside man says they’re crafting plans as we speak.

            “Everywhere it’s already been established, it’s escalated.  X’s are painted on the walls in dye, one notable occasion even in blood from some livestock.  There are mobs shouting outside of the nobility’s castles, breaking out into violence against guards.  Many cities established curfews to try and stem some of this, but it’s done little.  Imprisoning them does no good either; one is taken away and more rise in their place.”

            “Someone was executed,” Vendetta added.  “They’d somehow broken into the Frost Castle.  The lord had them executed, publicly hanged.  There was a riot.  At least one person died, maybe more, I never got a clear source on tha’.”

            “Good God,” Erika whispered.  “Is there anything we can do to stop this?”

            Remy shrugged.  “I wish I knew.  Even if we could, would it last?  This situation with Alyria is dangerous, for more reasons than just the risk of returning to war.  Lehnserr has disposed of enemies before.  There’s a chance he’s considering it.”

            “It’s almost certain,” Vendetta agreed.  “He has assassins.  If Traask keeps pushing, he’ll be dead.”

            “And then there’ll be more shouts of Bloody King,” Logan growled.  “They might even march into the palace and tear him to pieces with their own bare hands.”

            Remy fetched a sigh.  “All we can do is try to stop it before it comes here.  We may have a start of them with my inside source, but we must keep an eye out ourselves.  The people are angry and frightened, but they’re also scared of what the king might do to them.  The Order knows that as well, I’m sure.  If they’re smart – and they are – they’ll aim to recruit someone in the palace.  Erika, have you found anything there?  Any people who you think could have the courage to strike against the king directly?”

            Her mind skipped back to the morning in the kitchen.  There had been one man, the one who had called the Gifted freaks.  His name evaded her though.

            “Maybe,” she replied, slow and hesitant.  “I’m not sure.  There’s one I think is likely, but I can’t say for sure.”

            Remy nodded, smiling.  “Keep an eye on them.  But be careful.  If they do become a member of the Order, they may suspect you.  Keep alert for anything odd at all, all of you.  If we fail to protect the king from this, then there will be more blood than we can bear.”

Chapter 30: Identities

Summary:

Erika begins to narrow down who might be a traitor in the palace, and hears news of a new celebration.

Chapter Text

            Erika knew to be careful. Tensions had grown overnight it seemed. As she walked through the city to the palace, she felt eyes on her and heard whispers trail in her wake. Erika wished that it were spring or fall instead of summer; she wished to huddle beneath her cloak and avoid the attention. All she had was her dagger, which she clung to in a fierce grip. She was far from skilled with the blade, but she knew enough to feel a bit more secure. If anyone would give her trouble, she would use it.

            It was a relief to cross over the drawbridge and into the palace courtyard. In the palace Erika was only one of many familiar faces. No one judged her for working for the king. Still, Remy’s words lingered. She could not trust anyone – except for young Lord Xavier. Even the king was not to be trusted. His humor could turn against her at any moment.

            Erika lingered in the courtyard, unsure of where to resume her search. She was reluctant to explore the kitchen again lest the angry man from her last visit was present. Besides, if one were to attack the king, going through his food was pointless. She had seen the army of taste testers who each tried an individual dish. Erika had asked once about the process during a palace visit. The tasters watched over their dish through every step of preparation, and once it was finished they all sat together and consumed a portion well in advance of the meal. If anything were to go wrong with a taster, the food would be thrown out. The Iron King would not test his luck against poisoning.

            Neither would it be wise to infiltrate the palace with someone trapped solely in the kitchen. If the Order of X wanted a spy to observe the king and find a way to attack him, they would be wise to use someone with access to the entire palace.

            But there were far too many servants for Erika to investigate them alone. Not only would it be impractical, but if word came around that she was snooping, her quarry may learn to avoid her. She would need help. And she knew who to ask.

            Erika stole her courage and approached the training yard.

            As she had hoped, some of the Iron Guard was present. None of them were in full armor, dressed instead in leather tunics. She recognized the blonde woman, but the other woman was unfamiliar to her. Two men were present as well – and one was just the person she sought. Erika clutched her dagger tighter as she approached. They seemed to be resting for a moment, sipping water and chatting among themselves.

            She stopped on the edge of the training yard. The four guards showed no signs of noticing her. Erika tipped up her chin and raised her voice. “Victor Creed. I need a word with you.”

            Creed turned around. The familiar scowl regarded her, but Erika did not shrink. She met his gaze with her own steel.

            “This better not be a waste of my time,” Creed snarled. He dropped his ladle back into the water barrel before stalking out of the yard.

            Erika dropped her voice when he stopped near her. “We need to speak somewhere we won’t be overheard. It regards his majesty-”

            Victor growled and Erika dropped into abrupt silence. Creed glanced around before jerking his head. Erika trailed after him around the nearest turret of the castle. She did not dare to ask what they were doing at a solid wall, though she itched to.

            Creed pressed his fingers against a small stone in the wall. A section of the wall pushed inward, and Creed moved it the rest of the way. Erika followed him inside, awed by the dim room they entered.

            As the door closed behind her though, she felt the skin on the back of her neck crawl. If something would happen, no one would hear her scream through the thick stone walls. Fending off Creed would be impossible; she lacked the skills to be any threat, and she had seen him heal instantly from wounds. You have been a fool to follow him here, girl.

            Erika lingered near the secret door. Creed took a few steps further in before sinking into a simple chair. His eyes glittered dark in the thin light.

            “Well? What’s so important about Lehnsherr that you had to speak to me right this instant?”

            Erika stole a deep breath to steady her nerves. “I need your help – your opinion, I suppose. You’re more familiar with the palace staff than I can ever hope to be. I need to know if there are any people you suspect may defect to the Order of X.”

            Creed rocked back onto the far legs of the chair. He remained so for a few minutes, clearly thinking. Erika kept her eyes on him, still uneasy to be alone with him.

            The chair clattered back on the ground and Creed rose to his feet. “There’s a few. Belon, Matilde, Walter; those are my best guesses. And there’s a boy, with a shifty, angry look. I don’t trust him, but I don’t know his name. There’s one servant you can speak to – Elizabeth, the one who served during the contest. She’s as loyal as you can expect a servant to be.”

            Erika nodded. The relief at hearing she could continue to contact Elizabeth if needed was a relief. Though she wondered who the unnamed boy might be. Still, she was better off than before. “Thank you. I’ll take your words into consideration.”

            Creed sneered, his sharp teeth flashing in the dimness. “My duty is to protect my king; I’m only doing my job.” He stalked past her to the door and opened it. “Now scram. I’ve got work to do.”

            Erika hurried away, ignoring the other Iron Guards as she passed them. She heard the other man speak and knew from his tone it was some crude and ribald joke about what she needed to see Creed alone, but she did not listen to him.

            She scampered into the palace, only stopping once she was inside the great hall. Her hands patted over her body, lingering on her neck. The encounter felt surreal. Creed had not threatened her, touched her, raised his voice at her; he had been helpful even. It was more than she had dared to hope for.

            Though she had little hope of knowing who any of those people he named were. She would have to take a risk and seek out Elizabeth. The palace was vast, and Elizabeth could be anywhere, but Erika did not let it deter her as she struck off.

            It took a few wrong rooms before Erika was directed to the dining hall. When she entered it, she saw that the space had been cleared, leaving the vast floor open. Servants were kneeling throughout the room, scrubbing the floor to a shine. On the dais she had performed on for the king’s feast stood one of the king’s lords, and next to him a lady. She recognized them both. Erika picked her way across the floor, careful not to tread where any cleaning had already been done, peering at the kneeling people in hopes of finding Elizabeth.

            “It will be beautiful, Scott,” the lady on the dais said. “The most magnificent ball his majesty has hosted so far, I think.”

            “Yes,” Lord Summers agreed. “But then there are many visitors coming. His majesty will surely be looking to assure them that all is well in our kingdom.”

            Erika paused, stealing a glance to Lord Summers and Lady Grey. Had they truly said a ball? She had always dreamed as a young girl of being able to attend a ball, of wearing a beautiful gown of velvet or silk. She had already attended a feast in such finery; could she be so lucky as to attend another event?

            She didn’t dare to ask the lord and lady for details, but she saw Elizabeth working. Erika hurried over, kneeling near her. The woman glanced up as she sat down. “Well met, Erika. I take it you heard about the ball and feast of Midsummer.”

            “Yes,” she replied. “It’s quite exciting. For the nobility, that is.”

            “And a bit for us,” Elizabeth added. “There’s often leftover food at feasts and balls. We’re allowed to indulge in whatever comes back to the kitchen. Though we aren’t allowed to partake in any dancing, of course. Maybe you’ll be able to, being the troubadour.”

            “I don’t know anything about proper dancing,” Erika protested. Everyone knew the simple dances that the common folk partook in during church holidays and at weddings. But a royal ball would be nothing like a peasant celebration, she felt certain of that much.

            “Then you may at least be permitted in the ballroom, to watch at least. Even that would be a pleasure unlike any other. All the lords and ladies and gentry in their finest clothes.” Elizabeth sat up, tossing her sponge into the bucket. She stretched her arms and back. “Though I imagine you’ve sought me out for a reason, no? What can I help you with?”

            Erika steadied herself. She felt bad lying, but it was the only way to get the information she needed without raising any untoward suspicion. “I’m looking for a few members of the staff. One of the head staff passed me in the halls and sent me to find them, but I’m afraid I don’t know who they are.”

            Elizabeth giggled. “I’m sure I can help you. Who are we looking for?”

            “Belon, Matilde, and Walter.”

            “Bit of an odd group, that. Belon is just over there; he’s one of our cleaners.” Elizabeth gestured to a slight, towheaded man. “Matilde is a cook. Walter works with the horses most days. What were they needed for?”

            Erika faltered half a second before pushing forward. “Nothing too important. Perhaps it has to do with preparations for the ball.”

            Elizabeth nodded. “That could be. Though I wouldn’t approach Belon. He’s an angry one, worse than Rickon. He won’t want to be disturbed, especially not by someone who’s… you know.”

            “Gifted,” Erika muttered under her breath. She cringed when Elizabeth nodded. Belon seemed an adequate guess as a possible source; the Iron King’s open use of his powers was often a source of contention among the non-gifted people. Xavier’s talents were far more discreet and used far less openly; anyone would assume him to be normal. Still, it would be unsafe for her to approach him alone.

            Erika thanked her before slipping out of the ballroom. She did not have as much interest in Matilde or Walter; there time was spent outside of the palace, making them far less useful. But Belon would know all of the halls and passageways. He would be a perfect inside man.

            Yet there was Creed’s unknown fourth person. Shifty and angry sounded equally promising, but who could it be? And how could she hope to find out?

***

            The night fell warm and clear, and The Forest’s Glen was busy. Erika and Vivien had their hands full keeping up with the patrons requests for food, drink, and music. The girls took turns on the stage whenever the shouts raised for music. Vivien’s singing was met with hearty enthusiasm; it seemed the people had grown enchanted with her warm voice.

            The night was so busy that Erika nearly missed seeing Vendetta slip through the busy room. In a brief spare moment, she grabbed her friend’s favorite drink and hurried to the table she had taken.

            “Ale for my- Oh.” Erika blushed a little as she set the stein down in front of her friend. “Forgive me, Remy. I hadn’t seen you come in.”

            Remy offered her a languid grin. “No trouble, chere. A Thief keeps his skin by bein’ sneaky. Gambit would be mighty obliged if ya could bring him some more ale, though.”

            “Of course.” Erika retreated to fetch the pitcher. She took a moment to make rounds past the tables, topping off some other glasses. As she approached her friends again, she was surprised to hear Vendetta let out an abrupt laugh. Neither seemed to notice as she lingered to the side, observing them. Remy skimmed a brief touch over her friend’s hand, his voice too low for Erika to pick up his words, but from both of their smiles and laughter, she could assume it was the end of a joke.

            Her feelings were shamefully conflicted. Erika was used to being the one to cheer Vendetta up and win her laughter, and something akin to jealousy sparked in her at seeing someone else be so close to her dearest friend. Yet on the other hand she was happy for the redhead. Vendetta had no other friends as far as Erika knew. It would be good for her to have more. She only hoped what they had would not be lost. Erika shoved the thoughts away and put on a bright smile as she filled Remy’s glass.

            “Ah, merci.” Remy took a quick drink, humming appreciatively. “My compliments to your father. He does produce a wonderful drink. Does a fair lady such as yourself have a minute to sit?”

            Erika glanced over the tavern, then collapsed into an empty chair with a whuff. Vendetta snorted out another brief laugh. “Tha’ bad?”

            “Yes,” Erika sighed. “I’ve been on my feet all night! I think this is the busiest I’ve seen the tavern this year.”

            “Everyone wants to heah the king’s troubadour,” Vendetta pointed out. “But it is awfully loud.”

            “Can hardly hear yaself think,” Remy agreed. “Any troublesome hands?”

            “None yet.” Erika and Vendetta exchanged a knowing smile. “I think they’ve learned their lesson.” The two women giggled together.

            “Feel like I’m missin’ somethin’,” the southerner drawled.

            “Nothing much,” Erika assured him. “I actually have some possible information from the palace, though. I spoke with Creed and he gave me a few names of who he thinks might be dangerous. I ruled out two of them since they don’t work inside the palace proper, but the third concerns me.” Erika explained what Elizabeth had told her about Belon, and her thoughts on what it might mean.

            Remy nodded along with her words. “Sounds like just de sort we were lookin’ for. But if he does hate us Gifted, you’d be wise ta keep your distance. Know ya don’t look obvious, but it’s better to be cautious in dis line o’ work.”

            “There’s one more thing,” Erika offered. “His majesty is having a ball and feast, for Midsummer.”

            Vendetta shook her head. “A bold move. Celebrating in the face of an uprising and Traask’s attack.”

            “Sendin’ a message dat he ain’t afraid of any of it,” Remy said. “Bold, yes, but potentially dangerous. It’ll be de perfect time for an attack on his majesty.”

            “What should we do?” Erika asked, looking between them both. “We can’t just sit by idly-”

            “Could tell the guards,” Vendetta suggested. “They’ll be on alert anyway, but it can’t hurt.”

            Remy nodded. “I’ll attend personally. If anything happens, I wanna see it for myself. I should be able to have a few of my men arrive by then.” His strange eyes shifted to Erika. “As soon as you’re back in the palace, seek out Xavier and ask if your attendance is required. I’d feel much better if you were at home that night, but if his majesty wishes otherwise, then so be it. Work with Logan some more on that dagger. If anything does happen and you must be there, I want you to be able to protect yourself.”

            Erika wanted to reply, but the patrons were starting to chant for a song, and she knew it was her turn. “I will,” she promised as she stood, “but I have to go.” She squeezed Vendetta’s hand once before sweeping away to the small stage.

            She gave her audience what they wanted, a cheerful tune that everyone knew and heartily sang along to. And as she sang, she noticed Vendetta and Gambit slip into the night together.

Chapter 31: Frustration

Summary:

Erika feels that everyone thinks she's too weak to protect herself, and confronts Gambit.

Chapter Text

            “Whoa there!”

            Erika grinned, far too satisfied that Logan had barely dodged the thrust of her dagger. Logan was grinning as well. To Erika’s surprise, he put his dagger away.

            “You’ve come a long way,” he said. “That’s more than enough for today.”

            Erika sheathed her dagger as she walked over to one of the trees that ringed the cabin and its clearing. She sank down to sit beneath the shade, panting for breath. Logan came over with two wooden cups full of water. As they sat and drank, his wolf-dog came over and laid down with them. As stillness fell over the clearing, the summer birds started to sing again. It felt good to relax; it was Sunday afternoon, the weekly day of rest for the peasant folk. Erika had been reluctant to perform her training on Sundays, but it was often the only time she had to offer.

            “I wish life weren’t so busy,” she said, setting down her empty cup. “All I do is work and work and work. Work in the palace when I’m needed, work as Remy’s eyes and ears when I’m not, work in the tavern every night. It isn’t fair.”

            “Life is never fair,” Logan offered. “Especially not for common folk. We can only push onward.”

            Erika frowned, raking her fingers through the grass she sat on. “And the lords and ladies get to indulge in feasts and balls whenever they like. There was the feast last month, and now his majesty hosts a ball. Their lives are an endless celebration, yet we toil away for them.”

            “Midsummer,” Logan huffed. “Always a lavish affair for them. Aren’t you excited?”

            Erika sighed, tugging harder at the grass. “Yes. No. His majesty wishes I attend, and I cannot say no to a king. I get to attend a ball, something I never thought I could do, and wear a gown worthy of a lady. I might get to dance some, and certainly to perform before nobility from across the kingdom, maybe even some of the king’s allies as well. Yet Remy and V both think it dangerous for me to go, in case anything should happen.” Frustration welled in her suddenly. She tore a fistful of grass free. “I know I’m no fighter, but I can protect myself!”

            Logan’s hand took hold of hers, prying the fist open. Grass dropped from her palm. “We all know that, Erika. I’ve taught you enough to keep yourself safe. Anyone looking to cause trouble would be after the king or some other nobility, not a pretty little singer.” He grasped her arms, turning her to face him so their eyes met. “Still. Be careful, and bring your dagger. Many a celebration has gone wrong in many palaces.”

            She looked at him, studying him. He was handsome, certainly, but at that moment she felt a claw of frustration. Be careful, they all said. Did they think her careless? That she wanted to hurl herself into danger?

            Logan’s brow furrowed as her silence extended. Erika blinked, finding her focus diverted to his right brow. The faintest scar marked his skin above his brow, running down into the hair. Deciding to let her frustration go for a moment, she reached out to trace the scar. “How did you get this?”

            Logan seemed happy to let her divert the conversation. “A cut when I was a boy. I was wrestling with my brother and hit my head off a rock. There was blood everywhere, but it wasn’t as bad as it seemed.”

            “You have a brother?”

            Logan made a faint sound, head tipping to one side. “Well, half-brother. We aren’t close anymore, for unrelated reasons.”

            “I haven’t noticed any other scars on you.” Logan arched his brow at her remark. Erika blushed under his gaze. “You had your shirt off that one time...”

            “I suppose I did. Did you enjoy the view?” Her blush deepened, earning a laugh from Logan. “I don’t have others, no. I seem to lose them quickly.”

            Erika thought back to her earlier days of training. She had thought she had cut him once, but there had been no wound; yet the dagger had born a faint smear of red. “Is that so? Or do your wounds heal themselves like Creed’s?”

            Logan sighed for a long moment. “Yes,” he finally said. “Like Creed.”

            She wanted to ask something else – if he was related to Creed, if that was his half-brother even. But she didn’t know what she would do if he said yes. She could still remember that hand around her neck, the strength of his grip. Logan was nothing like Victor Creed, she knew that, but the thought was terrifying all the same.

            Logan’s fingers brushed over her jaw, his palms easing to cradle her face. “I didn’t mean to offend you, when I asked you to be careful. I know you can handle yourself. But you’re dear to me now, Erika. If you were to be hurt on accident...”

            She softened, cupping his face in her hands as well. His close-trimmed beard tickled against her palms and fingertips. She scooted closer, moving into his lap. It was all too easy to kiss him, soft and languid as the summer afternoon. “You’re dear to me also,” she whispered, lips brushing against his. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

            Logan’s arms wrapped around her. Erika let herself be folded into him, sinking into the comfort of his embrace.

***

            She left the woods and Logan and his wolf-dog behind her, yet the frustration followed, growing every minute. It chased her through the streets and back to her home. It hounded her as she helped prepare for another busy summer night at the tavern. It breathed down her neck as she tuned her lute. They all thought her weak. Vendetta, Gambit, Creed; all of them said the same thing with different words. Logan didn’t say it outright, but maybe he thought it to himself.

            Maybe they were right, she conceded as the sun set and they lit the candles throughout the tavern. Maybe she was weak. Maybe she should find a way to be excused from the ball, just in case. Logan was right, after all. Plenty of royal balls and feasts and tourneys went wrong. Just last year a young knight had been killed in a joust; some said it had been an accident, others insisted that his opponent hated the man for wooing his girl and killed him for it. Shortly before Erika had been born, one of the minor lords of Genosha was poisoned at his birthday feast. Noble houses were wiped out by bitter rivals.

            There were plenty of people who wished the Iron King gone. The Order of X, certainly, but Traask hated the king more than anyone else. It was known that the previous King Traask of Alyria, the current’s father, had died in the war. All the stories and songs claimed it was Lehnsherr that killed him, and the Iron King never denied it. Some of the southern kingdoms also hated the king, though none hated as deeply as Alyria.

            If anyone would strike, it would the the Order or Alyria. But were either foolish enough to publicly strike? Was there any true risk at the ball? Or were they all worried needlessly?

            Erika tried to push the thoughts aside as the nightly crowd trickled in. It was only her; Vivien had taken a few days off to help at her family’s farm. Erika couldn’t afford to be distracted. The requests of the patrons kept her busy enough with fetching food and drink, occasionally bounding onto the stage with her lute to perform a few songs.

            The hour had grown late when she saw the flash of purple silk. She faltered, almost dropping her tray of drinks. She tracked the tall figure to a darker corner of the tavern. Gambit sat and pushed back his hood, gaze already fixed on her. Erika inclined her head in a slight nod before going to the table to set the tankard of ale down.

            She paused only long enough to grab the southerner’s preferred drink before going to his table. She set the mug down harder than necessary. Gambit’s odd eyes blinked at her. “Somet’in’ troubling you, chere?”

            His casual tone set her blood hot. “Yes, actually,” she replied. Her voice hardened. “Why do you think I shouldn’t go to the ball?”

            “It may not be safe-”

            “Then why have me work at using a dagger if not to protect myself? Do you not trust me to know enough? Logan said I’ve come a long way!”

            “A long way don’t make you a master of de blade. If assassins are at de ball, dere’s a chance one might go after you.”

            “Me? I’m nothing. I’m a singer.”

            “Not jus’ any singer. You’re de king’s singer. He’s called you to his personal chamber before. He’s young, unmarried. Palace servants have a way o’ findin’ things out, and gossipin’, and the knowledge may fall into de wrongs hands. Some people might assume he called you to his bed for warmth and company; assassins may kidnap you and hold you for a ransom, or set a trap, assuming you’re a mistress. Others may assume de truth, dat you’re de David to his King Saul, come to play de harp and chase away de troubling spirit, in which case you may be left alone. And some may guess more, dat he’s confided in you, and den an assassin may kidnap you and interrogate you for de knowledge o’ his plans.”

            She felt suddenly and painfully foolish, childish even. She had gone about the whole afternoon sulking away with the thought that her strange band of friends thought her weak. All this time Remy had known a terrible truth – that her position put her at risk in ways she never considered. He wanted to protect her, not because she could not protect herself, but because she may truly be in danger. Erika braced herself on the table. The realization made her dizzy. “I never thought... You really think someone would do that?”

            Remy’s hand covered hers, warm and strong. “It’s a possibility I have to consider. I am sorry, Erika. I didn’t want to frighten you, but you gotta understand why we’re all concerned about you attendin’ the ball.”

            She lifted one hand to scrub at her eyes. “The king wants me there. I don’t think I can say no.”

            Remy’s hand tightened over hers. “I’ll be there, too, and some of my men as well. I’ll keep an eye on you, and you be alert. Nothin’ bad will happen.”

            “A song, a song! Sing us a song!”

            Erika closed her eyes. “I have to go. Thank you.”

            Remy squeezed her hand a last time before letting go. “And thank you for comin’ around. Now go on. Dey need you more’n me.”

            She drifted away, wondering if leaves fallen into a fast-running stream felt as lost and confused and frightened as she did.

Chapter 32: Charred

Summary:

Erika discovers a message that tells of danger.

Chapter Text

            The ball loomed ahead. Erika spent much of her time in the palace. She was fitted by the same seamstress as she had been for the feast. This time she had picked a deep red. The gown was coming together beautifully. Erika almost looked like a princess.

            She liked to stand in the great hall of the palace and watch it be decorated for the festivities. Decorating such a vast place was a slow process. In the first days, the servants focused on cleaning the chandeliers and dripping crystals that reflected the candlelight. The shortened candles were replaced as well, and the melted wax peeled off. A ball needed light above all else. Erika was fascinated by how large the chandeliers were. Hung so high up, they seemed so small, but on the ground, they were larger than any person she had met.

            She was marveling over the chandeliers once more when a familiar servant girl came into the hall carrying rags and wood polish. Erika lingered to the side, watching Elizabeth pass out the supplies. She spoke with everyone, often leaving smiles or laughter in her wake. As she turned to leave, she noticed Erika. The girl smiled, bustling over to Erika.

            Elizabeth had pinned her hair into a bun, but some wisps had fallen out and stuck to her cheeks, forehead, and neck. She had clearly been working hard all day, her skin damp with sweat and flushed with warmth, yet she offered a brilliant smile. Her crooked teeth added a sweet charm to the expression. “Well met, Erika. I hear you’re to be attending the celebration.”

            “His majesty requests my presence,” she replied.

            “You’ll have to tell me all about it. I’ve never been lucky enough to serve during a ball.”

            “You aren’t upset?”

            Elizabeth’s smile faltered. “No. Should I? You’re the court singer; of course the king would ask you to attend. He’ll surely want you to play for a dance, or during the feast. And the way you sing, I’d want you to perform for all my celebrations as well.” Her sturdy shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I’m only a servant. My place isn’t at a fancy dance. Besides, dancing is far more fun outdoors in the sun.”

            Erika nodded; she loved going to festivals that sprang up in the markets during many of the religious holidays. There was always ring dancing at some point, and the kiss of the sun on her skin and the playful tug of wind in her hair added an air of whimsy that could never be replicated under a roof. “I’ll tell you all about the ladies’ gowns,” she promised. “And mine too, though it won’t be as decorated.”

            “I caught a glimpse of what’s been made so far when I brought a fresh candle to the seamstress,” Elizabeth confessed. “I hope you don’t mind, but I was so curious. It looks beautiful.”

            Erika smiled. “You’re most kind. Perhaps you can drop in during one of my fittings then and see it when it’s more finalized.”

            “I’d love to! And that reminds me – I wanted to ask if you’d like a cup of tea in the kitchens.”

            “That sounds perfect, actually.” And it was the perfect excuse to snoop around in the kitchens some more. She had done her best to investigate each of the three people Creed had mentioned to her. Belon was easy to track, but Matilde and Walter were more difficult. Walter in particular; Erika had no purpose in a stable other than to pet the horses, and she could only do that for so long without seeming suspicious. It felt wrong for her to enter the kitchens as well; it was such a busy space, and she would only be in the way.

            The kitchens were made hot with all the fires and busy bodies, but the open windows let some air flow through the room. All the kitchen servants were sweating profusely even with their hair tied back and sleeves rolled up. Erika skimmed a glance over everyone until she found Matilde.

            Matilde was a chubby, matronly woman, with a flushed complexion and twinkly eyes. Her dark hair had started to gray at the roots, though the effect added a subtle warmth to her. There was no anger to her expression or posture, nothing threatening about her at all. Of course, appearances were deceiving – she could be the inside man.

            And there was an inside man in the palace. Gambit’s spy in the Order of X had confirmed that the Order had an agent in the palace walls. Erika felt more anxious every day. How could she find the person in question among so many? What would happen if she did? What would happen if she didn’t?

            Elizabeth led her past all the work and into the same room that she and her friends had broken their fast in. There was a different group of people, all women this time. Some had the flushed, sweaty countenances of kitchen people; others had the work-rough hands of the general palace servants. All of them were welcoming and courteous to Erika, some even outright friendly. A large pot of tea went around and a variety or worn, chipped cups were filled. Erika sipped at hers, falling easily into the idle chatter.

            “I’ve been helping the seamstresses,” a girl named Emelin said. “Lady Anne-Marie’s is stunning – green silk with white fur trim on the sleeves. And the king! His doublet is embroidered with cloth of gold and encrusted with garnets. I’ve never seen something so lovely.”

            “Except maybe Lord Charles’ eyes,” another girl said with a dreamy sigh. “Have you ever seen such a shade of blue?”

            “Oh, come off it Tansy,” an older woman chided. “Lord Xavier and His Majesty may as well be married. They have eyes only for each other.”

            Erika frowned into her tea. Over her time spent in the palace, she had seen the king and his right hand together often. She knew from what Xavier had said before that the king had lived with the Xavier’s after the murder of his own household, and that the two had been raised and tutored alongside each other since then. The two rarely strayed apart, and when together, they communicated in a silent language made from glances and expressions. They greeted each other with close embraces and often would touch each other without a thought. It had struck Erika as curious, just how close they were. It seemed she was not the only one to notice it.

            “The hall is going to be beautiful,” Elizabeth said, the conversation already well past the lords and ladies and what they would wear to the ball. “The Midsummer tapestries are being brought out tomorrow to be hung, and the chandeliers should be polished fully by then. I hear Ororo will be giving the king leave to use the flowers in her gardens.”

            Erika looked over at her. “Who’s Ororo?”

            Elizabeth smiled, eyes twinkling. “Ororo Stormbringer they call her. She’s a member of the king’s court, though she isn’t a lady. She comes from a desert kingdom she calls Egypt, from a distant continent far to the south – though there are rumors her mother was a princess of a different kingdom or tribe on that continent. All that is known for certain is that she comes from a long line of witches and priestesses. Though no one is certain if she is a witch, or one of the Gifted. With her shout she creates thunder, with her tears she makes rain. With a wave of her hand, snow falls across the land. She has the power of a god.”

            “That’s sacrilege to say,” the same older woman grouched. “There is only Our Holy Father. The Church seeks out pagans to punish.”

            Elizabeth tutted softly. “I’m a good Christian just like you. I’m only comparing her to the old deities of the ancient myths. Like Jupiter.” Elizabeth waved her hand that didn’t hold her teacup. “Besides, Ororo is known not to worship our God, yet the Church does not pursue her.”

            Erika sipped her tea to keep herself from smirking visibly. It seemed there was more than one pagan in Einsemar. Vendetta worshiped her own array of deities from Brittania, following a pagan religion that pre-dated the sweeping Christianization of the world. Much of the religion had been lost it seemed, and Vendetta called it by no name. But she worshiped gods of nature and believed in a supernatural Faerie world. Gemstones had purposes and meanings, and burning certain herbs could cleanse the air of bad spirits. Erika kept the knowledge secret. In the rare case that a witch was found, they were often killed in horrific ways.

            “Either way,” Elizabeth resumed, “Ororo lives in a tall tower apart from the palace.” Erika hummed; she’d seen the tower, but never knew what its purpose was. “In her tower, she has created grand gardens bursting with flowers year round. Some of them come from her native land. She often gives some to the king to use as decorations for royal celebrations.”

            “I love flowers,” the dreamy, romantic girl, Tansy, said again. “Especially roses. They’re so perfect.”

            The conversation flowed like so as everyone sipped their tea and rested their feet. Whenever a girl finished, she took her teacup and left to return to her duties. Eventually it was only Erika and Elizabeth again.

            “How do you like working in the palace?” Elizabeth asked as she gathered up any dishes that had been left and wiped up any spilled tea.

            “It’s interesting,” she supplied. “Life in the palace is so different from outside. Everyone seems to be in no hurry. And it’s all so beautiful. The only thing that compares outside is nature, and some of my father’s art.”

            “Your father makes art?”

            “Rarely. He did it more before I was born,” Erika confessed, “but he never returned to it quite so regularly. He has a few leather bound books of sketches done with charcoal. Some of my mother, of me as a baby, of his brother and his family, the farm where we grow the wheat and grapes to make ales and wines. He does beautiful work. It’s a shame he can’t pursue it further.”

            “Maybe someday he can.” Elizabeth went to pick up the tray with the teapot, but swore under her breath as she saw another stain. “Some of these girls are so clumsy,” she muttered as she picked up the rag and went to clean it up.

            Erika chuckled to herself, looking around the room for any other spills. But her eyes found something else. There was a small bit of relatively fresh ashes in the fireplace, and something among the ashes.

            She moved closer, crouching by the hearth. It was too hot to burn a fire for warmth, and there was no means to cook in the fireplace. She poked among the ashes with her fingers, finally pinching the unburned object and pulling it free.

            It was paper, stained, but clearly written on. At a glance she saw only one thing: at the bottom was a scraggled X.

            Erika stood, carefully tucking the charred paper into the pocket within her skirt. Elizabeth was coming back.

            “I ought to be heading home,” Erika said, startled some by the steadiness of her voice. “There’s much to be done before the tavern can open tonight.”

            “Of course,” Elizabeth replied, cheerful as ever. She picked up the tray, moving towards the door. Erika hurried ahead of her to open it. “Ah, thank you. Well, I suppose I’ll see you soon.”

            “Yes,” Erika agreed. “Soon. Goodbye!” She walked as fast as she dared through the kitchen and across the palace courtyard. She passed through the gatekeep and strolled away from the palace. But as soon as it was behind her, she picked up her skirt and hurried.

            Not for the first time, she wished that the southerner had divulged where he was staying while in Einsemar. She wasn’t sure if it was best to go to Logan or Vendetta instead, but Logan was much farther, and Erika needed to share what she had found now. She rushed all the way to Vendetta’s house, knowing there was a risk that she would not be home, knowing she would deal with that chance if it happened to be so.

            The house was narrow but tall, looming over the street. Erika recognized it on sight. Still running to it, she threw out her power, searching for the fiery, tumultuous emotions of her friend. She felt them only for a second, fierce and bright as wildfire.

            Erika threw herself to the door, only pounding on it a few times before shoving it open herself. “Bronwyn!” she cried out as she flew over the threshold. “Come down, I need to talk to you!”

            “Jus’ a minute,” Bronwyn’s voice came back. She sounded rougher than usual. Erika stopped at the bottom of the stairs, tipping her head up. The stairs looped back on themselves, so she couldn’t see anything on the floor above, but... She opened her powers again, reaching out to her friend. She felt heady, buzzing with something that tingled pleasantly against Erika’s mind. Erika thought, suddenly, of her first kiss with Logan; it had felt something like that.

            Vendetta’s light, quick tread came down the stairs. Many of the stairs creaked, various different pitches. Some of them came twice though. Erika backed away, blushing a little. Had she interrupted something private? Perhaps she should have knocked and waited...

            Vendetta jogged down the last of the stairs, and Erika was both surprised and unsurprised to see Remy hot on her heels. They looked entirely composed, though Remy only wore supple breeches and an open-necked shirt. Vendetta wore a crooked smile. “Wot’s got you in a dither, luv?”

            “I’m sorry,” Erika blurted. “I didn’t mean to – interrupt anything. But – well.” She stammered into silence, instead pulling the charred note out of her pocket. “I found this today. I think it’s important.”

            Remy brushed past Vendetta, taking the paper from her. His jaw tightened as he skimmed it. “It is,” he said. “Upstairs. No one’ll hear us dere.”

            The three of them hurried upstairs, settling at the table. Erika glanced at the fourth, empty chair. “What about Logan?”

            “We’ll visit ‘im in a bit,” Remy answered. “Let me make sure dis is what I fear it is.”

            They sat in silence as Remy peered at the note. Occasionally he blew gently at it, casting off more ash. “Merde,” he spat out, sitting up abruptly. “It’s from de Order. Most of it’s burnt off, but dere’s enough. Says to keep low and strike when... when de time’s right, I assume. Could be anytime, but dis damn ball...” The Thief shoved a hand through his hair again. “I have to speak to Xavier, now. Bronwyn, go tell Logan.” Erika opened her mouth to protest, but Remy raised a hand to silence her. “You were out in de woods jus’ de other day. We can’t have anyone suspectin’ anything. De Lady of Secrets though can go wherever she likes.”

            Erika acquiesced. No one would dare question Vendetta’s reasons for anything. Besides, given how much concern Logan had for her safety, there was a chance he would come to the tavern tonight after hearing the news.

            Remy shrugged into his leather jerkin, long fingers deftly buckling it shut. He wrapped his cloak around himself, purple silk flashing. Vendetta strapped on a few extra knives. Both moved with a militaristic efficiency and were ready in seconds. Erika led the way down the stairs and outside. The two went in separate directions, walking fast. Erika watched them leave, her chest tight.

            She had been aware of the danger from the moment she agreed to work with all of them. But now it seemed so real. The king’s life was possibly in danger, the safety of everyone attending the ball could be at risk – including herself. Panic wrapped its hands around her throat, making her lungs ache and burn.

            She turned without thought, letting her feet take her where they would. She walked, barely seeing the streets around her. She made the turns without a thought, and soon found herself outside the cathedral.

            She stopped, looking up at the building. It was built in grand style, with flying buttresses and delicate spires. Stained glass windows decorated each side. It was more beautiful than the palace, and a sanctuary to her troubled heart.

            It was not a time of service, but the cathedral was always open. Erika pulled open a heavy door and ducked inside. The interior was cool and illuminated by light spilling through the colorful glass. The images on the glass were spilled to the floor. Erika could make out depictions of Christ in various stages of the Gospel.

            She passed by the pews, moving directly to the chancel. She knelt at the altar, folding her arms on the cool wood and resting her forehead on her arms. She knelt, still and quiet, her lips moving in silent prayer. Our Father in Heaven, please protect our king, please protect our kingdom, please don’t let there be bloodshed. Over and over she whispered her prayer.

            She did not know how much time had passed before a hand lighted softly on her shoulder. “What is wrong, child?”

            Erika sat up slowly. She wiped at her face, unsurprised to find tears on her cheeks. “I can’t say,” she replied. “But I am afraid. I am afraid of so many things. I only wanted to pray for a moment...”

            “I wise choice.” The voice belonged to a man. His voice was rich and smooth, warm and kind. But the feel of his hand on her shoulder was strange. “There are many things we cannot handle, but which God can.”

            Erika bit at her lip. “Are you a priest?” she asked.

            “Oh, no.” The hand lifted from her. Erika turned around, looking up into a midnight blue face and yellow eyes. He wore the simple robes of a monk, and from beneath his robe sprouted a tail that bobbed and curled on its own. A hand with only three fingers waved in a vague, dismissive gesture. “The priests think it wrong for one with a devilish appearance to be a priest. But they allow me to live here and to serve in what ways I can. I am Kurt Wagner.”

            “Erika Deforest,” she introduced herself. “You’re... Are you Gifted?”

            Kurt hesitated, but nodded. “If you can call being born with this appearance a gift.”

            She took his hand hesitantly. His palm felt rough, but the back of his hand was soft, velvet smooth with fur. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She wanted to compliment the color of his fur, but could think of no way to politely phrase it.

            Kurt seemed to understand she meant kindness though, for her smiled at her. “There are those who run away in fear if they see me. I’m glad to find someone who does not. Do you feel better, for having prayed?”

            She nodded, and it was true. Her chest felt looser and lighter now, as if she had taken a boulder off herself. She moved to rise, and Kurt helped her to her feet.

            “You are always welcome here,” he said. “And if you ever wish for company when you come alone, you only have to say my name.”

            “I’ll remember,” she promised, and she promised herself to visit him. He seemed to sweet and so lonely.

            Kurt led her to the door and opened it for her. Erika bid him goodbye and made her way home. She did not dwell on the burnt note she had found, or what it might mean. She put it away and out of mind.

            When she returned to the tavern, neither of her parents were home. She took the time to clean the tables, bar, and all the wooden dishes. When she heard the door open, she finally stopped, looking up. It wasn’t much of a surprise to see Logan.

            The words blurted out of her without the consent of her mind. “You were right. I’m in danger if I go to the ball, and it was stupid of me to be upset with you for being worried, and I’m sorry-”

            He was with her in seconds, pulling her into him. Her face pressed into the soft wool of his shirt. He was all around her, his arms holding onto her, the scent of his body filling her nose. She clung to him just as fiercely, tears welling in her eyes, her whole body shaking like a leaf. He spoke low and soft, her mind too chaotic again to follow what he said. But she could feel his voice, a low rumble in his chest, and she pressed closer to him. There was comfort in his arms and the warmth of his body against her own.

            They stood like so for a time until her trembling subsided. She drew back enough to swipe her sleeve over her face again. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m just... terrified. What if something happens?”

            “You’ll have your dagger,” Logan said. “You know enough to look out for yourself. Only yourself. Don’t worry about anyone else. There’ll be more than enough guards to stop an attack. If anyone tries to hurt you, hurt them first.”

            “I don’t know if I can,” she confessed. “It’s one thing to wave a dagger out in the woods. It’s another to wave it at someone.” She couldn’t imagine scratching anyone on purpose, let alone driving a blade into a body. The thought yanked a trembling shudder from her.

            Logan’s hands ran up and down her arms. “It’ll be all right. Remy will be there, too. Find him and keep close if that makes you feel safer. Just be careful.”

            She nodded. Logan tipped her chin up, his hand strong and steady under her jaw. She surrendered willingly to his lips, letting his kiss wipe her mind clean if only for a moment.

Chapter 33: The Hand

Summary:

Terrible news comes from Alyria, and the Iron King seeks counsel from his troubadour. Erika overhears a secret that changes everything.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

            The missive came during the day, with no escort. Erika made her way to the palace with the sense that a rock lay in her stomach. Everything felt ominous in this time. She did not look at anyone as she hurried through the city streets, too nervous about what she might see in their eyes. She gave her missive to one of the guards at the gate, and he called down a companion to escort her to the king.

            The guard led her to the great hall and left her outside the room. The doors stood ajar, but mostly closed. Guards flanked the doors, stoic and still. Erika thought they may have been trying to ignore the two tense voices leaking from inside. One of the guards pushed the partly opened door further, just enough for her to slip inside.

            In the hall, she could see the scene that she overheard. The Iron King and Charles Xavier were in a heated discussion. Erika crept down the length of the hall, watching their figures come into focus. Xavier stood with his back towards her, watching his friend pace back and forth before the dais of his throne. The Iron King had removed his cloak; the black and red fabric lay draped on the seat of his throne. He paced with long strides, one hand flexing into fists, the other with fingers wide spread. A silver pendant and chain wove between his splayed fingers. Every time he turned his crown glittered in his dark blond hair. The only other people present were two Iron Guards, protecting their king.

            “I agree Traask must be stopped, from killing Gifted Ones and threatening our kingdom, yes,” Xavier said. No friendly warmth suffused his voice. His words came out clipped and ragged. “But perhaps a more reasonable approach would be wise.”

            “His cruelty is a declaration of war,” the Iron King snapped back. “He needs to die for what he has done.”

            “Erik, please. We have it in us to be better men than him-”

            “We already are!” the king exclaimed, whirling towards his friend, hands splayed open. “He is a mere man; look at us, Charles.” The Iron King raised his open hand, the necklace lashing back and forth between his fingers. “We have powers the likes of the old gods of Rome. In a long-ago day, we would have been gods ourselves. Men like Traask wish us to be dead because we are a threat to their existence. You think all men have good in their hearts, but I know better, Charles. All men carry violence.”

            “Not all men are like Shaw. I told you once that killing Shaw would not bring you peace, and it did not. Killing Traask will not bring you peace, either.”

            The king snapped his fist shut around the necklace. In four long strides, he stood before his friend. “Peace was never an option,” he hissed. “All I have ever known is violence and killing and betrayal. Shaw saw to that.”

            “That isn’t true,” Xavier protested, his voice softer, gentler. “You have known kindness and peace. All the years we’ve had together, Erik, all the years in my father’s palace. Don’t you remember?”

            The Iron King’s body lost its tension, collapsing inward. One of his hands rose to his friend’s shoulder. “Of course I remember, Charles. I tried your way. It failed me.” His blue eyes skipped over Xavier’s shoulder and landed on Erika. She flinched a little, guilt swarming her. But when the king spoke, his voice remained soft. “Come, Erika. I wish to seek your counsel on this matter.”

            Erika approached, curtsying to them both. “You flatter me, your Majesty.”

            “You may think differently when you hear what I have to say.” The king began to pace once more. His long tunic swayed around his knees with each brisk turn on his heel, the sash of his belt swinging in time to his steps. “Traask and his sorcerer, Stryker, have begun a terrible act. They have raised a new order of soldiers and tasked them with rounding up all Gifted Ones in Alyria, as well as those who have given birth to a Gifted One, or any who offer them aid of any kind. He is locking them into camps – prisons, more like. There they slave away in mines or fields until they die of hunger, or thirst, or exposure, or any other calamity. Stryker has used his magics in some way to suppress their abilities. They’ve been enslaved to him. To enslave our people.” His eyes stormed, dark and dangerous. His hands convulsed into fists anew as the chain of the necklace wrapped tight around his wrist. “This cannot stand, wouldn’t you agree?”

            “Of course,” Erika whispered. How could she say anything else? What kind of monster could do that to another human being? They were different, yes, but they were still human.

            “And would you not view this as a danger to our kingdom’s safety? Us who harbor and protect our own, no matter their appearance or gifts?”

            She could only nod. Her throat spasmed tight. She could feel his next question in the air.

            “I can let Traask be and wait for the inevitable day when he turns his forces upon us,” Erik ground out through his teeth. “Or I can retaliate and liberate our people. I wish you to act as a voice for the people of Einsemar, a voice for all of Genosha: Is it to be war, or to wait for a killing blow to fall?”

            Erika squeezed her eyes shut. She breathed for a second before speaking, and when she did her voice still quivered. “I do not think war is wise, your Majesty. But you are also right to see danger in this. But I think now is not the time to strike.”

            “I agree,” Xavier said. “The people are already restless.”

            The king scowled. “All because of Browne. He dueled with a young man in the streets and killed him. I’ve outlawed the act, and the punishment for slaying a man, in a duel or in simple anger, is death. I wish it hadn’t happened as much as any other person, but I cannot let the law be disregarded so openly.”

            Xavier put a hand on the king’s shoulder. “It can’t be changed now, my friend. For now we have to maintain peace as best we can, and wait until this rebellion is resolved.”

            The king glanced between them both. “And how long will that take? The man you hired doesn’t seem to be taking any action to stop them.”

            “That isn’t his job,” Xavier said with a small shrug. “I hired him to find information, and he does that well. We act upon what information he gives.”

            “Yes, yes. But when will it end? And how long until the next time the people think I do them wrong?” The Iron King sighed, forcing his body to relax. “You are dismissed, both of you. If war is not an option, then I must find another way to tell Traask this shall not be tolerated.”

            Xavier bowed, and Erika sank into a deep curtsy. They both left, Erika following politely after the young lord. The doors to the hall closed behind them.

            Xavier stopped and pushed his hair back off his brow. “This is a disaster,” he declared. “Traask is doing this on purpose, I don’t doubt it. He’s all but goading him.”

            “He can’t risk this,” Erika said, clutching her hands together. “Not now that we know that-” Now that we know that someone here is in contact with the Order of X.

            Xavier’s blue eyes sparkled at her. I agree, his voice said in her mind. He sounded distorted. She imagined mermaids would sound the same way underwater, wavering and imperfect, and somehow crystal clear all the same. Erik is in a precarious position. But we must trust him to make the right decision. The others and I can only sway him so much.

            Erika nodded. Yet her thoughts insisted on reminding her of Ameline, as they often did.

            The young lord sighed, clearly picking up the memory. “Erik is not always so violent. His anger has been known to take over him at times, but there is goodness in his heart.” Xavier looked around, and when he spoke again, it was again in her head. I would like to speak to you about our man in the palace. Would you come with me?

            Erika responded with a quick nod.

            Xavier held his arm out to her, and Erika took hold demurely. He led her to a new part of the palace, where Erika admired more beautiful art. Then they stepped through a door and into sunlight. Erika froze, lips parting in surprise at what greeted her.

            A garden, lush and green, in the center of the palace. A fountain burbled in the heart of it. Winding stone paths slipped past brilliant flowers that nodded in the wind. Bumble bees buzzed through the air, flitting between flowers, laden with pollen.

            “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

            “Certainly,” Xavier agreed. “It’s a favorite place of mine here. It reminds me of the gardens in my home, back in Westchester.” Erika recalled that as the formal name of the Xavier fiefdom, though such formal names were rarely used by common folk. Charles led her down a curving path until they reached a stone bench, where they sat. “Gambit has mentioned that you’ve found proof of someone working with the rebellion, but you couldn’t say who it was specifically. Do you have any guesses?”

            “I spoke with Victor Creed,” Erika said. “He gave me a few suggestions of who might be a problem – Belon, Matilde, and Walter. I’ve met one or two others that I think could be dangerous, but I don’t recall their names. One of them worked in the kitchen, I believe, but I don’t know who they were, and I can’t say for certain that they always do.”

            “Of the three Creed mentioned, who do you think most likely to be the one?”

            “Belon,” she replied; there was no hesitation. “He works in the palace to clean and the like. Matilde is in the kitchens and Walter is in the stables; it isn’t logical to rely on either of them. Belon would know the palace better, and the guards wouldn’t find his presence as peculiar.”

            Xavier smiled, though less radiant than his usual expressions. “Quite astute of you. I’ll see to it that he isn’t working during the feast, or the others that you named for that matter. And we’ll have extra guards posted as a precaution.”

            Erika hesitated, but she couldn’t quite shake her curiosity. “Does it bother you, my lord, knowing that the Order wants to replace your friend with you?”

            Xavier hesitated before nodding. “It does. Partly because he is my friend, and I care for him dearly. But also because I know I cannot navigate the dangers we are drawing near. Erik may not be the perfect choice to protect us from Traask – that anger of his may make things worse. But he is better for it than I. He understands war. I only understand negotiation. And negotiation will not stop a man bent on destroying an entire population such as us.”

            “Perhaps between the two of you, the kingdom will be safe.”

            “Yes,” Xavier said softly, blue eyes slipping from her to regard the flowers around them. “Yes, that is our wish.”

***

            Xavier spoke to her a bit longer about less dire subjects before guiding her back out of the garden and to the familiar parts of the palace. Erika took some time to practice her songs and poems for the feast. The singing calmed her nerves, though she couldn’t help but fret over what the king had divulged.

            She felt calmer than before though as she made her way back through the palace. Yet concern weighted her soul. The last time terrible news had come from Alyria, the king had not slept well. Would he have need of her again? She was not opposed to being called in the night, but she would prefer to know in advance. Impulse brought her back to the throne room. If the king was busy, she would leave, but she hoped to ask after him.

            The doors to the throne room seemed closed as she approached, and she wilted. Yet the guards were absent from outside, and she could hear the king’s voice more clearly than expected. As Erika approached, she saw that the doors were an inch or two open. Tension crawled over her skin and left her hair prickling on her arms and neck. Something was not right. Clearly the king sought more council, and she should not interrupt, but the tension she felt with her own gifts made it clear that the conversation was going poorly. Surely a quick peek would do no harm? Erika tiptoed closer and peered through the opening.

            The palace guards stood inside, and two more Iron Guards had come as well. They flanked a small figure who stood before the throne, crowned with long, fire-red hair. The king sat above them, dark and ominous, his throne flanked by his personal guards.

            “Traask is endangering us all,” the king intoned. “He is destroying our kindred people, and he shall inevitably turn upon us. I cannot let this stand. I’ve asked much of you, I know, but I would ask one thing more: should Traask die for this?”

            The redheaded figure shifted. “Yes,” the figure said, and the single word sent Erika reeling back from the door. She knew that voice.

            “Yes,” the king agreed. “And would you do this for me, my Hand of Death?”

            Bronwyn laughed, as sharp as her countless daggers. “No. You discharged me from your service almos’ three years ago now, Erik. You did because I was unstable and dangerous, to you and everyone else. You had Creed cut straight through tha’ stupid tattoo you made us all get. I’m not your assassin any longah. You promised me I could live in peace the rest of my life, and tha’s wot I intend to do.”

            Erika staggered away, the words spinning in her head. Assassin? Hand of Death? How could it be? Bronwyn was no killer... was she?

            The tavern girl pressed her back to a wall, sheltered just around a corner. She could hear voices, taste the anger and tension in the words, but her mind was far too tangled to understand. Her mind couldn’t help but turn the conversation over and over. Bronwyn St. Vincent, royal assassin, the Hand of Death. A mysterious past that must be kept secret, a life that must live under an alias. It all made a sick kind of sense. Had Erika ever truly known the woman? Or was everything about Vendetta a lie?

            The groan of the heavy doors alerted Erika to movement. For a desperate moment she wondered what to do. She could flee the palace and try to act normal when Vendetta walked into the tavern that night. Or she could hide until her friend passed by and go speak to the king as she had planned.

            A third option flitted in her mind, alluring and sweet. Erika latched onto it at the same moment she latched onto her dagger. She pressed tight against the wall and drew the blade. Her ears strained, marking Vendetta’s light footsteps as they drew closer, closer.

            Just as Vendetta started around the corner, Erika reached out. Her hand moved faster than she could follow, and the grip which grabbed onto the Britannian woman’s arm was as strong as iron. Erika yanked Vendetta around, shoving her hard against the wall. The dagger hovered close to her pale neck.

            Vendetta’s eyes sparked yellow as she hit the wall. An unseen force shoved the dagger from Erika’s hand. The flare of power died as swift as it was born as the redhead recognized who stood before her. Erika watched the color drain out of her face, leaving a dusting of freckles clear on the bridge of her nose.

            “You heard.” Vendetta’s voice croaked from her throat.

            “I did,” Erika replied. Her empty hand trembled at her side, echoing the shake in her voice. “Is this what Remy meant when he called you The Hand? What did you do?”

            Vendetta pushed against the grip on her arm. “This isn’t the place to talk abou’ this, luv.”

            Erika felt her throat clamping shut. “What makes you think I want to talk about this?” She blinked, trying in vain to banish the tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t know you. I’ve never known you.”

            “Yes, you do. You know me bettah than anyone. I’ll tell you everything, jus’… Don’t walk away from me. Please.”

            Erika squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to reject her, to turn away and run home, to go back just minutes ago and never overhear those cursed words. But the word please echoed in her head. Vendetta never begged, her pride and independence didn’t let her. How could she refuse her friend? She let go of Vendetta’s arm and turned away. “Your house I assume?”

            “Yes.” Vendetta hesitated, as if she wanted to say more. Instead she flicked a hand, using her powers to return Erika’s dagger to its sheath. Vendetta led the way out of the palace and into the city.

            On any other day, Erika would have walked at her side, close enough that their shoulders would brush every few steps. Yet distance fell between them, and as they entered the narrower streets, they walked in single file. It felt wrong to her, but Erika could not bring herself to change it.

            They entered Vendetta’s home in silence and climbed the stairs the same way. Each sank into a chair. Erika huddled into herself, watching the woman she had called friend for two years, wondering if she still could.

            Vendetta fidgeted in her chair, her one visible eye not meeting Erika’s gaze. “I suppose you wan’ to know what all this ‘The Hand’ business is about.”

            “Yes. He called you his Hand of Death. You’re an assassin?” The question choked out of her, scraping her throat raw.

            Vendetta flinched under the word. “I was.”

            “How? How did that happen? Who are you?”

            Pale hands shoved back red hair. When Vendetta raised her head, Erika could see both her eyes, the right a vibrant green, the left faded to a cloudy jade. Her left brow was slashed through by three scars that cut from her brow down her cheek; a fourth slashed down her temple. Another scar caught the left corner of her mouth. Erika knew just what kind of grins left Bronwyn’s mouth crooked because of that scar. She had seen them all before, but never for more than a glimpsing second. Now Vendetta laid them bare, fingers twisting in the air to braid the long hair back. Brown peeked out at the roots.

            Vendetta did not sit before her. The person in the chair was Bronwyn St. Vincent and no one else.

            “It’s a long story,” Bronwyn said. “It begins the day I was born.”

***

            Bronwyn St. Vincent told no one this story. She barely knew where to begin, other than the very beginning. Every second of her childhood and adolescence had led to the moment where the Iron King named her his Hand of Death. Before that she was no one. After, she was no one.

            And so she began with the beginning. “I was brought to a convent when I was only a babe, just days after I was born. The nuns raised me for a year or two, but eventually I was taken by a priest. I lived with him and his sister. I was a propah li’l lady, if you can believe it. Everything was fine until I was fifteen, and then things wen’ wrong.

            “I knew for a while I wasn’ normal. Candles would go out around me without wind, objects would fly across the room if I was angry, things like tha’. Once I broke a window and was yelled at until the priest wen’ hoarse. Sometime aftah tha’, he tried to exorcise me. I panicked during it, and suddenly the whole house was coming down on our heads. I managed to crawl out of the rubble somehow, but what I saw…” Bronwyn’s voice wavered, and for a moment she fell silent. Her head bowed. The old tailor’s house was gone, replaced with the busy town in the British countryside – or what was left of it when she was done.

            “It was all gone,” she finally whispered. “Everything was torn to the ground, like a giant had kicked it all apar’. Except the giant was me. I don’ know who survived and who didn’, but I knew I had to run, because I was full of the devil after all. I ran until my feet hurt too much to run, until I collapsed from exhaustion. It went like tha’ for days. I cut my hair short and pretended to be a boy and begged for work. I nevah stayed somewhere long. I couldn’t control my powers, and disasters followed me everywhere I went. Eventually I stowed away on a boat and sailed to Dostraria-”

            “Dostraria?” Erika cut in. “Did you want to die?”

            The question startled a hoarse bark of laughter from her. “I didn’t. I didn’t know better.” Alyria was by far the worst kingdom to be a Gifted One in, but Dostraria was certainly second to it. Bronwyn knew that intimately well.

            “I was inevitably found by a group who hate our kind. They told me I could work for them for a pretty penny, but they drugged me with some sort of smoke. They had a coliseum where they’d make Gifted Ones fight each other. It was the first time I knew what I was, and I had to kill people with my powers, or else I’d die.” She trailed off for a second, and when she spoke again, her voice was only a whisper. “We fought in giant iron cages.”

            Silence fell for a moment. Erika broke it with a whisper of his own. “The Iron King came.”

            “The Iron King came and tore it apar’,” Bronwyn said. “Dostraria, one of our greatest enemies during the wah, and he came for justice. For liberation.

            “I was in the cage that day. I’d just won. I was covered in blood, sick from the cheering, when suddenly the cage ripped open. I thought it was me at first, but it was him. He tore the place apar’, killed all the filthy rich bastards betting on our lives, and set us all free. He took us all back to Genosha. On the way home, he noticed my lack of control. And every night he would come to me, and he started to teach me.” Bronwyn raised a hand, swiping at her eyes. She had begun to cry without knowing when she had. “He told me… He told me that when his powers came out, he couldn’t always control them either. He told me that a friend taught him how to control them, and that he would do the same for me. Erik was the first person to show me any kindness while knowing what I was and what I’d done.”

            “Bronwyn,” Erika whispered. “You don’t have to say anything else. I don’t need you to hurt yourself for me.”

            “No,” she countered. “I want to. I have to.” It was a flood inside her, and if she didn’t open the gates, it would tear her apart.

            “I learned fast, and when we returned to Genosha, Erik let me stay in the palace. He told me I had potential. I trained with him, with Xavier, with Raven; they all taught me to control myself, to accept what I was and welcome it.

            “I proved keen on blades, so Erik let me star’ training with swords. I learned so fast. It was like I was always meant to have a blade in each hand. It scared me, how right it felt. Before I knew it, I was swearing a solemn oath to protect my king and my country, and I donned the fancy armor and red cloak of the Iron Guard.”

            Erika shook her head, dark curls shaking. “An Iron Guard? But… But you hate them.”

            “I hate Victor Creed,” Bronwyn snapped. She pointed at the left side of her tear-streaked face. “He did this to me. I was his plaything, his toy, his-” The windows gave an ominous rattle. Bronwyn clamped her eyes shut and snapped into silence. She smoothed out her anger, and slowly went on.

            “I was Erik’s sworn sword,” she said. “I would have done anything for him. He sent me out, alone, on missions he could trust with no one else. I was sent to kill all of Shaw’s allies who went into hiding. I was his vendetta, his sworn oath to avenge his parents entirely. Aftah tha’, I was sent to kill all our enemies from the war.

            “But I couldn’t keep doing it,” she finally confessed. “I served for four years, four blood-soaked years or murder and torment, until something in me snapped. I wen’ mad for a month and had to be locked in a tower, miles away from the city so I wouldn’t destroy it. When I came back, Erik told me I was done serving.” She gathered her braid over one shoulder, twisting around. The low collar of her shirt left the base of her neck exposed, and with her hair pulled aside, a small tattoo was visible – a sword pointed down her spine. A scar cut it in half. “He made the cut himself, unbinding me from my vows.” She settled back down, a heavy sigh leaking from her lips. “I changed my whole life. Crushed berries to dye my hair, kept my name to myself and gave out an alias, and kept my head down. And now he wants me to kill Traask, just like I knew he would.”

            Bronwyn fell into silence. Erika stared at her, blue eyes blinking over and over. Finally she shook her head.

            “That’s nothing like I ever imagined your history would be like.”

            Bronwyn quirked a brief smile. “I’m sorry, for keeping it secre’. I know I should have told you, but I nevah knew how. I’ve had a role in all the rebellions, because I let him become the angry monstah he is now.”

            “Maybe,” the tavern girl said, her full mouth curving into a shadow of a smile. “But I think you’ve had a role in peace as well. If Shaw’s allies hadn’t died, they would likely have launched a successful revolt against our king and thrown us all into turmoil shortly after the war. And perhaps they would have risen a king who was even quicker to anger, or quicker to wage war. The Iron King may be full of wrath, but he has kept us in peace all this time. And I think your hand played a role in that, however small it may have been.”

            Bronwyn flicked a hand, unraveling her braid and slumping behind her hair. “You’re saying tha’ to make me feel bettah.”

            “No,” Erika insisted. “I mean it entirely. Though I wish you had told me sooner.”

            “I haven’t much else to tell,” Bronwyn said. There were details she had left out, details that would break Erika’s heart to hear. And which would wound her to tell.

            “I am honored you told me,” Erika said softly. “Truly. I feel how hard this is for you. It’s a lot for me to take in, though. I think it would be best if I go somewhere by myself. You’re projecting a bit, and it’s hard to not be picking up some of what you’re feeling.”

            “All righ’,” Bronwyn said. “Where will you go?”

            “Just outside the city. Maybe sit in the field, or sit under a tree on the edge of the wood. Are you worried you’ll have to come out and find me?”

            “Maybe a li’l, but I have reason to be.” They both chuckled at that as Erika stood. Bronwyn followed her to her feet. “Are we… We’re all right?”

            Erika smiled. “Of course we’re all right. We’re best friends. I’ll see you tonight?”

            “Definitely. I need a drink aftah all that.”

            “I’ll have the ale ready, then.” Erika made her way down the stairs and out the door. Bronwyn went to the window, watching her friend drift away, hoping for the first time in her life that maybe everything would really be all right.

Notes:

I've literally been anticipating writing this chapter since I started this fic in 2016, which is insane!!

Just wanted to stop and say a big thank you if you've read this far! I know this fic is a monster size already and still has a way to go, and it hasn't been the fastest plot, so it means a bunch that anyone is even reading. I work hard on this fic and I appreciate every single read and kudos etc. Love y'all and hope you're enjoying this as much as I enjoy writing it! <3

Big thank you to my friend Jasper (TheyCalledHerCarrie) for letting me use Bronwyn in this fic! I tried to use as much of her backstory as possible to craft this version of her, but all credit still goes to her for this amazing character!

Chapter 34: Friends

Summary:

Erika seeks solace in the woods, and confirms that all is reconciled with her dearest friend.

Chapter Text

            Erika wanted them to be all right. But could things ever be the same after such secrecy and revelation?

            The woods were dim and cool. Erika collapsed under a tree. The shade felt sweet and refreshing. She sighed to herself, eyes falling closed, leaning into the rough bark of the tree. Bronwyn’s distress and grief and anxiety all swirled in her still. Erika had started to sweat on her way out to the woods. The gentle breeze pressed refreshing kisses on her damp forehead.

            Alone and safe, Erika released the shields on her mind. The negative emotions escaped her on a flood, spilling out into the ether. As soon as the feelings fled, her body relaxed with a low, sighing whimper. She did not love or hate her powers, but she did wish she could keep negative feelings out. They clung to her like oil, slick and stubborn. It would take some time to recover entirely, but she felt better for letting it go, though it would surely linger for a day or two yet. She let her eyes flutter open, taking in the woods around her.

            With summer well under way, the world had become lush and green. Birds flitted through the canopy overhead and sang their various melodies back and forth. Other sounds of wildlife rustled among leaves and undergrowth. Erika smiled as she watched a squirrel dash up a tree, full tail twitching. Bit by bit, she began to relax. As she grew finally at ease, she began to hum to herself, and then to sing. Her voice carried no words, only a nameless melody known only to herself. It seemed the birds stopped to listen to her and then began to join in with their own songs.

            She sang and sang until she felt centered and mostly herself again. By then the sun and shadows had noticeably shifted. Guilt nibbled at her mind; her parents would wonder where she was. Erika rose to her feet, shaking out her skirt.

            “Your voice is lovely.”

            The slow, sweet drawl was familiar, but it still startled Erika. She jerked her head around to regard the southerner. Remy sat on a low, wide branch, regarding her with his strange eyes.

            “Thank you,” she said. “Though I’d appreciate not being snuck up on in the woods.”

            “Désolé, mademoiselle. Though I happened to be in de area already. You all right? You seemed upset a moment ago.”

            “I am,” she replied. “Bronwyn... She told me everything. Which you already knew.”

            Remy nodded. “I did. It’s my job ta know everything about who I’m working wit’. Miss Vendetta has quite de past. But if dere’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s dat the past don’t define who we are. The woman you know is the woman she is now. She’s grown from her past and learned from it.”

            “I don’t know how she carried it all inside for so long,” Erika said. “All that pain and anger and sadness, telling it to no one. It seems so lonely.” She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she could ward off the sensation from herself.

            Remy swung down from his perch. “It is lonely,” he said, moving towards her, his steps as quiet as a cat. “Lonely and sorrowing. It’s good she finally decided ta let someone in. She was worried ‘bout tellin’ you. Dat knowin’ would hurt you.”

            Erika considered. She supposed, in a way, it did hurt. Bloodshed and violence made her sick at heart, and Vendetta had lived so much of her life with those as constants. “Maybe a little,” she confessed. “I worry she never would have said anything if I hadn’t found out on accident. But maybe she just needed more time. How do you tell your best friend that you were an assassin?”

            “How indeed,” Remy agreed, a hint of a chuckle chasing the words. “Can’t say I know. All de assassins I’ve known have belonged to de Guild, wit’ the exception o’ Mademoiselle Vendetta of course. I always knew what they were as soon as I met ‘em.”

            “Orleen sounds complicated,” Erika said. “Guilds instead of kings and lords.”

            “It isn’t entirely different. Wit’in de guilds, our patriarch is a sort of king, and his children his heirs, and the people involved are the lords and ladies of de court. We just have more den one king, you could say, and they come to an agreement on decisions.”

            “And what position do you hold in your Guild?”

            Remy smiled, shaking his head. “For our safety, I shouldn’t say. Besides, it don’t matter. I don’t spend much time in Orleen anymore.”

            “Don’t you miss your home?”

            “I do, very much.” The Thief’s smile fell out of his eyes. “But Bronwyn isn’t de only person wit’ parts of their past dat hurts.”

            Erika nodded, choosing not to pursue a topic that clearly upset the man. Besides, he had opened a new window for conversation. “You seem to be spending more time with her.”

            “She jus’ needed some time ta know me better.” Remy paused, regarding Erika as she regarded him. “I suppose you’re curious about de other day, no? When you saw me at her house?”

            Erika struggled not to blush but failed. “I apologize if I interrupted anything-”

            Remy laughed, though he waved a hand. “Ya didn’t really. Bronwyn and I were finished with the more pleasant parts of my visit. Is dis the part where ya warn me not ta hurt your friend?”

            “No,” Erika replied, “because if you do hurt her, there won’t be anything left for me to hurt. Besides, odd as it is, I suppose I trust you. You have a good heart. I can feel that.”

            “I’m honored you say that. I can feel the same of you.”

            Erika regarded him anew, reaching out with her powers. This time, Remy opened to her – and reached out to her as well. His emotions touched against hers, and sparkling colors danced across her eyes. Erika breathed in sharply, overwhelmed with the knowledge that there was someone else so much like her. Her uncle’s abilities were similar, yet so different; but Remy was the same.

            They each withdrew to themselves, and Remy closed again. “Never met someone else who could do quite what I can,” he confessed. “Who could feel what another person feels like I do. Was a pleasant surprise to meet you and learn just what you could do.”

            “It’s a surprise for me also,” Erika said, unable to contain her smile. “An exciting one. It makes the world feel a bit less lonely.”

            “The world can be a lonely place for us Gifted, even in a place like dis. We hide even when we don’t gotta.”

            Erika couldn’t argue. She hid her truth from everyone she could – even from sweet Vivien, who had no meanness in her heart. Genosha could flaunt itself as a place of safety for the Gifted Ones, but it did not change human nature. And human nature was to fear what it did not understand.

            “Forgive me,” Remy murmured. “I don’t mean ta upset you. I suppose I thought this place might be more different than others. But dere are still people dat won’t look me in the eye, who shy from me in de street. Human people, yes, but you’d think they were used to it.” He sighed to himself, raking a hand through his hair. “Maybe business is a better topic. You went to the palace?”

            “His Majesty wished to know my opinion on some news from Alyria,” she replied. “I suggested caution, but having overheard his conversation with Vendetta, I’m not certain he took the words to heart. As for our business, Lord Xavier said he would heighten the guards for the ball and prevent the suspected individuals from being there.”

            “It’s about all we can hope for. Though I worry we may miss someone, or dat if we have caught them and stop them, they’ll coerce someone else to do their dirty work. This was so much easier when I was just gathering information.” The southerner shook his head to himself. “But it grows late. I’m sure your parents will be wantin’ you soon. And a drink sounds mighty fine right now.”

            “You’re welcome to as many as you like,” Erika replied. “Friends don’t have to pay.”

***

            Remy only had a couple drinks with the early crowd before drifting out, leaving a few coins even though Erika insisted he didn’t have to. Erika spent much of the evening on the stage, the patrons begging for one song after another; Vivien traded with her occasionally, and though the patrons enjoyed her singing, it was evident they preferred Erika’s. Vivien didn’t mind at all. “You sing and I’ll play,” the blonde said. The girl did have an affinity for playing, it seemed.

            Whether Erika was performing or serving food and drink, her eyes kept drifting to the door, watching for a shock of red hair stepping in from the darkness. Vendetta said she would come, and Erika desperately wanted to talk to her, if nothing else to assure her that everything was truly all right between them. She knew her departure had been sudden and clumsy, and she worried that she had inadvertently hurt her friend. And as the hour grew later, her worries grew until they choked her.

            But finally, late in the night, Vendetta appeared. She looked herself, collected and cool, dressed in her usual light shirt and pants. Her flaming hair hung loose, frizzed and partly curled from the summer humidity. Erika watched her friend sink into a dim, quiet corner, aware that the redhead watched her with equal intensity.

            Erika finished her song and stood up. She went first behind the bar and grabbed two drinks; one for Vendetta and one for herself. She slipped easily among the tables until reaching her friend, gladly sinking down beside her. “I worried you might have decided not to come after all,” Erika said.

            “And miss a chance at my favorite ale? Not likely.” Vendetta picked up her mug and took a long drink. “Always hits the spot. I’m sorry for being so late. I had a visitor.”

            Erika couldn’t keep from smiling. “Did it happen to be a certain southerner?” Vendetta didn’t answer, but her pale face flushed a bit. Erika didn’t bother to resist a little giggle, though she quickly grew serious. “I thought you said you preferred women?”

            “I do,” Vendetta said, “but some men aren’t complete sacks of shit on legs. Remy’s one of them. He’s respectful, unlike most of the men I’ve known too well.”

            Erika knew there was more to that remark, but even the glancing mention had Vendetta darkening, storm fronts rolling in over her face. For the moment, Erika let it be. They’d gone through more than enough for the day.

            “Do you mind telling me how the two of you came to be?” Erika asked. “I’m surprised by it. The two of you were so opposed at first.”

            Vendetta leaned back in her chair, gathering her thoughts. “We have some similarities. Rough starts in life, trusting the wrong people and getting hur’ by it. We found common ground and sympathy. And then when we started to talk like civil people… He’s smartah than he lets on, and he’s kind. It jus’ happened.” Her visible eye met Erika’s, and her mouth turned into a crooked grin. “Much like it jus’ happened with you and your woodsman.”

            Erika took a deep drink to hide her blush. “He’s not my woodsman.”

            “Righ’. And I’m the king of Britannia. The two of you simper and pine whenevah the other is in sight and it’s inappropriate for you two to be all ovah each othah. And I know you work with more than your dagger out in the woods.”

            “Bronwyn!”

            The redhead grinned as Erika turned a darker pink still. “Nothing wrong with tha’. He’s handsome enough, if you’re into tha’ sort of man.” The joking turned suddenly serious. “Though I don’t understand something abou’ him. He knew who I was on sight. It’s Remy’s job to know, but how the bloody hell your woodsman knows is a mystery to me. He lives in the woods for the sake of the gods. How would court news make it ou’ there?”

            Erika felt that sick, twisting anxiety again. “Do you think I’m stupid to let him pursue me?” she blurted out. “I don’t know him. I don’t know a thing about him beyond his life in the woods, but he said he used to live more north. For all I know he could be someone terrible-”

            “Slow down,” Bronwyn urged. “Erika, luv, you’re being absurd. You think I didn’t investigate him when you first mentioned him? You think I’d let you get hur’ by some crazy bastard isolating himself in the forest?”

            “Well… no, you wouldn’t. You know things about him?”

            “Sor’ of,” Vendetta confessed. “But not much. He’s obscure, even with all my resources. But he’s no criminal, no murderer. If you’re so worried, give him a feel next time you see him. Your gifts tell you plenty about a person.”

            Erika nodded. Vendetta was right, certainly; a little poke and prod with her empathy would tell her plenty about the woodsman. The truth of a heart could not hide from her for long.

            “Eithah way,” Vendetta continued, “I can assure you both those men are bettah than me. And if my story didn’t send you running, you can take whatevah they’ve got in their lives.”

            “I hope I didn’t upset you running off like I did,” the tavern girl said. “I just didn’t want to make things worse if I lost control. It was safer to do that out in the woods than risk making you feel worse, or affecting anyone nearby.”

            The Britannian woman waved her off. “You didn’t. It was a lot, I know, and all at once. I know I should have told you earlier, and I’m sorry I kept it secret so long.”

            “It’s already forgiven. Whatever darkness you may not have shared… You don’t have to tell me.” Erika reached over and took her hand, squeezing softly. “Some things are better left in the past and not dug up again – especially if they’ll hurt you to share.”

            Vendetta’s hand squeezed around hers in return. “I appreciate it. I migh’ tell some of it sometime. As much as I hated to tell you who I was before, I feel… lighter for telling you. And I imagine I’ll feel the same for other things, also.” Vendetta tapped a finger on the back of Erika’s hand. “How are you feeling abou’ the ball?”

            Erika sighed, leaning back into her chair. “Nervous mostly, but a little excited. Not just anyone gets to go to a royal ball after all! I’m lucky that I will. I just wish… You know.”

            Vendetta nodded. “That there wasn’t so much risk. You’ll be fine. The Iron Guard will all be there, and as questionable as some of their personalities may be, they’re the finest knights the kingdom has. Plus you’ll have Gambit there, too, and I wager he’s as good, if not bettah, than all of them.”

            “I won’t fit in though,” Erika muttered into her drink. “I’ll look the part, but I can’t dance anything but a peasant ring dance.”

            “Nobles ring dance, too,” Vendetta said with a shrug. “But they know other dances, more elegant, more structured. I don’t think there’s time to learn one, but you can try. I don’t know any myself, but I think our friends migh’ know. You’re going out tomorrow for a lesson anyway, righ’?” At Erika’s nod, the redhead continued, “I’ll let Remy know and he can teach you that, too. Suppose maybe I’ll come along. It migh’ be fun to watch.”

            “Are you implying I’m clumsy?”

            Vendetta laughed, shaking her head. “No, but Logan might have two left feet. Plus, I can see how he’s taught you, throw in a couple tips of my own.”

            Erika smiled at the notion. “That sounds wonderful. Not to mention you can make sure I don’t get lost on the way out.”

            “Always an important job,” Vendetta chuckled. “It’s that or worry about you.”

Chapter 35: Dancing Lessons

Summary:

Remy teaches Erika some court dances for the ball. Logan has a better lesson for after.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

            The afternoon threatened to be too hot. Erika was glad she had pinned her hair up onto her head before going out into the woods. The thick braid coiled on her head reminded her of a crown. As a child, when her mother had bound her hair so, Erika had called it her tiara and pretended she were a princess. Even now as the king’s troubadour, it was the closest she would come to bearing such a royal symbol.

            Vendetta had twisted her own plentiful hair into a plain bun. Some shorter pieces hung down onto the sides of her face, obscuring the scars on her left eye. Erika could not remember ever seeing her friend with her hair up. Vendetta had always left her hair down, likely to obscure the tattooed symbol of the Iron Guard. Now that the secret was out, it was clear she didn’t care as much.

            As expected, Logan was waiting in the clearing of his cabin. He leaned against a wall, the cabin casting a bit of shade that he kept in. Remy stood next to him, talking in a low drawl. Erika swept a glance around, somewhat surprised to not see Vardan. Perhaps the wolfdog had gone to explore the woods. But her eyes gravitated back towards Logan. His gaze had gone immediately to her. He smiled as their eyes met, and Erika couldn’t help but smile back.

            Vendetta snorted faintly next to her. “Pining,” the redhead muttered under her breath.

            “Afternoon, mademoiselles,” Remy drawled. “I heard you’re looking to learn some dancing for de ball?”

            “It it’s possible,” Erika agreed. “There isn’t much time, and I imagine the dances are more complicated. But I’d feel terrible if I had to dance and couldn’t.”

            “We can’t have dat. Though I can’t say how much help I’ll be.” Remy pushed away from the cabin wall. In a deft motion, he swirled off his cloak and draped it over a stump. The purple silk lining shone in the sunlight. “In Orleen,” he continued, “our dances come from Frankia. Dat’s what we get for bein’ a colony once upon a time.”

            “The only Frankish thing you’ll find here is my family’s wine grapes,” Erika confessed. “Genosha is all its own.”

            “You’re in luck dat I’m a worldly man. I know a few Genoshan dances, brushed up on ‘em when I picked up the job.” Remy hand his hands out to her. “Shall we begin?”

            Erika put her hands in his. “I suppose we shall.”

            Remy walked and talked her through the steps, apologizing more than once for the lack of music to dance to. Erika’s spirits faltered rapidly. The dances were simple enough, little more than dignified steps in a pattern. Remy held her at his side and they faced forward, rarely even getting to glance at each other. Erika was lucky; as a woman, she would be led by the man, and any solo motions in a court dance were an echo of the man’s steps. It was not at all like the romantic, close dancing she had always imagined a royal ball to be.

            She learned quickly, but her lack of enthusiasm was clear. “I am sorry,” Remy said. “You imagined it to be different, oui?”

            “Very different,” Erika agreed. “It’s so slow, so boring. I could fall asleep doing that! Are your dances the same?”

            “Afraid so. Court life is ruled by de church in many ways, and de church don’t like dancing much.”

            Erika frowned at that. She had always associated church with good things – the comfort of an all-knowing and all-loving being, the forgiveness of sins, the safety of strong walls, the beauty of sunlight through colored glass and voices singing in perfect harmony. She had never considered that all the rules and stiffness of a church reached beyond its walls. For the working and peasant class, church meant a morning in the cathedral, and a day of no work. For the nobles, she saw now, it was something more.

            “Thank you, Remy,” she said. “I suppose I’m at least a little prepared. I doubt any nobleman would ask me to dance, anyway. I’m far too below their station.”

            “Dat’s nonsense,” Remy protested. “You’re as good as any one of ‘em, and probably better than some.” He wiped at his brow; all the dancing in the sunshine had caused him to break into a bit of a sweat. Erika knew she was little better off. “Though I fear I’ve business to attend to again. A Thief’s work is never done.” Remy sketched her a final bow, much like the ones that started each dance, before picking up his cloak and sweeping off.

            Erika waited until he was gone before looking at Vendetta and Logan. “Peasants have more fun, I daresay.”

            Vendetta let out a low, coarse laugh. “You bet your arse we do!”

            Logan seemed less amused. Erika frowned curiously at him, to which he answered with a shrug. “I’m sure nobles somewhere have more fun. Up in the northern fiefdoms, religion isn’t quite such a big deal. We have fun up there. Might have to do with the Vikings. Lots of folks up there like to say we’re descended from Vikings, but I can’t say if there’s any truth in it.”

            “You all sure dress like them,” Vendetta pointed out. “All fur and leather.”

             Logan’s eyes rolled at the remark. “Furs are more of a practicality than a cultural link. It’s awful cold in the mountains.”

            “I remember,” Vendetta replied. Her voice turned dark and brooding. Erika glanced at the redhead, wondering what the Iron King had sent her to the north to do. The redhead shook the gloom off abruptly. Her green eyes peered out from under the long bangs that framed her face. “I’ve got my own sort of business to handle back in town. You’ll make sure Erika doesn’t get lost on the way home?”

            “Bronwyn!” Erika protested. “I’m not completely hopeless, you know?”

            “I’ll make sure,” Logan threw in. “Just to be safe. After all, you never know when a wild animal might cause trouble.”

            Vendetta nodded, giving Erika a last pointed look. “I’ll see you tonight at the tavern.”

            “Of course,” Erika agreed. Vendetta offered a slight smile before turning and slipping quietly back into the woods. Soon she vanished among the trees.

            Erika felt tension prickle over her skin. Already she could feel Logan’s eyes on her again, and already she was turning towards him. She felt as drawn to him as a moth was drawn to fire. She only hoped her attraction was less dangerous.

            Logan looked utterly relaxed, leaning still against the cabin wall. Yet Erika could see the tension in his shoulders, clearly visible under the rust-colored shirt he wore. It was a force of will that kept him in place.

            Erika smiled a little. “I suppose I’ve indulged my silly ideas of dancing at the ball enough for one day. Shall we-?”

            “It’s not a silly idea,” Logan protested. He pushed off the wall, stepping into the light with her. The sunlight illuminated his eyes. The red-brown color of his shirt made his eyes seem darker, but the light picked out the subtlety of color; earthy brown with a touch of deep amber, like freshly harvested honey. Erika could have gazed into those eyes forever.

            She closed her eyes for a second, gathering her thoughts again. “How isn’t it silly? I’m just a tavern girl, lifted to a lofty position by the grace of our king. No one would ask me to dance.”

            “Then I’ll ask you to.” Logan’s calloused hand extended towards her. “Dance with me?”

            “I don’t want to do more courtly dances, Logan.”

            “I’ll teach you a different dance. One from my home.”

            Erika regarded his hand. He held his left out to her. She reached with her right, but Logan withdrew an inch. “Your left, too,” he said. Erika obliged, feeling the familiar callouses close over her hand.

            Logan pulled her in closer. He lifted her hand, so her forearm stood vertical, matching his arm to hers. His fingers laced through hers, his grip sure. His eyes were fixed on hers, unwavering and constant. “Is this more like you imagined?”

            Erika could only nod, riveted by his gaze. Their bodies were close, yet tantalizingly apart. The grip of his hand on hers was far more intimate. But it was the chance to look at him that made her heart flutter the most.

            “This is an old, old dance in the north,” Logan said. “We move in a circle, slow at first.” He started to walk forward, angling towards her. Erika did the same, causing them to spin. Logan started to hum a melody, his feet stepping to the rhythm and changing mere steps into a dance. Erika followed his lead, listening, imagining what the actual music would sound like. It would be lighter than Logan’s voice, airy and romantic. She stepped on her toes, light and quick – two steps forward, then one back, and a brief pause before repeating. All the while their eyes remained fixed on each other.

            The humming grew quicker, as did Logan’s steps, and Erika followed along. She couldn’t help but smile; it was already far more fun than the court dances earlier.

            They danced so a moment longer before Logan’s hand loosened. “Extend your arm,” he said quickly, still dancing, “and move outwards.”

            Their hands remained clasped, though the distance between them grew. Still they looked at each other, never faltering or wavering. Erika felt her heart racing, her breath hard to find. They danced faster, steps longer. Her skirt drifted and swayed with her motions, but she never once worried about it tangling her steps.

            Then Logan tugged her hand, fast and strong. Erika gasped as she hurtled inward. Their arms pressed close again, the dance still fast. She clung to his hand tight, as much to keep herself on her feet as to relish in his touch.

            Slowly they returned to the sedate tempo at the start. Logan hummed still as he tugged her in closer, moving slower still until they were only swaying. His head bent down; his right hand rose to curl around the back of her neck. Erika closed her eyes as his lips claimed hers, and she returned it eagerly, parting her lips to kiss him deeper. She reached up to pull him into her, completing the circle of their bodies.

            When their kiss parted, Erika was breathless. Logan’s eyes sparkled at her. “Better?” he asked, his voice no more than a low rumble.

            “Much better,” Erika whispered. She combed her fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “That’s quite an intense dance.”

            He chuckled, his breath a warm ruffle against her cheek. “It’s called The Circle. Lovers dance it during spring festivals to strengthen their love. And it’s often part of a traditional northern wedding.”

            Erika felt her cheeks flush. “So you chose it on purpose.”

            Logan’s grin dazzled her. “Guilty. It was too good an opportunity to miss.”

            “I doubt it will come up at the ball, but if it should, I wouldn’t dance it with any other man.”

            Logan wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her in closer. “Good. I’d hate to go to jail for fighting a lord.”

            Erika laughed, linking her arm securely over his shoulder. “That will never happen.” She sighed, low and reluctant as she loosened her hold on him. “I’d stay out here forever, Logan, but…”

            “I know.” He stepped back a bit, taking her hand again. “Though I hope you’ll let me see you home.”

            Erika smiled, squeezing his hand in reply. Side by side, they stepped into the woods once more.

Notes:

I actually spent way too long looking into medieval dances. The Circle, however, I made up on my own, because none of the actual dances I was finding gave me what I wanted.

Chapter 36: Midsummer

Summary:

The Midsummer Ball provides the perfect chance for an assassination attempt. Erika and Remy keep their eyes open to protect the king.

Chapter Text

            Erika spun in her gown, marveling at its lightness and movement. The tippets hanging off her arms billowed like crimson wings, their edges dagged into shapes resembling flower petals. The skirt flared around her, and when she stopped it briefly continued to move before settling down again. She regarded her reflection with a beaming grin. She knew she had never been more beautiful.

            The rich red of the gown was a sharp contrast against her pale complexion and raven black hair. The neckline was daringly low, baring her shoulders and the swell of her breasts. Along the neckline, summer flowers were embroidered in delicate white thread. The same flowers spilled down the visible part of her sleeves, from elbow to wrists. The top layer of her hair had been drawn back and done in intricate braids, but the rest of her hair still hung loose. She wore her simple silver chain on her neck, and her only other decoration was a touch of rouge and lip stain, and a delicate flick of rose water on her skin and hair.

            “Ida, you’ve outdone yourself,” Erika said. “This is far too beautiful for me.”

            “Nonsense,” Ida insisted. “You can’t go to the ball dressed in simple clothes. You’d stand out like a weed among roses. You’ll feel more at ease when you see everyone else. All the ladies of the court are decked in jewels and thread of gold and what not. You’re a vision, yes, but you’ll be a simple flower compared to them.”

            Erika wanted to protest, but the royal seamstress knew best; she and her fellow tailors and seamstresses had worked tirelessly in the weeks leading up to the ball to finish all the clothes. And she was right. Erika needed to look the part of royal troubadour.

            She looked over her reflection again. She felt more herself than the last royal function she had attended. Yet the woman in the mirror was still a strange figure. Erika brought a hand to the dagger at her hip, gripping the hilt firmly.

            Tonight was the night. Midsummer, or St. John’s Day as the church preferred. The feast would be first, followed by a night of revelry and dancing for the nobility. For the common folk, the day was a holiday, free of work. A festival had been held in the market. Normally Erika would have participated, but she had been too anxious. For tonight was the perfect night for the Order of X to strike.

            All precautions were in place. Those most suspect were not working in the palace today. The guards were out in full force around the palace. All the Iron Guard were also on duty, bedecked in their glittering armor. Yet Erika still felt her stomach tying itself in knots. What if all their preparations were in vain? What if tonight marked the end of peace?

            There was only one way to know: to face the night and whatever it brought.

***

            The feast was little more than a blur, but the ball held all of Erika’s attention. At any moment, someone might strike, and she had long since promised to keep a watch out for anything suspicious. From among the crowd, Erika tried to look for any signs of danger. For now, at least, everything was clear.

            The first dance traditionally belonged to the king and queen. Erik Lehnsherr had no queen, and so he had invited Lady Raven Darkholme to be his partner. The two were a pretty pair. The king’s crown glittered in the light as he began the dance, as did the gilded sword at his hip. His short cape billowed with his movements, as did Lady Darkholme’s gown. It was the brilliant, deep blue of a clear summer sky, and half of her golden hair was bound up in a net adorned with sapphires. They moved with grace and poise, their elegance and beauty undeniable.

            At the conclusion of the dance, they bowed to each other. Charles Xavier swept in, bowing to Raven and taking her hand for the next dance. More pairs formed, readying for the next dance. Erika slipped away to find a place on the edge, determined to only watch for the time being.

            The dancing resumed, and Erika watched with a smile on her face. Though she had not enjoyed learning the dances, they were beautiful to watch. She swayed back and forth to the music with her arms folded around herself.

            “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

            Erika turned, startled at the voice speaking by her elbow. A man had come to stand next to her, but she didn’t recognize him. Though there was something familiar about his face… She blushed, embarrassed at not recognizing the man at first. “Yes. Though I’m sure I wasn’t as graceful as them when you were teaching me.”

            Remy smiled a bit. “No, but you would improve with practice. And please, don’t feel bad for not recognizing me. I am in disguise, after all.”

            And a good disguise it was. Gone were the simple breeches, shirts, and leather tunics he wore in abundance. Nor was there any sign of his trademark purple-lined cloak. He wore a silk tunic dyed a warm red-purple, the color of summer wine. Around his waist was an ornamental belt, from which hung his sword. Most shocking of all was his face. His hair, usually a warm, auburn toned brown, was almost black. And his eyes were like any normal human’s eyes – white where once black, green where once red. He’d even shed his own accent. He had transformed into someone else entirely.

            “It’s quite impressive,” she said. “But how?”

            “The hair is just some dye from crushed plants. It’ll wash out easily. As for the rest, I have a friend back home who works some magic.” Remy grinned, and at least that was recognizable; his smile was radiant as ever. “She gave me a charm that veils the natural appearance of my eyes. They’re far too recognizable as they are.” Remy’s charmed eyes flickered around the hall. “So far everything is all right. The feast went peacefully, but I was never worried about it. In this crowd, with all this movement, it would be easy for an assassin to slip in and strike.”

            “Too easy,” Erika whispered. “What are we going to do?”

            “Keep our eyes open,” the Thief replied. “It’s all we can do. If you see something, cause a scene, get attention, anything to stop it – without endangering yourself too much.”

            Erika nodded. She had every intention to keep away from any danger. Logan’s dagger lessons had given her useful skills, certainly, but they weren’t enough to stop an assassin. She could do many other things to stop someone; she could command it with her voice, she could command the guards to act, or yell loudly enough that everyone stopped. But to pull out her dagger and play the role of a hero? She could never.

            “I’m afraid I can’t linger long,” Remy said, sketching her a bow. “Duty calls me to be alert tonight. Until later, chérie.”

            Erika curtsied in return and watched as Remy disappeared among the nobles. Erika watched after him a moment, tracking him by his height and memorizing the different color of his hair, before scanning the crowd once more for anything suspicious. Nothing stood out beyond the clothes of the nobility. Ida had spoken true; every dress she saw was intricate and sparkling. She watched one lady, whose skirt was designed in various layers. The edge of each layer had been stiffened so it curled upward. She looked like an upside-down flower, only further accentuated by the green bodice and sleeves, the stem and leaves to the blossom of her skirt. It was almost preposterous, yet also pretty, in a unique way. Other gowns were decorated with gemstones, laid down into flowers that sparkled in the light of countless candles. Almost every garment was dagged on its edges in similar styles to Erika’s; shapes of petals and leaves danced on every hem and sleeve. The night was a revelry for growth and beauty, a celebration of the joys of summer.

            The dances continued, and Erika joined the players to sing or play music as she wished. Mostly she watched. The king eventually retreated to his throne, watching over the revelry of his gentry. He was surrounded by his Iron Guard, well protected for the moment. Erika let herself relax from her vigil somewhat and enjoy the celebration.

            It was in this relaxed state that she was approached by one of the members of the king’s court. Erika recognized Anna-Marie, of house Ravyn, by her strange hair. The way it had been braided and bound upon her head accented the shock of white. Her eyes were a sparkling hazel and carried a warm smile. Her dress covered her almost entirely. Only her neck and face were entirely bare of fabric. Even her hands were kept in gloves.

            Lady Ravyn smiled, dipping Erika a tiny curtsy. The troubadour answered with a far deeper bow. “Oh, no need for that,” Anna-Marie urged, her gloves hands quickly taking Erika’s arms and guiding her back upright. Hailing from the very southern part of Genosha, she spoke with a sweet, drawling accent, more reminiscent of the kingdom of Skaisil than the typical Genoshan accent. “I wanted to invite you for a dance. You haven’t done any.”

            “I don’t know them well,” Erika protested. Still, her eyes skipped past the lady’s face and into the crowd. The women were starting to form a ring, while all the men congregated outside it. It certainly looked fun.

            “This one is easy,” Anna-Marie promised. Her gloved hands took hold of Erika’s. “Please? You should enjoy yourself, not just watch from the sides.”

            Erika hesitated a second longer. She should be watching out for her king, not dancing the night away. But she had so looked forward to being able to participate in the ball…

            The thought decided her, and she gave a quick nod. Anna-Marie beamed as she led her over to the ring of women. Erika recognized the brilliant red hair of Lady Grey and the petite figure of Lady Pryde. Anna-Marie squeezed in with Erika between the two. Erika’s right hand stayed in Lady Ravyn’s gloved grip, and Jean took her other hand.

            “What am I doing,” Erika muttered to herself. Holding hands with nobility, about to dance with them; she was thoroughly out of place.

            Jean’s hand squeezed around hers. Erika glanced up into her radiant green eyes. “Just follow our lead. You’ll catch on quick.” As soon as the redhead said that, the music began. Jean gave Erika’s hand the smallest tug, indicating she should move in that direction first.

            The ring began to spin. Erika brought her right foot in and over, then stepped slightly backward with her left, just as the other ladies did. After a few steps like that, her hands were released. Erika spun with them, surprising herself with being so in time. Then Anna-Marie took her hand and squeezed, and Erika stepped towards her in the same fashion. Again, they spun around, but then the circle moved inwards, so they were all shoulder to shoulder, before going out and resuming the dance.

            After the first cycle, the music grew faster, and faster yet with each cycle. The ladies all began laughing and cheering, Erika among them. It was fun and fast, and she felt an undeniable sort of camaraderie with them all. By the time the music finally slowed again, she had begun to feel a bit dizzy and hot from the frantic dancing. When the dance ended, all the ladies curtsied to each other. Erika muffled her giggles as best she could.

            “You had fun, then?” asked Jean.

            “Oh yes,” Erika said, a bit breathless. “But I need to take a break after that.” She excused herself with another curtsy before drifting back to the nearest wall. This time she slumped against it, taking a moment to steady her breathing.

            Once she felt sure of herself again, she looked to the throne. But the Iron King was nowhere to be seen. Erika swept her gaze around the room, searching for the golden glitter of his crown. Finally, she spotted it. He was bent in conversation with Charles. A couple of guards were nearby, attentive as ever. She almost started to relax, until she saw a movement from the corner of her eye.

            Erika turned in time to see a tapestry fluttering. A glance around the room proved none of the other tapestries were moving. Her heart gave an anxious lurch.

            She did not know much about the palace, but she knew that there were many secret chambers and passages in the walls. Many served to interconnect rooms or create escapes in case of danger. Many of the servants used them to navigate through the palace quickly and without being seen. But they would also be perfect for an assassin, if they knew the way, or had the keys to the secret doors.

            Erika remembered the countless words of caution from her friends. But if she went to fetch a guard, the potential assassin could be long gone. If she acted casual, she would be fine. She took a deep breath before starting down the wall. Her hand fell to her dagger, readying for anything and self-assured in its familiarity.

            The tapestry was one of many in a series that depicted the rise of Genosha and its lording families. This one depicted the Frost house and the snowy mountains in the north. It was a beautiful piece, certainly. Erika cast a furtive look over her shoulder to ensure no one was looking. Unobserved, she hurried to push it aside just enough to test the door. The handle was cool in her palm, and she gave it a twist… and felt her heart drop as the door opened. Knowing it was foolish, she ducked inside to look for any clues. The pile of peasant clothes on the floor was enough to seal her fears, and she hurried back into the hall.

            She closed the door again quickly and moved on from the tapestry. She feigned admiration for it a moment longer before turning away. She found Remy and hurried over to him. He saw her coming and quickly removed himself from conversation.

            She nearly ran up to him, grabbing onto his arm. “Someone came through a secret passage,” she whispered. “There’s a pile of peasant clothes inside it. Someone is here in disguise, I know it.”

            Remy swore under his breath. “Go tell Xavier,” he hissed. “I’ll get some of the guards. Quick!”

            Erika slipped away again. Her heart thundered in her chest, but she forced herself to walk with poise. No one paid her any mind as she wove between conversing lords and ladies. She could see the king and Xavier, still talking together.

            And then she saw him.

            He stood out terribly, dressed in shades of dull blue and gray. The clothes were heavy compared to those of the other nobles, and there were no flowers on his clothing. The man looked stiff and uncomfortable in the attire, but the hand on his dagger looked sure. And his eyes were fixed on the king.

            Erika froze for half a step. She couldn’t run, that would alert the man that she had seen him. If she shouted, would she be heard by the guards? Would they be able to act in time? Or would that only make things worse?

            The man, agonizingly out of place, yet unnoticed by everyone else, began to move towards the king.

            Indecision fled, and Erika threw herself forward as quickly as she dared. Her gaze flickered from the king to the stranger, back and forth, trying to guess and doubting when the right moment to act would be. She was closer, she saw with relief; maybe she could make it in time.

            Her next glance shattered that conviction. The man had sped up as well, but now his gaze was on her. Erika froze again, their eyes locked. She recognized him suddenly; with his hair cut short, Belon looked like a stranger. But the anger in his face she recognized. And for the moment, that anger was leveled entirely at her.

            Erika tightened her grip on her dagger and started to walk again. Her legs felt weak as fresh saplings, trembling under her weight. She could feel him coming closer, his rage sweeping around her, the gale of his own storm. A quick glance proved her right, and he had his dagger half drawn. Would he only incapacitate her on his quest to assassinate the king? Or would he kill her, too?

            She wasn’t going to make it. She said a silent prayer before turning to face him. She slipped her own dagger partly from its sheath. She wouldn’t attack, but if he struck out at her, she would defend herself. “You there!” she shouted, pointing her free hand at him. “What are you doing?”

            Everything around them froze and fell quiet. All except Belon. As eyes began to turn to him, he yanked out his dagger and lunged.

            Metal clanged on metal. Erika had jerked her own dagger free and blocked his strike without even thinking. But in her fear and haste, she’d forgotten her balance. The force of Belon’s strike sent her wobbling, and as she tried to regain her balance, one foot tangled in the hem of her dress. Erika gasped in pain as she struck the ground, her dagger falling from her grip. Belon rushed past her, driven to accomplish his mission despite the odds being so against him. She couldn’t let it happen.

            “Stop!” she screamed. She felt her power lash out with the words, a whip that curled around Belon’s legs and lamed him. He froze in mid stride, his will straining against her own. Erika grit her teeth, her hands curling into fists as she hissed the word repeatedly under her breath, straining to hold him.

            The clatter of armor approached, but Erika only saw the Iron Guards when they grabbed Belon. She crumpled then, collapsing to the floor. Belon collapsed into his captors as well, sweating from his attempts to break free from Erika’s hypnotic command. He thrashed in their grip, trying to wield his dagger.

            The blade whirled out of his grip suddenly, hanging in the air. The Iron King walked forward with one hand extended at his side. When he stopped, the blade hovered over his palm. “Belon,” he spat out. “If I recall correctly, I forbid your presence tonight. And for good reason, considering you tried to kill me.”

            “The Order of X won’t let you stand!” Belon shouted back. “I am one of many!”

            “A poor one, I think,” the king replied, “to be stopped by a singer.” He dropped his hand, and the incriminating dagger fell to the ground with a clatter. “Take him to a cell and keep him well guarded. He will be executed in the morning. Publicly. He will be a lesson to the others.”

            Belong shouted and roared as he was dragged away. Erika felt someone kneel next to her. She turned, the gesture more a flinch. But she relaxed when she saw it was Remy.

            “Well you made a scene all right,” he whispered. But there was a smile on his lips as he returned her dagger and offered a hand to her. Erika smiled back as she took it. He helped her up slowly, and Erika winced as she straightened. She would be bruised come morning, surely.

            “Erika Deforest.” The Iron King’s voice was gentler now. Erika turned towards him and stepped forward.

            “Your Majesty,” she replied, curtsying as best as her sore back would allow.

            The king’s hand gently touched her chin, guiding her out of her bow. “You have done me a great service, Erika. Your actions not only stopped the assassin; you saved my life. Not many of my subjects would do such a thing.”

            “It was the right thing to do,” she whispered. She could feel everyone watching, gawking even.

            “The right thing,” King Lehnsherr echoed. “And for doing the right thing, you shall be honored.” He held up one hand. His rings sparkled in the light from the chandeliers overhead. With great ceremony, he slipped one off his hand and held it out to Erika.

            For a moment, Erika thought she would fall again. The ring bore a large, sparkling diamond, surely from the northern mines. The value of the gemstone alone was more than Erika could fathom. On the bronze band, leopards and swords had been etched, symbols for the Lehnsherr house’s bravery and prowess in battle. A royal ring, gifted to her.

            Tears blurred the ring. “I can’t accept this,” she whispered, her voice even smaller now. “You honor me, Your Majesty. That is gift enough.”

            He pressed the ring into her hand. “Take it anyway, Erika,” he whispered. His hand dropped from hers. The king turned, raising his hand. “The night has been long,” he said, raising his voice for all to hear again. “Long and strange. Return to your homes and retire for the night, my friends. I shall see you all tomorrow for the execution.”

            Erika watched the king depart, flanked by his guards. There was a pause before the rest of the lords and ladies began to depart. They glanced repeatedly at Erika, whispering among themselves. She remained frozen where she stood. She trembled from head to foot. Had it really happened? Had she really stopped the assassin?

            “Erika?” It was Charles Xavier. She blinked, slowly bringing him into focus. His sapphire blue eyes were dark as he looked at her. “Are you hurt?”

            She shook her head slowly. She looked down to her hand, uncurling it from around the ring. It could never fit on her finger; it was far too large. “What have I done?” she whispered.

            “You saved de king,” Remy said, dropping his accent. Erika glanced over to him; his eyes were normal again, and he was spinning a leather cord around a strange pendant. His red and black eyes looked at her, unreadable. “You’re a hero.”

            “I couldn’t agree more,” Charles added. “We owe you more than just a ring.”

            “I don’t want it,” she whispered. “I don’t want any honor, I don’t want anything special.”

            “And that makes you even more worthy of honor,” the young lord said. “Most would do such a thing and expect riches and land. You did it for your love of the kingdom and peace.”

            Erika sighed, tremulous and exhausted. “I need to go home,” she whispered. “I need to sleep.”

            “Yes,” Remy agreed. “Come, I’ll see you home safe. I’ll be back after,” he said to Xavier. “We can discuss this development then.” The southerner didn’t wait for a response before putting an arm around Erika and guiding her out. He paused only to wrap them both in their cloaks.

            Erika forced him to stop at the bridge. Her legs had started to shake again, and she sagged against the railing. She looked at the ring again as she stood there. “What have I done?” she asked again. “I already get strange looks sometimes. As if just because I serve the king, I endorse his worse aspects. What will they think now?”

            “I don’t know,” Remy replied. “Don’t worry about it yet. For now, you need to rest.”

            “What if someone from the Order comes after me?” she blurted out. “Do you think they will?”

            Remy sighed, looking up at the sky. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “Everything is uncertain right now. Please, let me take you home.”

            Erika gave in. The cool night air helped clear her head on the rest of the walk. Erika stopped outside the tavern, turning to Remy. “I’m sorry for panicking. All of this, it’s far more than I ever expected to find myself involved in.”

            “I understand,” the Thief drawled. “It’s a scary time, and your position is a risky one. But we’ll keep you safe. You have my word. Go,” he urged, “get some rest. Tomorrow’s bound ta be excitin’.”

            Erika nodded before slipping quickly into the tavern, locking the door behind herself. She crept upstairs quietly, not wanting to disturb her parents. She managed to shed her gown on her own, and quickly put it in her chest. She looked at the ring a last time before putting it away as well. Wearing only her shift, she crawled onto her bed and burrowed under the blankets. Only then did she remember the Iron King’s last words of the night.

             I shall see you all tomorrow for the execution.

Chapter 37: Blood on White Wool

Summary:

The following day brings the hour of execution.

Notes:

CW: Public execution by beheading, and a somewhat graphic description of the event

Chapter Text

            News of last night’s events spread like wildfire through the city. Erika stood by the window of the tavern, peering out at passing pedestrians. Many pointed out the tavern to their companions. Erika could guess what they were saying. “That’s where she lives,” they would whisper, “the little troubadour who saved the king.”

            And what would the responses be? Surely some declared her brave. But she felt certain that there were plenty who whispered even softer: “That wretched girl. She should have let him die.” Would people hate her for what she did?

            With news of the event came news of the execution. It would be soon. Erika knew she had to go, whether she wanted to or not. The thought filled her with dread. But there was no point in delaying the inevitable, and it was a fair walk, so she slipped out of the door and made her way to the palace.

            Executions were always public, and always in the palace courtyard. With the high chance of unrest, the king did not wish to be far from the safety of a quick departure. Executions were a spectacle and event for the nobility, but for the peasants and serfs, they were a warning. Do not rise against your king, or this shall be your fate.

            The walk to the palace seemed longer than ever that day. Erika could feel eyes on her constantly. Whispers followed her along her way. She kept her head up as much as possible, but she wished she could be invisible, but she had not been born with such a power.

            She breathed a sigh of relief as she joined the stream of people going into the courtyard. There were enough people to hide among, and no one paid the faces around them any mind. Their attention was fixed solely on the large wooden platform erected in the courtyard. Two Iron Guards stood there, and between them stood Belon. He was dressed once more in his usual, simple clothing. But they were all white, undyed. His blood would be a brilliant marker on them once it was shed.

            A hand brushed against Erika’s. The callouses were familiar, and a quick glance proved her correct. Logan had thrown on a cape over his usual tunic and breeches, the hood pulled over his face. The secrecy was familiar; Logan kept as far from the palace as possible, rarely straying past the central market, unless a pelt was specially purchased from an upper-class merchant. On the rare instances he did come near the palace, he always hid his face. He wasn’t a wanted criminal; Erika would have seen posters of his face scattered throughout the city if he were. His reasons were his own, a mystery she had yet to feel comfortable in asking.

            Logan’s hand gripped hers and pulled her close. “I can’t believe you went ahead and caught an assassin,” he said, his voice a low murmur. Erika strained to hear him above the chatter around them. “And with no more than basic self-defense training.”

            “I was trying to warn his majesty. He was going to reach him first. I just yelled at him, and then he attacked me,” she replied. She could remember it so clearly, had even dreamed of it the night before. Except in her dream she had no dagger, and Belon’s blade would have pierced her if she hadn’t woken so abruptly. The memory made her shudder. “What was I supposed to do? Just let it happen? Plunge the kingdom into chaos?”

            “No,” Logan agreed, “you did the right thing. Except now you have a lot attention on you.”

            “I know.” She shifted closer to him, her gaze flickering around them. “Everyone knows. And I know some people are unhappy at what I did. I’m worried,” she confessed, barely above a whisper.

            Logan’s hand squeezed around hers tighter. When she glanced up into his face, his eyes seemed to glow from under the hood. “It’ll be all right,” he promised. “I won’t let anything happen to you. None of us will.”

            She wanted to reply, but a sudden sweeping hush fell over the courtyard. Everyone looked upward, and so she did as well. A gasp caught in her throat at the sight.

            The Iron King descended from above. His long, black cloak rippled in the wind and the hem of his long tunic snapped around his knees. From head to toe, he wore black as deep as the darkest night. His crown and sword were the only traces of color, twin metallic gleams. He floated down from the highest tower of the palace to the raised platform, landing with the poise and grace of a cat. He held the sword in front of him, balanced horizontally over his palms.

            A ripple went through the crowd as everyone sank into a deep bow. The Iron King did not let it last long. “Rise,” he intoned, his voice carrying easily throughout the space. “This man Belon is one of my own servants. He is a man I should be able to trust. And yet he would have driven a dagger into my heart last night if it weren’t for the bravery of another. Belon has attempted regicide – and he has confessed to be a member of the Order of X. For both these crimes, he shall be put to death.” The king glanced to his disgraced servant. “Kneel, Belon, and accept your fate.”

            Belon did not kneel. His head lifted, proud and foolish and arrogant. “The Order of X needs me no longer. My death means nothing. You may cut me down, but five shall rise in my place. Soon they shall be at the walls, slipping through, infiltrating your palace.” The guards pushed at him, forcing him to his knees. Belong struggled, shouting now. “My brothers and sisters! Human or Gifted! Look at this man you call your king! He serves not justice, only death! Rise, rise with us!”

            The Iron King inclined his head. The shackles on Belon’s wrists drew tight. His arms, held secure behind his back, were forced to shove him down and onto the executioner’s block. The great sword gleamed as the Iron King lifted it, the tip piercing towards the sky above. He traced one hand down the flat of the black, then wrapped both hands around the hilt. He stood at the executioner’s block. The sword gleamed as it rose and curved back. In a flashing arc it descended.

            Blood spattered. The thud of Belon’s head striking wood was masked by the gasps of the onlookers. Erika squeezed her eyes shut, clinging to Logan’s hand, his gripping hers just as tight. When she opened them again, the king faced the crowd, bloody sword held aloft. Belon’s headless body still slumped over the executioner’s block. His blood on the white wool of his shirt was a violent and horrid contrast. It still flowed from his severed neck, a sluggish tide running down the block. The fresh coat of blood covered the old, darker stains.

            “This is what happens when you choose to defy me!” the Iron King shouted. “This Order of X will not stand! Those who join it shall die.” He did not wait for any uproar or commotion; with a flick of his wrists, he rose into the air. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, disappearing back into the palace.

            None lingered; the audience scattered, quiet after the king’s fury. Erika led the way out of the palace. She walked fast, aware of eyes glancing at her. Logan followed her in silence, but both were aware of the whispers around them. The people spoke of violence, of anger, of martyrdom.

            Logan veered them off the street abruptly. Erika balked for a second at the alley, but a second tug on her hand brought her into its quiet shade. Logan would keep her safe, wouldn’t he? There was no reason to fear.

            Deep in the alley, where it was dark and none would see or hear them, Logan paused. He had tossed back his hood. In the darkness of the alley, his eyes seemed to glow. “You’d think an execution would make people nervous,” he muttered. “If anything, it’ll do the opposite.”

            “This time,” Erika agreed in a whisper. She didn’t care about the summer heat as she sagged into him. “This time they’ll turn still. Belon will be a martyr for this Order of X. Do you think it’s too late to stop them?”

            His arms came around her, the only protection that felt real. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I just don’t know.”

Chapter 38: Plans

Summary:

The spies form a plan to deal with the Order of X.

Chapter Text

            “There’s already increasing numbers. The king’s lovely little speech didn’t do much to dissuade people.”

            Erika sighed, hands clenching tight at her sides. It had only been two days since the execution. By now, news of the circumstances, and her role in them, had spread through the whole city and into the outer farms. She had told her parents after the execution, and they had been shocked, horrified even, that she had been in danger. Uncle Christophe and his family had come in from the farm when they heard the news, to check to see that Erika was truly all right. And she was; there was no physical harm to her person. But the staring and whispering had escalated. Someone, cloaked and hooded even in the heat of summer, had spit on the ground by her feet just today. Likely they were a member of the Order. The ongoing tension had given her a headache yesterday, and it was inching ever closer to a migraine. Remy’s meeting wasn’t helping, either.

            “We have an opportunity, though,” Remy continued. “My man has informed me that they’re relocating their leaders. The north is full of the Order; Drake and Frost are both struggling to maintain calm, especially with unrest by the Alyrian border. Soon the central fiefdoms will be on their way to the same status. The leaders are coming to stir up trouble personally.” Remy tapped Einsemar on the map. “At least here, things are still quiet. For the city folk, yesterday’s display seemed to ignite the fear of the Iron King in their hearts. But then, it seems it’s always that way here.”

            “A li’l hard to get rowdy when you’re undah the king’s nose,” Vendetta agreed. “Especially with the Iron Guard.”

            “Would you wanna cross Creed?” Logan asked. “Half the people are scared to death of him, and with good reason.”

            “I’ve crossed Creed plenty of times,” the redhead replied. “He doesn’t scare me.”

            “I have to agree with Logan,” Remy added. “I ain’t scared of him either, but I see why people are.” The southerner pressed a hand to his side for a second, but immediately dropped it. “Either way, with the heart of the Order coming close to us, we may have a chance to stop this before it gets worse. If we can capture their leaders, we can find a way to stop it. Strike a compromise, or something.”

            “Compromise?” Vendetta scoffed. “You really think tha’ll work?”

            “We have to try, non? It’s that, or violence.”

            “It’s already come to violence. He executed one of their membahs. They won’t come easily to a truce, if at all.”

            “The Iron King can’t kill them all,” Logan added. “He can’t afford it. No one would stand for that.”

            Erika pressed her fingers to her temples, eyes squeezing shut. The others debated around her, a droning din. She wished it was over and behind them all, that life was peaceful again. But even if the uprising were quelled in the near future, that didn’t change the fact that Alyria continued to cause trouble on the border. There had been another attack, close to Midsummer; the news had only just arrived. Peace would not come for some time.

            “...treating Erika differently after the ball.”

            She snapped back to attention at Vendetta’s words. When she opened her eyes, all three of them were looking at her. Erika flickered her gaze between them. “What was it?”

            “People in the city,” Logan asked, his eyes dark and brow furrowed deeply. “Are they treating you different for what you did?”

            Erika gave a small nod. There was no point in lying about it, after all. “Not everyone does. I’ve been spit at, stared at, whispered about.”

            “You did the right thing at the ball,” Remy said, “but you put yourself in danger by doing so. There’s no question where your allegiance lies. As I said to you before, the Order may think that you’ll be useful to them. Or worse, they may see you as an enemy now for your part in catching their assassin. It’s in your best interest that we ensure your safety.”

            Her stomach twisted. “What do you suggest?”

            “A personal guard, someone to accompany you on the street. Perhaps even when you’re at the palace. We could do it ourselves in the street, and the royal guards could watch over you in the palace.”

            Erika opened her mouth, poised to protest. Yet no words came out of her mouth. It was difficult to forget just how hatefully the stranger had spit at her. And Remy was right; her stance against the Order was publicly known now. She deflated and nodded. “All right. But how would we go about it?”

            “I live close enough tha’ it’s no trouble to stop by in the mornings,” Vendetta said. “I can go with you to market in the mornings, take you to the palace. Or relay where you want to go to eithah of these blokes and they can fetch you then.”

            “And otherwise I stay home all day? Locked away until this is over?”

            “We’ll figure it out as we go,” Logan replied. “We’re just trying to keep you safe.”

            She bit her lip and dropped her gaze. She sounded like a petulant child. Yet she had lived most of her life as free as a bird. Einsemar was a safe city for the most part. Crime rates were low inside the walls. Few pickpockets or muggers dared to linger in the shadow of the Iron King. Young teenagers often ran errands for their families alone, and Erika had been no different. It was strange to have her freedom stripped after so many years.

            “We’ll figure it out,” Remy echoed. “But for now, we’ll try it dis way. If it’s too difficult, we’ll revisit it. And if you don’t wanna risk your life further by aiding us directly, we understand and respect your decision.”

            “I could never stop,” Erika replied, shaking her head hard enough that her raven curls swayed. “I may wish it was over and peace ruled again, but I cannot – will not – idly stand by and watch this happen. I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Remy, even with the risks.”

            All three looked at her: Vendetta, her visible eye bright with worry, her mouth pinched tight; Logan, all but glowing with pride at her bravery; Remy, solemn even with a smile twitching the corners of his mouth.

            “I’m grateful,” the southerner said. “Now, what I know of the Order’s plans, is that they’ll be coming to a timber-man’s house; a sympathizer, I’m sure. Likely they’ll set up a camp in de woods somewhere. Logan, mon ami-”

            “I’ll find it,” he replied without hesitation. “Nothing could hide in the woods from me, or Vardan.”

            “Perfect. Once we know where they are, Mademoiselle Vendetta and I can sneak in and grab them.”

            “Shouldn’t be too hard,” Vendetta agreed. “Not for a Thief and the Hand of Death.”

            “And once we have them, we take them to the cells. We won’t be able to keep them long,” Remy mused, “the Order won’t just fall apart, not at first. But if we can manage for a day or two, find some way…”

            Erika looked at the map, at all the tiny red flags that marked the places the Order had cropped up. Was there any way to kill a hydra? Cutting off one head only grew more in its place. Would piercing its heart work?

            “I’ll need to speak to the king about this more,” Remy decided. “It is his justice, and his decision what we’ll do with them. I only hope he sees reason.” His strange eyes darted around to them all. “One of you see Erika home, oui?”

            Logan nodded. Frustrating as the notion of needing an escort constantly was, Erika couldn’t deny the appeal of having more moments with Logan. It had been difficult to find the time for blossoming romance leading up to Midsummer.

            The meeting was dismissed; Remy lingered to pack his supplies, already chattering with Bronwyn. Erika tugged on Logan’s sleeve, a wordless signal of her readiness before she started on her way out of Bronwyn’s little home. Logan followed her quickly down the stairs and out into the street. “Heading home?” he asked as the door closed after them. One dark brow arched at her.

            “Not just yet,” she replied. “I want to go to the cathedral for a moment.”

            Logan blinked. “To pray about it?”

            “Yes. The cathedral, religion… It’s important to me. During the siege, we sheltered there,” she explained as she struck off. “I was afraid, but I felt safe inside those walls. I could almost feel that God was there, watching over us. Maybe it’s silly, but it’s how I felt. How I still feel, sometimes, when I’m afraid. I’m afraid now. I’m afraid of many things.”

            Logan took her hand, fingers interlacing with hers. “You really don’t have to keep doing this, Erika. None of us will think less of you.”

            “I meant what I said, Logan. I want to do my part. I’m just scared. Just a couple months ago, I was a normal girl. Now… Now I’m someone I don’t entirely now. Someone braver than I was before. But being brave leaves more room for being afraid, too.”

            “What matters is that you stay brave.” Logan paused, then added, “You may think you’ve changed a lot. But this courage was always inside you. You’ve just found a way to reach it.”

            The words spread warmth through her chest. It stayed as they approached the cathedral. Logan remained outside, understanding without words that Erika wished to do this alone.

            The cathedral was cool inside. Erika dipped her fingertips in the holy water and crossed herself, then walked up to the altar. There she knelt on the padded bench. Her eyes drifted closed, her hands folded, and she began to pray in silence, her words echoing in her mind. After she finished, she opened her eyes. She wondered…

            “Kurt Wagner,” she called into the silence.

            Her voice echoed back. And then there was a deep popping sound and a smell like sulfur. She stood and turned about. Kurt stood in the aisle, the same as the last time she had seen him. His smile was beautiful.

            “Hello, Erika,” he greeted. “I am very happy to see you again.” His smile faded. “I am sorry. What happened at the ball must have been very frightening for you.”

            She nodded a bit. “It was. So much has happened since… It felt good to pray about it all.”

            “Yes,” Kurt agreed, blue hands slipping into the opposite sleeves; he looked very much link a monk in that moment. “These are dark and uncertain times. Especially for those associated with his majesty.”

            “I fear for myself,” she confessed. “And yet when my friends offer protection, I shy from it. I fear for the king even more, though. The Order truly hates him.”

            “We must put it in God’s hands,” Kurt said, soft and warm. “We do what we can, and trust God to take care of the rest.”

            Erika nodded. “Thank you, Kurt. Your words have helped me more than I can say.”

            “And I thank you for coming again. I do not have many visitors. I wish I could do more for you, though, then offer words.”

            “Perhaps some other time,” she said. “I ought to be going home. There’s always work to be done at a tavern. Maybe you could come visit sometime. We serve through midnight, but by that time there’s few visitors. You would be safe, I promise.”

            Kurt’s teeth were radiantly white against his indigo fur. “I would like that very much, Erika.”

            She slipped back out after bidding the blue man farewell. Logan didn’t comment on how long she had been inside. Something inside her loosened. It was less important what Logan did or did not believe when it came to religion than whether he respected her beliefs on the matter.

            “Logan,” she finally said as they approached the tavern, “I know you’ve met my father, but… Would you ever want to properly meet my family?” The question fell clumsy from her lips. It was one thing to kiss in the woods and hold hands in the street; it was another to properly introduce Logan to her family. Erika had never been properly courted. There had been a few curious young men, often wanting to coerce their way into her affections so she would give them free drinks. She’d fallen for their tricks enough to be warry when men showed interest in her, but Logan felt different. He made her feel different. When he looked at her, he saw Erika. Not a tavern girl, not a troubadour. Just her.

            It was a blossoming romance, and she could not, would not, deny it. There was a strain in it, from her thinly spread time and the tensions caused by the Order. Yet those strings between their hearts that she’d felt that first night she sang for him remained strong. Erika dreamed some nights that after the Order’s uprising was resolved, Logan would properly ask to court her. In those dreams, her parents were charmed by his rugged politeness, and saw the glowing looks they shared. Yet in reality, Logan remained a half-secret. It felt wrong to hide him when she had always been forthright with her parents.

            Logan remained quiet for a moment. When Erika dared to look into his face, she saw his brow furrowed in thought. “Yes,” he finally said, “I would. I just don’t know when. There’s things about me I want you to know first, before you give me all of your heart.”

            Erika wanted to ask him what she should do if she already had. Instead, she said, “It can wait. I was only wondering.”

            Logan glanced at the tavern. They weren’t far. If someone stepped out of the door, they would see them in seconds. Still, he leaned down to her, lips brushing the corner of her mouth. “Come to the woods in a few days,” he said softly. “Spend the day with me.”

            “I will,” she promised. Greatly daring, she turned to him fully, reaching up to comb through the soft hair on his neck, and pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

            “Soon, darling,” he promised, the words a whisper into her mouth. He stepped backwards, his hand lingering in hers until finally they had to let go. Erika watched him go, already dreaming about their day in the woods.

Chapter 39: The Lost Lord

Summary:

Erika seeks shelter in the palace from city gossip, but finds an unexpected secret in a portrait.

Chapter Text

            “She’s just over there. Can you believe someone like her saved the king?”

            “Can you believe she saved the king at all?”

            “Careful what you say!”

            Erika shut her eyes tight. The whispering about her in town refused to die down. Next to her, Vendetta turned to glare at the two girls gossiping. The whispering died, and Erika had no doubt they were scampering away; Bronwyn’s glare was not one many could stand up against.

            She ignored the brief moment of being the center of gossip, focusing back on the produce in front of her. She picked up the last few items, potatoes and cabbage and carrots, and passed over the coins for them. The farmer would not quite meet her eyes.

            Erika turned away, glad to be done with shopping. “This is not what I imagined my dream coming true would be like,” she said. “Everyone staring and whispering… I can barely stand it.”

            “It’ll quit eventually,” Vendetta replied. “It jus’ takes time. Especially since it was such a shocking event.”

            “It’s far from the first assassination attempt in history,” she grumbled under her breath. “And it certainly won’t be the last.”

            “It isn’t even Erik’s first,” her friend added. “Just the most public.”

            “No?” Erika had heard rumors about assassination attempts from Shaw’s allies, but there had never been proof of them. The Iron Guard had kept their king perfectly safe. Between their captain and knowing now that Vendetta had been among them, Erika was not surprised. “Did you deal with them ever?”

            “No. I was the retaliation. Creed usually was the one to catch them.”

            “Creed is very defensive of the king. Why is that?”

            “I’m not entirely sure. I do know Creed served alongside Erik in the war. They’ve known each other for some time.”

            Erika could imagine it clearly; both decked in full suits of armor, bloodied swords flashing in the sunlight, rampaging together across the battlefield. They would be an unstoppable pair; Erik would deflect every weapon with a flick of his wrist, and Creed could not be harmed. The mental image struck a chord of horror through her.

            “What about the rest of the Guard?” she asked instead. “Have they been with his majesty long?”

            “For most of his rule, yes,” Vendetta supplied. “They’re all Gifted Ones, and quite powahful, at that. Well, except for Mortimer, though he has his uses.”

            Erika had seen Mortimer a few times. He was unassuming, smaller than his fellow guards. But she had seen him once, during a practice session, leap clear over Creed’s head and deliver a kick to his back that sent the much larger man sprawling.

            Erika glanced at her friend. “Do you ever miss them? Or anyone in the court?”

            Vendetta hesitated, but finally nodded. “One person. Raven Darkholme. She helped me through something difficul’. She trained me in swordwork. We were like sisters.” The redhead elbowed Erika lightly. “But I go’ a new sistah after leaving.”

            Erika smiled, elbowing her friend back. “That you did. Since you miss her, why don’t you come with me to the palace? I need to get out of the city streets before I hear anymore gossip about how brave or foolish I was at the ball.”

            Vendetta gave a dramatic sigh as she opened the door to the tavern for her. “You’re a sneaky one. Fine, I suppose I could do tha’.”

            Erika smiled as she stepped inside. She passed her mother in the midst of wiping down the tables. “Everything you asked for,” she declared as she set the basket down. “I’m going to the palace, unless you need anything else?”

            Her mother glanced up through a few wispy blonde curls that had come loose from her tied back hair. “Erika,” she said, “don’t you think you spend an awful lot of time at the palace these days?”

            Erika turned to look at her mother. “I go a few times a week. I’m the troubadour, I need to be present if the king wants to hear music.” She glanced at Vendetta, but the redhead only shrugged. Clearly her friend didn’t know where this was coming from, either.

            Her mother stood upright, wiping her hands on her apron. “You have your duty to the king, yes, but what about family? We hardly see you during the day. You go to the palace or visit with Bronwyn – and I do admire your loyalty to friendship. Your father and I miss you, though. It seems we only see you at night now, and then we’re so busy we can hardly talk.”

            Erika dropped her gaze, trying to think back to when she last had a true conversation with her parents. Her family was her world, her everything, and she was neglecting them now. “I’m sorry,” she replied. “You’re right, I see that. But, Mom, you don’t understand. Everyone talks about me now. I only did what was right, but everyone acts like I’m a freak.” She knew about being stared at that way. There were always a few people that had stared at her with the same shock and wariness after the incident with William Hughes, when it became known she was one of the Gifted; even in a tolerant kingdom, bigots were hard to weed out. It had been so long since she had suffered such a look that she forgot how horrible it was. “I just want to get away from it,” she finished, the words a damp whisper.

            In the lull that followed, Vendetta interrupted with a soft clearing of her throat. “Migh’ I suggest something, ma’am? Why not take a day and go to Christophe’s farm? Tha’ way you can all spend time togethah, and Erika can ge’ away from all the gossip.”

            Erika and Marie looked at each other. Her mother put on a radiant smile. “That would be a wonderful idea! You always have been so clever, Bronwyn.”

            The redhead turned a slight shade of pink. “I look out for my friends, tha’s all.”

            “I’ll talk to Charles about it,” Marie said. She went over to her daughter, kissing her on each cheek. “Go ahead to the palace, dear. I didn’t at all mean to make you feel guilty.”

            “I know.” Erika returned the kisses and gave her mother a quick hug. “I’ll see you tonight.” She hurried over to Vendetta, taking her hand and going back out into the street. As soon as the door closed behind them, she blurted out, “Now I feel like a horrible daughter. My parents have been so wonderful, and I’ve thanked them by staying away from them!”

            Vendetta tightened her hand around Erika’s. “You’re no’ a horrible daughtah. Jus’ busy. Besides, you can’t live with your parents forevah. Tha’ woodsman might get it in his head to marry you.”

            Erika’s face grew hot. “Time will tell that one.”

***

            It only took a moment before they were greeted in the palace.

            “Brynn?!” The exclamation was followed by the rush of footsteps. The two women turned in time to see Lady Darkholme sprinting down the hall.

            “Raven!” Vendetta let go of Erika, holding her arms out to catch the careening girl. The two collided into a fierce embrace, but Raven soon pulled back, beaming.

            “I haven’t seen you in so long! You look wonderful! How is my Lady of Secrets?”

            “Fine, fine, stop fussing.” Bronwyn waved her hands, shaking Raven off. “It’s good to see you.”

            A small cough directed their attention behind Raven, where the young Lord Xavier stood. He grinned at the sight of them. “I should have known Bronwyn would be a friend of yours, Erika. Welcome back to the palace, both of you. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

            “Escape from gossip,” Erika confessed. “It’s exhausting.”

            Xavier nodded in understanding. “Very. If you wish, I can leave the three of you to chat, but if you’re interested in seeing more of the palace, I do recall promising you a tour of the treasury to see the paintings. My offer still stands if you wish to pass the time.”

            “Truly?” Erika grinned as the lord nodded. “I would love to!”

            “In that case.” Xavier bowed to her, holding out his arm. “Shall we?”

            Erika took his arm, trying to remain sedate and calm, though she wished to run and jump for joy. “I doubt I’ve ever seen art like this before.”

            “If I may ask, where did you come to appreciate art?”

            “My father paints. Or, painted is perhaps more accurate.” Erika sighed, her smile fading. “He had more time when his father was still alive to help with the tavern. Now that it’s just him and my mother, he doesn’t have the time. He let me play with paint some as a child. I don’t know why; it took so long to make it, letting me use it was such a waste. He was a wonderful artist. His paintings are so bright, so alive. You can see his love for it. I wish he had the chance to paint again.”

            Raven appeared at Xavier’s side. “Erik’s coronation anniversary is coming up. Didn’t he want a painting done?”

            “More like it’s expected of him,” Xavier replied. “Something to send out to kings about marriages, as if he ever intends to marry.”

            The lady grinned in a very unladylike fashion. “Marry anyone but you, more like.”

            “Your old joke isn’t funny anymore, Raven.”

            Lady Darkholme noticed Erika’s small frown. “Charles and Erik have been best friends for years, but what best friends are as close as they are? I’ve told them a hundred times to get married already. They have eyes only for each other.”

            “I can vouch for it,” Bronwyn added from next to Erika. “They’ve always been tha’ way.”

            “That’s quite enough, both of you,” Charles cut in. Erika glanced at him, unable to bite back her smile. He could pretend not to be amused, but he could not hide it from an empath. There was fondness there, as well, a love of some kind for certain.

            The chatter remained light as they made their way to the treasury. Though Erika was the outsider of the group, all three included her easily. By the time they reached the treasury, she felt entirely at ease among them. As the guards opened the doors for them, Erika fell into silence, dazzled by the sight that greeted them.

            Two chambers split from the vestibule. To the right, Erika could see piles of coins and gems sparkling. In the other she could see countless artworks hung on and propped against the walls.

            “It’s a bit obnoxious,” Charles admitted, “but no less stunning. Welcome to the royal treasury.”

            Erika had no words as they went into the art room. Her speech was further stolen as she looked around the room. Art of all kinds greeted her: tapestries of history, Biblical scenes in all media; marble sculptures and bright paintings. “It’s incredible,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen so much art in one place. Tell me about all of it?”

            The young lord laughed. “Talking about it all would take days. Not even all of the art in the treasury is in this chamber; this is merely what Erik has chosen to display. You can tell much about a king by what he keeps close to him.”

            Erika studied the pieces more closely. While there was variety, she soon noted a theme. “Much of this is history,” she said. She gestured towards a large tapestry depicting a king. “That is En Sabah Nur and his four lords ruling over Genosha. And that painting next to it is a depiction of the creation of the Gifted. His majesty is a man of history, then.”

            “History and loyalty,” Raven suggested. “The House of Lehnsherr is one of the grandest and oldest of all. He is proud of that, and proud of the connection between him and the other great lords.”

            Xavier led her further into the room, to a wall full of portraits. “This wall exemplifies it above all else. These are paintings of many members of the ten families.” He stopped by a portrait of a man who strongly resembled him. “This is one of my ancestors, the only Xavier who almost became king, High Lord Ricardus Xavier. He was the right hand of the king, and his wisdom stopped a war.”

            “My favorite is my great grandmother,” Lady Darkholme said, tugging Erika down to a portrait. Erika startled at the woman in it; her skin was blue, her eyes yellow, her hair red. “Lady Aveline,” Raven introduced, “who was also a spy. She was a shapeshifter, like me, and she used her ability to sneak into the Dostraria king’s arena and free the Gifted Ones he kept for gladiator fighting.”

            “A shapeshifter?” Erika asked. “You can really do that?”

            “Certainly!” Before Erika could turn to properly look at Lady Darkholme, she heard a faint rippling sound. When she turned, she stepped back; next to her stood Vendetta – except Vendetta was actually a couple steps further back and wearing quite the scowl. The false version grinned, the visible green eye turning a golden yellow. “Quite the trick, isn’ it?” Raven said, and even her voice was a perfect imitation of Bronwyn. As Erika watched, a ripple started from the crown of her head and worked down her body, turning then into the Iron King; the ripple started again, turning into Lord Xavier.

            “Raven,” Charles said, half admonishment and half laughter, “that’s quite enough.”

            The golden eyes rolled, and the ripple happened one final time. Instead of the blonde-haired beauty, though, Raven’s hair turned stick straight and red, and her skin turned deep blue. Raven held her hands out at her sides. “I prefer my natural form,” she said, gesturing to herself, “but it can be quite the shock to people, even other Gifted Ones. So I assume my disguise when I go out into the city to draw less attention.”

            “That’s incredible,” Erika said. “I would never even know it was you instead.”

            “Exactly why the Darkholme family is always in favah,” Vendetta piped in. “A king can always use a spy tha’ will nevah be caught.”

            “Especially with this Order of X,” Raven added. “I imagine it’s only a matter of time before I’ll be asked to do something.”

            The somber note cut the cheerful conversation off. But Xavier would not be deterred. He continued down the row or portraits, and Erika happily followed, eager for a distraction from the chaos of real life.

            Towards the end, Xavier paused again. “This one always saddens me. This painting is of the last member of our lost family. It was done for his eighteenth birthday. It wasn’t long after that the house was destroyed.”

            Erika didn’t yet look at the painting, watching the young lord instead. As he regarded the painting, his face sank somewhat. The grief was obvious. “No one ever talks about them,” Erika said. “Everyone knows the traits of the other houses. Xavier and McCoy are both houses of intellect, Darkholem of intrigue, Lehnsherr and Summers of courage, so on. But what of this family, how were they known?”

            Xavier glanced back to her. “House Howlett was the bravest of all. Their crest was a wolverine, a fearsome creature of the north lands that fears nothing. The finest knights in our kingdom were always Howletts, men and women both. I daresay the massacre only succeeded because of its trickery.

            “In the north, they claim the last heir, James, survived the massacre, but went into hiding in the south to escape his enemies.” Xavier glanced back up at the portrait. “But it’s become such a legend that no one can say for sure what happened to him.”

            Erika finally glanced at the portrait herself. Her eyes first went to the eyes of the man, and she felt her heart lurch down to her feet. Her blood chased after her heart, leaving her almost faint.

            She knew those eyes. They gazed at her in dreams, and in real life she knew them best as dappled by the play of the sun through the leaves of the forest. Hazel with a touch of wildness in them, yet she knew those eyes could soften with tenderness and harden with anger. Those were the eyes of the woodsman, her woodsman, her Logan.

            Frantic in her shock, she looked at the rest of the painting. The clothes were heavy and dark, likely wool or leather, and a thick fur mantle lay on his shoulders. The face was the same, if a bit younger; the faint lines of scowls not yet on the young lord’s face, and he wore even a hint of a smile. She knew the shape and structure of that face, though, had traced it under her hands and kissed it, and felt the beard tickle against her cheek.

            Most different was his hair. It fell long, like Remy’s, with a bit of a wavy texture to it. The front sections of hair had been pulled back and tied behind his head, leaving his face open. And as Erika stared into that face, her eyes fell on his right brow. A small scar was there, just cutting into the hair of his brow. Just like Logan’s faint scar.

            Surely it was impossible…

            A hand clasped around her elbow, startling her from her shocked daze. She turned to see Vendetta peering at her from behind her red hair. Of course, her best friend would notice her reaction. She wondered if Bronwyn saw it as well, or if only her tenderness towards him revealed the painting’s secrets.

            She looked back to the portrait. “There’s nothing wrong with hoping it to be true,” she finally said. “What would happen if there were a Howlett still?” What would happen if Logan was one of them?

            “We would hope to have them come to the palace,” Xavier said. “Of course, there’s no way to prove lineage, but if we could be certain, somehow, we would grant them their titles, their land if they wanted it, a position at court. It would be a wonder, wouldn’t it?”

            “Yes,” Erika whispered. “A wonder unlike any other.”

***

            After Vendetta saw her home, Erika slipped back out. The portrait of James Howlett haunted her. She could not let it be until she knew the truth.

            The sun was bright, but in the woods it was cool and dim. She had gone often enough to the woodsman’s cabin that she knew the general route. It was still a relief when she heard the rustling of undergrowth and Vardan came loping up to her. His tail wagged as he stopped by her, head-butting her hand to encourage her attentions. Erika smiled as she knelt. “Hello, pretty one,” she murmured, rubbing behind his ears as he loved. He returned her greeting with a small lick to her chin.

            When she looked up again, Logan was there. He wore a plain white shirt and black pants, a belt around his waist. Like her, a dagger hung at his hip, and his axe was strapped to his back. The shirt had been untied at the throat, giving her a glimpse of his chest, and he had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Logan arched a brow at her. “I didn’t expect you to come visit so soon. I’d have dressed better for it.”

            For a long moment Erika could only stare at him. Seeing him now, and with the portrait still fresh in her mind, the likeness was even more obvious.

            Logan frowned, looking down at himself. “Do I look that bad?”

            “Oh – no, no it’s not that.” Quite the opposite; though his tunic was rumpled and smudged with dirt, he cut as handsome a figure as ever. It was strange to think he could be descended from a lord, but she would know soon enough. Erika stood upright, taking comfort in the way Vardan leaned into her leg. She did not know how to gracefully ask her question, so she simply said, “I went to the palace today. Lord Xavier showed me the art in the treasury.”

            “That sounds lovely,” Logan replied, his voice halting and hesitant. “I’m not much of an art admirer, though. There isn’t much out here.”

            Erika gave his joke a small smile. “There was a portrait I saw,” she continued. “Of a young lord. His name was James Howlett.” She caught Logan’s hands twitch at his sides. In a trembling voice, she pushed onward. “He looked a lot like you. Or maybe it’s you who look like him. Logan… Are you descended from the Howlett family?”

            Silence. Logan looked at her in that quiet, his face closed tight. Finally, his eyes slipped closed. “More than that,” he whispered. “I am the Howlett family.” His eyes opened again, dark and glistening with tears. “I am James Howlett, the last of my line.”

            Erika dropped a hand into Vardan’s thick fur, fisting the scruff on his neck. She had expected a yes or a no, not… “That’s impossible,” she croaked out.

            “Erika, please,” Logan – no, James – whispered. “Just listen to me. I was going to tell you when I figured out how to explain this.”

            “Explain it now,” she demanded.

            He let out a long breath. “I already told you how my body heals from wounds. Somehow that ability extends to aging. I age much more slowly than normal people, to the point my life is extended.”

            “Extended? Logan, what happened to your family was almost two hundred years ago!” She shook her head, whether to banish the urge to cry or to try and shake out of her shock, she wasn’t sure. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            Logan looked at her. His mouth twitched into a cold smile. “Would you have believed a word I said if you didn’t see the proof of it, my betrothal portrait? You would have thought me insane, as anyone else would.” That cold smile faded. “Erika, please. This doesn’t have to change anything. I was a lord, yes, but I’m not anymore, I never will be again. I’m just the woodsman now, nothing else.”

            Erika shook her head. She could not believe it when she saw the portrait, and she could not believe it now. Tears stung her eyes. She let go of Vardan’s fur, turned, and bolted.

            “Erika!” he shouted after her. “Erika, wait!”

            She did not wait. She only ran, and ran, and ran until the woods gave way to the open field. She ran to the gates and through them, ran through the streets until she reached the tavern. She threw herself through the door, ignoring her parents and racing up the stairs. She only stopped when she reached her bed, where she collapsed. A breathless sob spilled out of her as she buried her face into her arms and her tears began to spill.

            If only Logan were right. But how could this change nothing?

Chapter 40: A Secret History

Summary:

Erika confronts Logan once more about his secret.

Chapter Text

            Erika must have cried herself to sleep, for she woke that evening with tacky cheeks and gummy eyes. Regarding herself in the mirror revealed a red, puffy face surrounded by frizzy hair. Erika braided her hair back and scrubbed her face with water. She did not look perfect by any means, but it would do for the night.

            She came downstairs without thinking about her earlier entrance; as such, she was unprepared when her mother pounced. “What’s wrong, Erika?” Her mother’s cool hands wiped the last traces of water from her face. “You were in such a state.”

            How could she possibly explain? The man she was seeing in private turned out to be a pseudo-immortal lord, and in her shock she chose the cowardly option of fleeing instead of facing the surprise head on like the mature woman she wanted to consider herself as. The consequences of it all were either that Logan would be so disappointed at her handling the news that he’d never want to see her again, or they would have to admit they were an utterly impossible match. Erika had gone and given her heart to a man she barely knew, a man who could never stoop to marrying a commoner. She couldn’t say any of that out loud. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she evaded. “I have to sort through it first.”

            “You didn’t get in a fight with Bronwyn, did you?”

            “No, not Brynn.” The unsaid someone else hunt heavy in the air, but it was a relief when her mother let her go. There was too much to do before the top of the hour.

            The door swung open and Vivienne skipped in, a blessed distraction. Erika put on her best smile as the blonde skipped up to her. “How is your mother doing?”

            “So much better!” Vivienne embraced the other girl tight. “I can’t thank all of you enough for this. The money you give me has been enough to afford the medicine she needs. The doctor thinks she’ll be mostly recovered in a month or two!”

            “That’s wonderful news.” Erika hugged the girl tighter for a moment. “Will you stay with us even after she’s better?”

            “As long as you would have me. I quite like it here, and I get to talk to so many people. Before I only met people at market, and it was so hard to have friends. But I’d miss you most of all, Erika, and I don’t want that to happen.”

            “Me neither. How about we sing tonight?”

            Vivienne agreed eagerly. The girls discussed a few songs to sing together; by the time they had decided on the night’s routine, the first patrons began to trickle in. Erika picked up a pitcher and began to make her rounds. The easy familiarity of the tavern work soothed her still frazzled emotions. She could forget all about Logan being nobility and what that meant for them and their future, what little of it was surely left. All that mattered was the easy banter with the patrons, singing when they wished it, and keeping everyone happy.

            Until the door swung open and the Thief stepped inside.

            Seeing Remy in his purple-lined cloak threw reality back into focus. Logan, a lord! Did Remy know? Surely he did; Thieves traded in secrets much as Vendetta did, and a secret such as that would be a powerful one indeed. It made sense in a way, also. Logan had never seemed enthusiastic about his part in Remy’s information web, but he had made it clear he felt duty bound to do what he could to help the king stay in power. Duty bound as a noble would be to their leader.

            Erika brought ale to the southerner, setting the pint down at his lonely table. Before she could ask the question, Remy was already speaking. “You know about the woodsman, I hear,” he drawled, picking up his drink.

            That answered her question. “You knew, then.”

            His strange eyes flicked up to her. “Of course, I knew. A Thief never works with strangers. But this doesn’t change him.”

            “How doesn’t it? He’s a lord, I’m a peasant. It changes everything.”

            “Does it really? He may have been born that, but he isn’t a lord currently. He’s just a woodsman.”

            Erika set her platter down, leaning in closer so she could drop her voice to a whisper. “If the king knew, he’d make him a lord again. Lord Xavier said as much to me today.” She fell into abrupt silence, not wanting to say the rest out loud. With his titles and lands restored, Logan would be Lord Howlett once more. He would go to the north where he would be welcomed back as the long-lost heir. His castles would be restored stone by stone, and he would be loved by the people on his land, surely. He would marry a lady of equal standing, and they would dance The Circle at their wedding. He would have children to reinstate his line. Erika would never see him again. Or, worse yet, he would return often to Einsemar for noble business; they would see each other in the streets or in the palace and remember the taste of each other’s lips, an endless and silent torment. The thought alone was enough to rend her heart in two. The reality of it would surely kill her.

            Remy’s hands took hers. When Erika dared to look into his eyes again, she knew that he understood all she hadn’t said. “Secrets are for a reason, chere,” he said. “They only exist between the people who know.” He let her go just as a rousing call for a song went up. Unable to deny them, Erika left his table without asking for any explanation.

***

            The next day Erika returned to the woods. Unlike yesterday’s frantic flight, she went with calm and poise.

            Sleep had evaded her all night as she dwelled on Remy’s words. He was right, of course: secrets only existed between the people who knew. If the king did not know the last Howlett lived right under his nose, he couldn’t take him away. Logan could live the rest of his life, however long it may be, as Logan, the elusive woodsman known to the city only by the fur pelts he sold and the cured meat and firewood he offered in the winter. It stilled the race of her heart that came with thoughts of his noble blood.

            Neither Vardan nor Logan himself found her on the secret path through the woods. Erika made her way to the cabin alone, only seeing them when she arrived at its location. Logan sat in the shade against the cabin wall, sharpening his axe. The ever loyal Vardan lay beside him in a doze but woke as Erika stepped into the clearing. The wolfdog bounded up and over to her; Logan remained behind. His whetstone worked against the blade a bit longer before he tested it with his thumb. Satisfied, he tied the leather casing around the axe head, and finally rose to his feet.

            Erika clung once more to Vardan’s fur. The huge dog was warm and steady as he leaned against her legs. The whole walk through the woods, she had imagined what she would say to Logan. Now, standing before him, his eyes dark and watchful and waiting, none of that mattered. Planned words would do no good; they had to come from her heart.

            “I’m sorry,” she said. “For yesterday, for running, for not listening. It’s cheap, and too late, but I’m sorry, Logan. I was a coward and childish, and it was unfair to you to not give you a chance to explain. I’d understand if you don’t want to see me now, or ever again, but I’m willing to listen now if you’ll let me.”

            Her words were met with silence. Logan’s eyes narrowed slightly. Erika met his gaze. It felt as if he were piercing into her heart and soul, but she let him. She would always let him.

            “What brought about the change of heart?” he asked. The wariness in the question did not sting too badly. Erika knew she deserved it.

            “At first I was afraid,” she admitted. “I’d asked Lord Xavier what would happen if, in theory, your line was still alive. He said they would make you a lord again, return your lands, have you in court. They would take you away from me,” she said softer, closing her eyes. “They would steal you and have you marry someone like Dame Ameline, or worse. We wouldn’t be together anymore. We’d never dance The Circle again, or lay in the sun together, or kiss, or even touch. And I would see you at feasts and balls and know what it was like to love you, but never be able to again. I couldn’t bear that thought.”

            She opened her eyes again, daring to look at him. “I don’t want to lose you, Logan. I want to be with you, even if yesterday made it seem otherwise. I care for you, I’m falling in love with you. Please, Logan, please don’t let my fear of losing you make it come true.”

            His eyes opened fully again as the tension bled out of his shoulders. “You don’t have to lose me. I don’t want to be a lord. I know I should have told you, not let you stumble into it blindly. But you and I cannot work if you don’t accept my past. You understand that, yes?”

             “Yes. I want to know. I’ll listen now if you’ll let me.”

            Logan nodded once. “It’s a long story,” he said. “Should probably sit down for it.” He nodded towards the cabin door before grabbing his axe and stone and making his way over. Vardan padded after him, and Erika followed.

            Inside the cabin was cool and dim. Logan took a moment to create a spark and light some candles. Erika expected him to sit at the table, but instead he sat down on the floor. Erika didn’t hesitate to join him, sitting across from him.

            Logan began to clench his fingers, forming half-fists with his hands. His forearms, unhidden by his rolled-up sleeves, flexed with the motion. “I barely even know where to begin,” he admitted. “I haven’t spoken about my past… perhaps ever. Remy knew it all on his own. I imagine you mostly know what happened to the Howlett family?”

            “You don’t have to give me the details of it, Logan. Or, James, I suppose.”

            “No,” he said without hesitation. “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever. Please.” He sighed, one hand pushing through his hair. “I was nineteen then. I already knew I was Gifted, I’d known for a few years, though I didn’t realize the implications of it. I thought it was just something handy to heal broken bones when I fell off my horse, or scratches during training. But then the Soldanes came, and my gifts were put to the test.”

            “The Soldanes?” Erika had never heard of them before.

            “They were another old northern family, like mine and Frost and Drake. The Soldanes and Howletts had both lived on our lands for as long as anyone could remember. They always contested our rule. Finally, they decided to take matters into their own hands. They snuck into our castle at night, killed our guards and workers, my parents… They tried to kill me, would have if I were normal.”

            Logan let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “My family, always known for courage, and the one time I needed to be brave I decided to run away. I saw everyone I loved was dead, except my half-brother. We both ran. We tried to hide with my bannermen, and they all wanted to help, but the Soldanes never stopped hunting for me. I was pushed further and further south, wounded so many times over in ways that should have killed me and never did. It was easier to fake my death and disappear.”

            Logan’s hands finally clenched into true fists. “I should have fought them. I should have killed them all for what they did, but I didn’t.”

            Erika covered his fists with her own hands. “How could you have? You’re one man, Logan. You heal, apparently in remarkable ways, but one man can’t kill a family all alone.”

            “I’d have had my brother. Two have a better chance than one. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. My people and Frost and Drake did what I couldn’t. They were all executed, and the king split my lands and gave them away.”

            Logan’s scowl was darker than she’d ever seen. She grasped at a half-mentioned thing to shift his attention from his sense of failed duty. “What about your half-brother? What happened to him?”

            Logan’s scowl did not soften. If anything, it deepened. “He’s like me. You’ve already met him.”

            For a moment Erika faltered. Who else in the city was like Logan? Then she felt him as if his hand had squeezed her throat again. “Victor Creed is your brother?”

            “Sadly, yes. I’d say he wasn’t always like this, but that would mostly be a lie. My mother had him before she married my father. My father let him join all my lessons, but the tutors treated him little better than cats treat mice. He grew bitter young and never learned how to be anything else. At least he’s found something he enjoys.”

            Erika looked at Logan for a long moment. There was a slight likeness between the two men, a general similarity of their faces and build, and of course their shared healing abilities, but little else. Victor’s claws were nowhere to be seen on Logan’s fingertips.

            Logan’s voice rolled onward. “We don’t spend much time together. Being captain of the king’s guard keeps him busy. He keeps my secret; that’s all that matters. Though if he lays a hand on you again, I’ll be giving him an unexpected visit.” The last sentence was more growl than spoken words. The sound of it felt like the tip of a finger grazing down her back, spreading chills from its touch.

            “He’s very close with the king. How did that come to be?” Erika had wondered, but never known who to ask. Surely Logan would know.

            “Lucky coincidence, to a point. Victor was a guard of Lord Lehnsherr around the time of his murder. The night it happened, he helped the king escape. He’s watched over him ever since.” Logan leaned back on his hands, relaxing as they eased into the new knowledge together. “What else are you wondering? I can see questions in your eyes still.”

            Erika bit at her lip, considering if she wanted to know the answer to her most burning question. She decided she did. “You mentioned yesterday that the portrait in the treasury is a betrothal portrait. Were you engaged?”

            The lost lord gave a slight sigh. “I was. To Rosaline, a young lady. I never actually met her, and wouldn’t have until closer to our wedding, if not the wedding itself. It was common though to send portraits, to provide an idea of appearance. Of course, they weren’t always accurate; vanity may be a sin according to the church, but it’s rampant in high society.”

            “And were there many other girls you’ve fallen for?”

            “There have been. It’s a long life to live without companionship. I never married, though I considered it a time or two. I never wanted to marry someone I couldn’t tell this to, and I never was able to bring myself to trust someone enough to share it. I swear I was going to tell you, Erika. I just never found a way, or a time.”

            “I understand.” She offered a thin smile. “It isn’t exactly the kind of thing you share during the threat of violent revolution.” Hesitant, but hopeful, she stretched one hand towards Logan. “You forgive me for yesterday?”

            His hand didn’t hesitate as it took hers. “I do. Just… I think we should both take some time to think about this, us. Determine if this is really what we want. I don’t plan on becoming a lord again, Erika, I won’t be able to make you into a lady. We’d stay the same, you and I, normal people. You have to be certain that’s what you want.”

            Erika nodded. The suggestion hurt a bit, but she understood his logic. Better to take the time to weigh everything now than charge forward and possibly come to regret it. “My parents are planning to visit my uncle on his farm. I’ll likely be gone a few days, but I can come see you again to let you know what I decide. As for now, I likely should be going.” She stood upright, straightening out her skirt.

            Logan stood up with her. “Let me walk with you.”

            She agreed, and she welcomed his hand when it took hers. The walk was silent; what else was there to say now that everything was in the open? And there was a hint of finality, a whisper of chance that it would be the last time they would ever walk together in the woods, the last time they would hold hands. Erika wanted desperately for it to not be so, but the sensation persisted.

            Even when they stopped at the edge of the forest, Erika couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding. It was a relief when Logan’s hand cupped her cheek and turned her head. He didn’t have to ask before she was leaning up on tiptoe to close the distance. She devoured him with her kiss, drinking him in entirely, clinging and desperate. Logan answered in kind, pressing her backwards until she found herself pinned against a tree by his body and passion.

            It could have been an eternity that they kissed, but when Logan finally drew back, Erika felt better. A kiss like that couldn’t possibly be a goodbye forever, only for now. To make it true, she whispered, “I’ll see you soon.” Then Logan let her slip away, back across the open grass to the city walls.

Chapter 41: Confessing Secrets

Summary:

Erika confesses her secrets to her father.

Chapter Text

            The Deforest family had always had two parts, as long as the family history could recall: one half to live on the farm outside the city, to grow the grains to make into ale and the grapes to crush into wine; the other half in the city, in the Forest’s Glen, serving the city folk with fine drinks.

            When her father and uncle were born, twin boys, it was perfection itself. One brother to the farm, the other to the tavern. Christophe had always been more interested in quiet and calm, orderly business; the farm was well suited to him. Charles-Antoine, Erika’s dear father, was gregarious and charming from a young age; serving a constant stream of customers every night was perfect for him.

            It was common for her father to visit the farm every month, to discuss what crops yielded better alcohols, decide which barrels to bring back from the massive cellar at the farm to the smaller storage in the tavern. Erika and her mother did not always accompany him, but they did a few times every year. It was a chance to reconnect with the rest of the family.

            The halves were uneven, certainly. Charles and Marie had only born one surviving child. There had been some miscarriages, a quiet grief always with Marie. In contrast, Christophe’s wife had born him three children. Two sons and a daughter. Erika did not doubt her cousins would take the farm and tavern each, especially now that she was troubadour, though perhaps she could continue to sing there also.

            Of course, that assumed that the Iron King retained his throne. There was no promise that, if the Order of X would succeed in ousting him and seating Xavier on the throne, that he would keep anything related to his friend’s rule.

            Erika shook the thoughts away. They did not have a place at the farm. Erika had promised herself that she would take the time to not dwell on the constant anxiety she felt in the city these days. Her greatest concern would be how to spend her time for the handful of days they would remain outside of the city, and to contemplate her situation with Logan. Even worries about the tavern could be safely put aside; Vendetta agreed to stay at the tavern herself to guard it from any would-be troublemakers.

            The farm was a perfect place to put aside her worries. Like Logan’s woods, it was quiet and separate from the noise and bustle of Einsemar. Everything was slow, languid, and soft. Erika, currently wandering along a field of grain, walked slower than she ever did back home. The stalks of grain tickled her palm as she brushed her hand among them, listening to their rustling. Yesterday, they had arrived late, and today her father was focused mostly on the business matters at hand. Her male cousins had gone with her father and uncle; they were a few years younger than Erika and still had much to learn about the tricks of the trades. Her female cousin, Madeleine, was with her mother and aunt, listening to all the city gossip. Erika knew it all firsthand, and she had never understood much about plants. That left her all on her own.

            She did not mind being alone in any circumstance. Erika often craved the quiet and calm of solitude; it provided an opportunity to center her emotional state from the inevitable input of those around her. But for now, it had the added benefit of giving her ample time to think.

            Logan, a lord. The idea still sent her mind whirling as wildly as Charybdis. She did not want to lose him, and he had made it clear he felt the same, that he had no intention of ever being a lord again. It changed nothing, yet everything. There was always the chance he would be found out, forced to reclaim his title. Would their tenuous relationship withstand that strain?

            Worse yet was the ever-growing realization of his age. Logan was nearly two hundred years old, if not older still, yet he looked no older than twenty-some years. Erika was, as far she knew, fully mortal; though many Gifted Ones lived longer lives than a mere human, they still aged and died at some point. Erika would grow old and gray and wrinkled; would Logan still look the same? Could he still love someone fated to die while he lived on?

            Erika finally reached a tree on the edge of the field. She sank down into its shade, propping herself up against the thick trunk. The latter thought haunted her more than anything else. How could she put Logan through watching her age and wither away? Yet she could not deny her selfishness. She wanted to be with him, to revel in his affections. When their eyes met, no one else existed in the world; when they touched, it felt like fire dancing under her skin. It was the kind of romance you heard of in stories and songs, and it was hers. How could she even consider putting it aside?

            She was still debating in her mind when her father sat down next to her. Erika brought herself back to the present. Her father had set down a small case that he now opened. He pulled out parchment and a stick of charcoal. He then pulled out a second set of supplies and held them out to her. “You seem trapped in yourself.”

            Erika took the offered supplies. She and her father were alike in many ways; introverted and quiet, loyal to those they loved, escapists through art. While Erika had the chance to sing as a creative outlet, her father did not have that luxury as part of the low merchant class. But the rare times he did create art, he was without fail exceptional. Erika’s hopes that the extra money from being the troubadour would give him more time had come partly true, as her father spent many evenings sketching.

            Erika had come to love artwork through her father. When she was a little girl, Charles had let her play with his art supplies. Now a grown woman, she knew it had taken away from his own ability to enjoy his hobby, but it seemed he had taken equal joy in cultivating the same love in her. For Erika, art was special, a way to commune with her father as well as escape from the starkness of reality.

            If she ever needed that escape and communion both, it was now.

            “I am,” she agreed, shifting to lean her side against the tree. Charles likewise faced her, already starting his sketch. Though occupied, Erika knew he was listening to her. She started to outline her father on her page. “I haven’t been entirely forthcoming of things,” she confessed, her voice going a bit quieter. “I’ve been helping Lord Xavier look for any trouble in the palace, any talk of dissent against the king.”

            Her father offered only silence. Erika glanced at him, not to reference him, but to see his reaction, of which there was none. Sensing her gaze, he spoke up: “I’m not overly surprised. It makes the events of the ball make more sense. You were trying to protect the king.”

            “Yes. I wasn’t supposed to do anything but tell a guard if I saw something. But that would have wasted time.”

            “You came out safe, which is what matters most. But I feel there’s more you also aren’t saying. Does it have to do with that Logan fellow?” Her father’s gaze lifted just in time to witness the swift blush that flooded her face.

            There was no point in hiding it any longer. “Yes,” she replied.

            Charles hummed, going back to his sketch. “I’m not surprised. He had eyes only for you.”

            “You aren’t upset?”

            “Upset? No. A bit disappointed you didn’t tell us, perhaps, but never upset, little songbird. What troubles you about him?”

            Erika took a moment to focus just on drawing, trying to put her feelings into words. “I learned something about his past that was unexpected,” she finally replied. “It’s nothing bad or endangering, but it was startling, and I overreacted. I fear I hurt him by reacting like I did, and that I might have ruined what we had. I care about him,” she said, putting her drawing down for a moment, looking up to see she had her father’s utmost attention, his own work equally forgotten. “Maybe I’m even falling in love like girls always do in all those songs I sing. And I’ve gone and ruined it all!”

            Her father reached out, gently grasping her arm. “Ruined is a strong word when you don’t know it’s absolutely true,” he said. “Have you talked to him since?” She nodded. “Was he angry? Did he refuse to forgive you?”

            “Well, no… But what if-?”

            “But what if we don’t consider what ifs?” Her father wore a bemused smile now. “You worry too much, dear one. He cared for you that rainy day you brought him to the tavern for a drink, it was obvious in even just the smallest glance he gave you. Affection like that doesn’t die at the smallest offense. Did you know your mother insulted me early when I was courting her? I said I wanted above all else to be a painter, and she asked why I would want that when I had a life laid out for me already that would be successful. It hurt a bit, but we talked through it, came to understand each other. Forgiveness was easy, because we love each other. And most importantly, she was sorry for what she said, and hadn’t meant to hurt me. And I forgave her because she was sincere.”

            Erika could hardly imagine it. Her parents were so in love, always doting on one another. It was hard to picture one of them hurting the other, even on accident. Yet it put her a bit at ease. Their seemingly perfect relationship had faults and accidents, and they had come through it together. Surely, then, she and Logan would be fine.

            “Tell me about Logan, though,” her father urged, returning to his art. “He’s the woodsman, yes?”

            “He is,” she agreed. “He lives out in the forest, in a cabin, and he has a dog named Vardan. He lives off the land, for the most part, but what he can’t acquire from nature he trades for with animal pelts and meat, mostly. Sometimes he’ll harvest and sell wild plants, also. Never firewood, though; that’s free for whoever needs it. He makes an honest living.” And he’s actually a lord and nearly two centuries old. But Papa didn’t need to know that just yet.

            “And why haven’t you brought him around officially? Marie and I want your happiness, your security. I’ve no doubt your pension from the king can allow you to care for yourself now, but it’s good to go through life with a companion.”

            Why hadn’t she? Erika had considered this only briefly and never come up with an answer. “I’m not sure,” she confessed. “I think I liked having this all to myself. You know how unlucky I’ve been in courtship.”

            It never made sense to her. Most girls her age were well into courtship or even married. Erika was a fine candidate for marriage. There was a highly esteemed tavern to inherit, a steady income, a secure position in life. And vain as it sounded, Erika knew she was beautiful by most standards. Yet no men came to ask after her hand. She had wondered at times if William Hughes had anything to do with it, if he had spread gossip that she was dangerous to men and would deafen anyone who tried to woo her.

            “I suppose I simply wanted to covet it for a time,” she continued. “And maybe I was worried it wouldn’t last, and there was no point in raising your hopes unnecessarily.”

            “Why don’t you have him visit us during the day once we’re back home? I’d like to meet him more officially, as a potential family member as opposed to a customer.”

            Erika agreed, feeling something in her loosen at the loss of secrets. Father and daughter continued to draw, free from concerns for a few moments. When they each finished, they turned their pages around, delighting each other with their sketches of the other.

            Her father had embellished his, drawing flowers around his portrait of Erika, and a little songbird perched on her shoulder.. “Maybe I’ll paint it on a real canvas when we’re home,” he said, sitting next to her now so they could both admire the piece.

            “It would be beautiful,” she agreed, already making a note to buy the best supplies she could as a present. She didn’t care if her father painted her or not, she only wanted him as happy as he was in this moment for always.

            Though she feared happiness was not to last.

Chapter 42: The Order Rises

Summary:

The Order of X begins to approach Einsemar. Erika and her companions prepare for the inevitable conflict.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

            Her fears soon proved true.

            The next day Erika sat with her mother, aunt, and Madeleine in the farmhouse’s kitchen. The other two women were working on mending and sewing, but Erika sat at the table with her art tools, sketching portraits. First Vendetta, red hair frizzed from rain and partway curling, her scarred eye peeking from under the bright curtain. Then Remy, red and black eyes gleaming under his hood, a rakish grin curling his mouth. And Logan, dear Logan, with his tiny childhood scar and his old, old eyes.

            The likenesses were excellent, but not perfect. Drawing from memory remained a far more difficult feat than from reference. Yet Erika felt pleased by her work. Around her, her family’s chatter flowed and ebbed and flowed again.

            The interruption of a knock on the door cut them all into silence and stillness. Erika looked up, fingertips smudged from charcoal, frowning towards the doorway as the other two did. Her aunt, Amily, was the one who rose to her feet, muttering something about the arranged help for the upcoming harvest. Erika ignored her mother and cousin exchanging brief glances; she rose immediately to her feet, her stomach and heart falling out of her and as she went to the door after her aunt.

            Aunt Amily swung open the door to find a flushed and sweaty man. Behind him, his small horse hung its head and flared its nostrils, sweaty flanks heaving as it caught its breath from the hard ride. “Roland,” Amily greeted, her voice hitching up in half inquiry. “What are you doing here?”

            “I have important news, ma’am,” Roland replied. “Where’s your husband?”

            “Out in the field,” she replied, “with our boys and his brother.” Amily’s hand clutched at the doorframe. “What is it? Robbers?”

            “Worse. Excuse me.” With that, Roland turned and rushed off to the fields.

            The four women exchanged glances, then rushed after him.

            The small party scurried through the grain fields, finally finding Christophe, Charles, and the boys at the grapes. Roland shouted for them, and the men met somewhere in the middle. Erika scampered quicker after the other farmer, just in time to hear him breaking the bad news.

            “I’m not sure who they are,” Roland explained. “They’re a large rabble, and robbers never travel in such size, let alone in the midst of the day. They walk under a banner I was told, of a red X.”

            “Whoever they are, doubtless they’re trouble,” Christophe replied. His mild-mannered face had clouded with a scowling frown.

            “We’ve been passing the news down the road,” Roland continued, “suggesting everyone go into the city and seek sanctuary, in case these are bandits.”

            “Not bandits,” Erika blurted out.

            Roland waved a dismissive hand. “Hush, girl, this is important business!”

            Charles drew himself up, his face darkening like his twin’s. “Mind your tongue when you speak to my daughter. What is it, Erika?” His darkened visage turned to her. “What’s wrong?”

            “It’s the rebels,” she insisted. “The Order of X. They’ve painted red X’s, in livestock blood likely, in other towns across the kingdom. They’re likely on their way to Einsemar to confront the king himself!”

            Roland frowned down at her. “And how would you know? Unless you’re affiliated yourself?”

            Erika wheeled, patience and stress fraying like old, weak rope. “I am the troubadour of His Royal Highness, the Iron King, Erik Lehnsherr, ruler of Genosha and Gifted by God! I work in his palace, I know all the knews of Einsemar from all the nobles and their servants! And how dare you suggest I, who put my life and limb on the line for our king, am affiliated with the rabble that would overthrow him? How dare you! I know what I speak of.”

            Roland flinched under her biting words. His work-rough hands rose in an imploring gesture. “Forgive me. This is a worrying time for us. Our crops, our homes, our livelihood may all be at risk of these people.”

            “All the more reason to listen to me, then,” she replied. “You have the right idea. The city can provide us sanctuary while the king and his knights handle this.” Erika fell silent, her head starting to throb. Roland’s unbridled concern and agitation beat at her mental fortifications, and her own spike of stress fractured the walls. A dull throb began in her forehead.

            “Thank you for the warning, Roland,” Christophe said. “You’d best continue your path. Grab some water at my well and offer your horse a drink before you go.”

            Roland said his thanks before rushing back the way they’d come. Erika ignored her family’s discussion and plans of how to retreat, what to bring with them. She only trailed along, mind a maelstrom.

            She knew Remy had done what he could to stop this from happening. He had gathered intelligence, given it to the king, made suggestions of what to do to stop its spread. But perhaps the king had been right all along. Perhaps peace was never an option. Perhaps this had all been inevitable.

            Back in the house, Erika packed up her sketches and supplies and the few other things she had brought along. Once all had been packed, the Deforest’s put everything in the large cart. Charles and Christophe hitched up the pair of mules and soon they were rumbling down the road back to the city.

            The ride proved uneventful. Erika ignored the nervous chatter in the cart, staring instead at the farms they passed by on the way back. Other farmers were likewise packing their families into their carts and setting off, forming a shoddy parade into the city.

            The Deforests soon enough reached The Forest’s Glen. Vendetta sat on the bench outside the tavern, hair bound back in a loose braid; some still fell over her scarred eye, hiding it from any curious gazes. When she spotted their approach, the redhead stood up to greet them.

            “I take it you go’ the news,” she remarked, eyeing the whole family.

            “About the Order coming?” Charles asked as he swung down from the front. “Fortunately so.”

            “Tavern’s not been bothehed,” Vendetta said, “and I set up extra pallets for everyone.”

            “Thank you,” Marie said. She swept up to Vendetta, arms extended. The Britannian woman tried to back out of it, but Marie caught her in a tight embrace. Erika bit back a small smile at her friend’s surprise. “You can stay with us, too, if you want,” her mother continued, drawing back and straightening the other woman’s rumpled shirt. “You can handle yourself, certainly, but it would be safer if you stayed with a group.”

            Her visible green eye flickered to Erika, who gave her a quick nod of agreement. Bronwyn then shrugged. “I’ll pack up some things and make sure my place isn’t at risk, then.”

            With everything settled and the keys returned to their rightful owner, the whole family swept into the tavern, unpacking what possessions they had brought. Erika lingered outside, her satchel still hanging off her. She clutched the straps tight as she sidled close to her friend. “Do Remy and Logan know?” she whispered.

            “Remy, likely,” Vendetta replied. “I haven’ spoken to him yet, but he always knows things. I can’t say if he’s gone to tell Logan or not.”

            “Someone needs to tell him.” She had no doubt Logan could look after himself; someone who carried an axe as easily as he did was a man who knew how to fight. But there was no reason for him to endanger himself when it could be avoided. Erika turned her head to look once more in the direction of the city gates. “I’m going.”

            “Don’t be daft!” Vendetta hissed, grabbing onto her arm. “Who knows what’s going to happen? They might shut and bar the gates and you’ll be trapped outside!”

            “I’ll talk my way back in.” Erika pulled her arm free. “I have to, Brynn. My parents will think I went to help you. Cover for me.”

            “Erika – be careful.”

            The tavern girl gave a jerky nod before slipping away down the streets. Droves of people filled the narrow pathways between buildings. Erika caught snatches of their conversations and worries but ignored them in favor of her mission.

            She worried only once, upon reaching the gate, that perhaps things would not go well. But no one stopped her from exiting the city, traveling against the incoming tide of people living outside the city walls. She veered off into the woods and struck off down the invisible path to the woodsman’s cottage.

            But when she reached the small clearing, she found no one there. Anxiety twisted at her belly. No smoke curled from the cabin’s chimney. Still she pulled open the door and looked inside. The hearth lay cold and dead; Logan hadn’t been there for some time. Her anxiety and worry deepened, and she rushed back outside.

            “Logan?” she called out into the woods. Only birdsong answered her.

            She scampered to the edge, breathing coming faster. “Logan?!” she shouted, loud enough to pause the birds. But again only they answered.

            She whirled in a feverish half-circle to look at the cabin, then another to look at the woods. “Logan?!”

            Her fingers flew to her hair as her restless body threw itself into pacing. She braided her hair deftly, fussed at the curling end, then unbraided her hair once more. On her next pass, she repeated the process. Each set of strides across the rough clearing found her falling into the same gestures, over and over until her hair hung limp and lifeless, the curls all worked out from her trembling fingers. Where had he gone? Had he already gone to the city? Had he left for good? Or worse – had someone come and taken him away?

            “Logan, Logan,” she whispered under her breath, “Logan, where are you?”

            And then a voice, faint, at the very edge of her hearing. She froze, skirt swaying around her from her abrupt braking. She strained to hear over the wind in the lush canopy and the gossiping birds.

            Again it came, and this time she knew it. Her name, his voice. Relief had her stumbling to the nearest tree to catch herself on its rough bark. “Thank God,” she whispered.

            The first figure to appear was Vardan, loping, tongue lolling. At the sight of her, his tail began to wag. He slowed to a trot and nuzzled her hand with a cold nose. Seconds later, crashing through the undergrowth came the woodsman. “Erika!” he shouted out at the sight of her, breaking into a dead sprint.

            “The Order-” she started, but he collided into her, arms sweeping her up tight, crushing her into his chest. His mouth, hard and hot and feverishly panting, crashed over hers, stealing her explanation. Erika found her back digging into the tree, Logan’s body pinning her there. His hands moved from her arms, one into her hair to tip her head further back, another tracing down a shivering path to her hip to hold her body there. She shuddered, pressing into him with the same wild relief.

            “I heard the news,” he whispered into her mouth. “I was so worried they’d gotten to you.”

            She wanted to whisper her own reassurances, but he stole those with another kiss. Heat flushed her body and left her trembling and clinging to him.

            Abruptly Logan drew back. His eyes raked over her. “You shouldn’t be out here. They’ll be here in a matter of days, they might have outriders in these woods now. You need to get back into the city.”

            Erika’s hands balled the front of his shirt into her fists. “I’m not leaving you out here alone. If I go, you come with me. It isn’t safe for you, either – or Vardan,” she added as the wolfdog nosed at her skirt.

            “Erika… I can handle myself,” he protested. “And who knows what will happen if I go back for more than an hour or two. If Xavier or the king see me–”

            Erika reached up, fingers knotting in his hair to yank him down. The kiss was hard, bruising, rough, filling her with sharp, aching heat. “I’m not leaving you,” she hissed into his mouth. “You’re coming with me to Einsemar, even if that means I have to drag you every step of the way.”

            For a moment she though he would protest. But Logan only groaned, closing his eyes. “Damn you, you’re stubborn as I am,” he sighed. “All right, I’ll come. I should have enough money to stay in a cheap inn for a while.”

            Erika sighed out her tension. “Thank you, darling,” she whispered.

            He smiled, if only a little. “I’m doing it only for you.”

***

            Entering Einsemar proved tricky with Vardan at Logan’s heel. One of the guards grabbed the woodsman by his shoulder. “You can’t bring that damned beast in here!”

            Logan wheeled, eyes flashing lupine gold in the sunlight. The guard had an inch or two on him, but Logan’s broad physique somehow made him seem to loom over him. “The dog comes,” he snarled out.

            The guard seemed about to protest, but Logan’s steely glare silenced him. Vardan all the while remained quiet and docile, and when they struck off once more, he remained by Logan’s side.

            At the first turn towards the tavern, Vendetta seemed to materialize from an alleyway. “Mission accomplished, I see,” she drawled to her friend.

            “And without any trouble, either,” Erika added. “Has anyone noticed I’m gone?”

            The redhead shook her head. “I told them you were helping me pack. We’ll take my things to the tavern, but then I’ll be needing to steal Logan for business.”

            “Business?” he rumbled, a scowl already darkening his brow. “If you’re about to drag me to the palace-”

            “Take it up with Remy, luv,” Vendetta replied, reaching up to pat him brusquely on one scruffy cheek. “And as for you, doll,” she said, leveling her one good eye on Erika, “no more sneaking off. You migh’ be a target for the Order. Whatever the king decides you do, whethah it be sending palace guards to follow you around or guard the tavern, or if it’s orders to seek refuge, you do it. I’m not going to see you get yourself hurt or captured because you get some idea in tha’ pretty head of yours.”

            Erika flushed a bit at the scolding. She wanted to protest, but the advice was sound. She only answered with a nod.

            Logan insisted on helping to transport Vendetta’s few packed belongings. Between the three of them, they made a quick trip to the tavern. Logan stayed outside while the two women put the Britannian woman’s belongings away in Erika’s little part of the upstairs living quarters. Erika accompanied Vendetta back downstairs and into the street. It did not surprise her that Remy had appeared.

            The southern Thief did not cut his usual elegant figure. His face looked strange unshaven, the reddish hair making the sleepless circles under his eyes appear more like bruises. One of his hands fidgeted and twitched and made random gestures as he spoke to Logan.

            “You’d put the whole kingdom at risk, then?” he was saying as they stepped outside, his voice a low hiss. “You’re a lord of this kingdom, whether you want to be or not, Howlett.”

            “I’ve done my share,” Logan growled back. “I told you at the start I’d help you make plans and get information, but no more.”

            “You have a duty to your king and your country,” the southerner cut in. “Would you abandon that now when it’s needed most?”

            Logan grimaced. For a moment, silence dragged between them. “Damned duty,” Logan finally growled. “Fine. I’ll come along. But I make no other promises.”

            Remy jerked his head a nod, then looked to Vendetta. “And you? You’ll do your part?”

            Beside Erika, Vendetta sighed long and low. “I don’t have a choice. I owe him my life.” The redhead turned to Erika and gave her an abrupt embrace. “We have to go,” she murmured. “I’ll be back later.”

            “Where-?” she began to ask.

            “The palace,” Remy replied. “His Majesty will be wanting us, I’ve no doubt. Stay inside, Erika. Follow whatever orders will keep you safe.” With a swirl of his purple-lined cloak, he turned and stalked away, taking the other two with him. Erika lingered in the street and watched them leave, heart sinking in dread.

Notes:

After much waiting, the climax begins to stir! Thank you to anyone who has read this far - I hope your patience and anticipation are being rewarded now! Things will definitely be picking up from here, and I hope the rest of the story won't disappoint!

Chapter 43: Fealty

Summary:

As the Order approaches Einsemar, the Iron King demands utmost loyalty. Erika struggles with her fears and anxieties.

Chapter Text

            The palace loomed over them, its shadow reaching out and devouring them.

            Remy did not seem bothered to enter the royal halls, but his two companions followed with rigid steps. Bronwyn’s one visible eye flickered around, taking everything in, judging when to duck her head and avoid a recognizing glance. It was only her third time returning to the Iron King’s palace after her dismissal from the Iron Guard. A creeping sense of wrongness tickled up her spine as they made their way to the throne room.

            But if she felt out of place, Logan felt even more so. He did not look anywhere but straight ahead, did not acknowledge a soul that they passed. Nothing in his posture gave away who he was, yet he waited for the moment when someone would call him by the name long since buried. Vardan padding along at his side provided little comfort; the wolfdog could not protect him from his past, or his future.

            Remy led them into the throne room, and through it to a smaller antechamber. The room housed a long table, at the head of which sat the Iron King himself. To his right sat Lord Xavier, pensive and silent, chin on his folded hands. To his left was Lady Darkholme, as quiet as the man across from her, though her fingers traced the grain of the wood beneath them. The rest of the king’s council occupied the other seats, save three spots saved for the latecomers. Around the room stood the Iron Guard, all in armor and cloaked, fine swords at their hips, helmets tucked under arms. Bronwyn blanched when Victor Creed caught her eye and grinned, fangs flashing at her.

            Remy did not speak as he entered. He took his place at the opposite end of the table, directly across from the king. Logan, still resolute in ignoring his surroundings, sat down without a look at the assemblage; Vardan slunk under the table to lay at his feet. Bronwyn took the space across from him, short body drawn tight as a bow and rigid in the chair.

            “We may begin,” the king intoned. “We all know our reason for gathering. The Order of X rides to us as we speak. Gambit, what has your man found out for us?”

            Remy launched ahead, accent void for the moment. “The Order is approaching from the north. Thankfully, civilians outside the city think they’re a band of raiders and most are heading into the city for refuge already.

            “Their plan, from what we have gathered, is to lay siege to Einsemar and demand you, your Majesty, to rescind your title and throne to Lord Xavier. If that fails, they will likely launch an attack. While the number of the Order’s supporters is large, the force coming towards us is deceiving. Most of these people are common folk who have no training with weaponry. What weapons they do have are reserved for those with an amount of training; most are armed with whatever tools they had at home. Pitchforks, clubs, staffs. Between the city and Iron guards, and your knights, I’ve little worry there. The issue comes from the other members.

            “The Order has Gifted Ones.”

            A low murmur went around the table, glances trading back and forth. Xavier closed his eyes, fingers shifting to his temples. A second later, both Lady Grey and Lady Frost followed suit. The Iron King glanced at his most trusted advisor before focusing back on Gambit. “How many? More or less than us?”

            “My man can’t promise me anything,” the thief explained. “As with all of us gathered here, not all Gifted Ones show what they are, or speak openly of it. There are at least five, but there may well be more.”

            “We will manage,” the king declared. “We are many and we are strong. But we need time. Ororo.”

            The weather witch raised her head, lightning-white curls swaying as she turned to the king. “I know what you ask,” she said in a voice of molten gold. “You wish me to cast a storm upon them.” Her blue eyes turned to white, like storm clouds rolling across a clear sky. Blue-hot sparks danced through her hair. As sudden as it began, it stopped, and she nodded her proud head once. “It is done.”

            “Good,” the Iron King intoned. “Lord Summers, send out riders to the surrounding farms. Have them harvest what they can and bring to the silos for storage. And send them to us. We will protect as many as we can.”

            Xavier’s eyes opened again, and he dropped his hands; the two ladies did likewise. Xavier looked to the king, a frown creasing his brow. “Jean and Emma and I managed to reach them; they aren’t too close yet, we should have some days to prepare. But I’m afraid they must have a telepath like us among them. What hold we managed together was cut out.”

            “I managed a bit longer,” Lady Frost said. One of her hands petted at the white fur collaring her cape; her icy blonde hair was only a few shades shy of the fur’s color. “But even my shields faltered under them. They seemed to have a banner for now.”

            “There were no sigils on their clothes,” Jean added. “They dressed entirely normal. If they were to infiltrate the city, we would never know.”

            The king considered for a time. “We cannot afford escorts to everyone that we bring into the city, not if we are to keep the city well-guarded. But we can provide a seal to those we send to the city. I will prepare them, and we shall give them to those seeking refuge. If they do not produce one starting tomorrow, they cannot enter.”

            “Tha’s rathah harsh, Erik,” Bronwyn spoke up. “Even for you.”

            “And we cannot afford mistakes,” the king replied. “If a non-rebel comes and cannot enter the city, they would do well to go home and stay inside. These rebels do not seem interested in harming anyone but I. Creed?”

            The captain of the Iron Guard stepped forward, inclining his head. “My liege.”

            “Increase the guards on the city walls. We will lock all but the main gate and keep that one heavily guarded. Pass word of the seals on for me as well. And one of my own guard shall be at the gate, as well; I trust the lot of you more than the mere city guard.”

            “As you wish,” the captain rumbled in response.

            The Iron King rose then. “And as for you three,” he said, eyes fixing on the group at the end of the table. “I would ask your loyalty to this cause of protecting Genosha.” His eyes fixed first on Gambit. “Loyalty bought is not as sure as loyalty earned. I know enough of what you have done in your past to be wary. Should you stray, Remy LeBeau, your rank in Orleen will not save you from my wrath.”

            The southerner rose, devilish eyes as cool as the king’s steely gaze. “You speak to a prince of the Thieves Guild of Orleen, Lehnsherr. I am not one to bow to threats. You have my loyalty in this; accept it.”

            The king only seemed amused by this response, eyes sliding to Vendetta. “My sweet Hand of Death. You rejected me the last time I called on you. I will not accept that denial in this.”

            Bronwyn rose, shaking her fiery hair out of her lamed eye. “My sword is yours, my blood is yours. Say the word and I’ll do as you ask.”

            “Good. I will have you back in my guard,” Lehnsherr declared. “Yours was a sword I always trusted, my child.”

            Logan stiffened when the gaze came to him. With reluctance, he stood from his chair, looking askance at the king.

            “Your loyalty, Lord Howlett,” Lehnsherr said, softer, a touch gentler than he had spoken to the other two. “You and I are alike. We have lost family and ancestral home, you and I. Would you see these people take this castle, as well?”

            Logan’s eyes narrowed. “We are not alike. You are a king. I am not a lord any longer.”

            “Perhaps not in name, but you are in blood, James. Did you think I have not known where you were all this time? Did you think your brother did not tell me of you? I have let you live in peace in your cabin in the woods, never once asking anything of you. Until now. I ask your fealty, that you will protect the kingdom that is as much yours as is your peers’ at this table. Bend the knee, only for a few days, and the woods may be yours again if you wish.”

            His eyes flickered, hesitating still. Bloodshed had been his nature once; he had fought to put it in his past, and had succeeded. His was a life of quiet, of peace, of calm. He would throw it away entirely if he accepted.

            Lehnsherr spoke again, gentler still. “If not for duty to your kingdom or your queen, what about duty to your paramour? What would Erika want you to do, Lord Howlett?”

            His eyes closed and his hands curled into fists. “My sword is yours,” he growled out. “But only until this is over.”

            “Only until,” the king agreed. “Now,” he said, sinking to his chair once more, “we have plans to construct.”

***

            The days unfolded. Thunder and lightning tore at the heavens north of Einsemar, the black clouds visible from the higher points of the city. A curtain of thick, heavy rainfall tore downward from the clouds. During the daytime when Erika went out into the city, she would often gaze upon the storm, wondering and worrying when the Order would arrive.

            Tension sank its teeth deep into Einsemar’s flesh. With even more people in the city, it was inevitable that people would become frustrated and stressed. While the taverns across the city brimmed with customers at night, the level of fights had increased hot on its heels. Erika had seen her father and uncle and cousins breaking up fights and kicking out the offending parties every night since the Iron King had ordered everyone into the city.

            The strain was heightened by other matters, as well. With the increased number of people in the city, and the fact that most farmers had fled their farms for safety, food had become a limited resource. Rations were handed out to each house daily, measured out to feed the number of people in the house for at least one meal. Marie Deforest no longer made food for those who came to the tavern, instead mixing in what items had been stocked in the larder with the daily rations.

            The limited amount of food was enough to strain most households, but it was made worse by the city guards. They came to houses day after day, slamming their ironed fists against the door until it opened, then demanding oaths of fealty from the inhabitants. Any hesitance led to questioning, and Erika knew there had been a few individuals taken to the palace under suspicion of treason. She feared what that would mean for the Order. Would it be that much easier for them to enter the city when they arrived? Or had they already infiltrated the city and were blossoming under the new strains?

            The only consolation was that Erika found herself no longer a subject of gossip. Now the hushed voices fretted over the Order of X. But in a way that was worse. Their anxiety and fear spilled out into the world. And Erika could not help but absorb it from them. Her nerves were frazzled, her anxiety spiked. She drowned in the sensations, desperate to escape them at night. Yet sleep was a struggle every night, her mind struggling to purge the feelings flooding her home.

            But in a way, her struggle to sleep served a purpose. Since the Order of X had begun its march to Einsemar, the Iron King had struggled to sleep as well. Every night he sent someone to fetch his troubadour, and every night Erika walked in quiet through the night-shrowded city. It was a rare moment of peace for her.

            Tonight it was Vendetta who came to fetch her. Vendetta’s mouth parted in surprise as Erika opened the door immediately after her knock. Her friend cut an unfamiliar figure in full armor, her feminine silhouette only hinted at under the plates. She had bound up her hair into a large bun, pinned tight against her skull; its shade was not far from the crimson of her cloak. Her two swords were strapped to her back, a belt of knives around her waist.

            “Not in bed?” Vendetta asked, recovering quickly.

            “There is no point,” Erika replied. “Why walk up the stairs only to come back down shortly after? I assume his Majesty is requesting me once more.”

            Erika paused only to lock the door after her and tuck the key in her pocket before the pair struck off through the city. They chattered idly as they walked, Vendetta relaying her past few days back in the king’s service; between guarding the king himself and the city, there was little time for the friends to spend together. As they reached the bridge over King’s River, a distant grumble of thunder rolled out. Erika turned to look in the direction of the storm she knew still stood stalled outside the city.

            “It isn’t natural,” she mused. “Ororo’s work?”

            “Of course,” Vendetta replied. “We hoped it would slow the bastards down. Seems to be working so far.”

            “But not forever,” Erika whispered. “They’ll come. And there will be blood.”

            The rest of the walk passed in silence. Soon Erika found herself walking into the king’s bedchamber, followed by Vendetta, who lurked in the dark of the room. He sat up in bed, as usual, quiet as he stared out at the dark night. The sleepless nights showed plain on his face, with dark shadows suspended beneath his eyes, sharpened further by the soft illumination of the candles by his bed.

            “Someday this will pass,” he said as the door creaked shut. “It shall be in our history, another rebellion of many. But I wish it would pass sooner. I imagine you feel the same.”

            “I do,” Erika replied. “The unrest makes it… difficult for me.”

             “I fear it will be worse once they truly begin.” The king turned his gaze fully upon her. “My favor has made you into a figure of import, though it was never my intention. The Order may see you as a way to harm me, or perhaps as a way into the palace. For that reason, I am granting you a guard that shall follow you wherever you go.” He held up a hand, not allowing her any chance to protest. “Your friends have informed me of your stubbornness, particularly Bronwyn. I will not take a refusal, Miss Deforest. You will accept this. I will not have harm come to you that I could have avoided.”

            Erika bowed her head. “I accept, your Majesty. I want my safety assured, as well.”

            “Then we are in agreement.” He smiled, a tired, worn expression. “Play for me, won’t you? It seems to be one of the only elixirs of sleep these nights.”

            Erika sat at the harp and began to play. Yet Lehnsherr did not close his eyes. As she played a soft, sweet melody, he again began to speak.

            “I worry I am only making things worse,” he admitted. “But what else can I do? I cannot risk any inside men letting the Order into the city, I must find them and weed them out. And I must control our food, that is even more important. A city in hunger is a city that falls. We have to ration, we have to be careful. Any error leaves us open to death. And yet, my actions may be the very error that does so.”

            Erika hesitated, but spoke, her voice slow and careful as she continued to play. “You are the king. Your word is the law. You do what you think is best for your people, and for that I admire you. Are your actions at times harsh? Yes. But a leader who is not in control is a leader who may be usurped. We need stability now more than ever. Alyria watches us as avidly as we watch them. A moment of weakness, a rebellion in the midst of overthrowing a king, would provide a perfect opportunity to strike.”

            The king hummed, barely audible over the harp. “You have grown wise in these months.” His eyes drooped as he relaxed back into the pillows. “Keep playing, please.”

            Erika continued, watching the king as he sank finally into sleep. Only when she was sure he was deeply, thoroughly asleep did she stop and stand. Vendetta ushered her out, mindful to shut the door softly.

            As they began the reverse journey, Erika couldn’t help but ask her friend a question. “Why were you so hateful of the king when we first stumbled into this affair? You knew him already, you said he saved your life and trained you. That doesn’t seem like a reason to hate him.”

            Vendetta sighed into the darkness. “It’s complicated. Erik has good in him, I don’t doubt that. But he acts more on anger and vengeance than pursuit of peace. He laid in wait in the Xavier castle for years while Shaw was king. He came out to join the war, as any lord would do, but at the first opportunity he found to challenge Shaw, he took it. He wanted his vengeance for wha’ Shaw did to his family, and he took it, consequences be damned.

            “He saved me, yes, but he let bad things happen to me, also. He pushed me to my limits and abandoned me when I fell beyond them. He nevah stopped Creed from…” Here she trailed off, one hand raising to the scars slashing over her eye. She traced them without looking; she did not need to see them to know where they lay. Erika felt in the silence that Creed had done more to her friend than cut her face and damage her eye. But she did not pry.

            “Erik does what serves him,” Vendetta continued, voice hardening. “As he is doing now. He may be a king to guide us through a war, but he is not a king for times of peace. In that the Order makes a point.”

            Silence again, interrupted at times by the distant thunder that pelted the Order to the north. Soon Erika found herself back at the tavern. She paused though before opening the door, breathing out a tremulous sigh. “It isn’t fair,” she whispered. “He has me to coax him into sleep. I have nothing but my own exhaustion to eventually drag me under.”

            Vendetta shuffled beside her, and suddenly pressed a glass vial into her hands. “I collected some herbs, brewed you a little potion. Should help you fall asleep bettah. Just a sip, though. Too much could hurt you.”

            Erika clasped her hand around the vial, smiling at her friend. “Thank you. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

            “Good. I have to go,” Vendetta replied. “Duty calls. I’ll see you again soon.”

            Erika watched her friend go before ducking back inside. She went up to her room and quietly settled into bed, taking a small sip of the potion before laying down. She laid down, and as soon as her head touched her pillow, she found herself falling into quiet, peaceful sleep.

Chapter 44: Blockade

Summary:

The Order of X finally reaches Einsemar, and gives their demands through an unexpected voice.

Chapter Text

            The storm drew closer over the week until it tore apart the sky outside of Einsemar. The city cringed under the preternatural crash of thunder. Rain lashed from the heavens upon every surface. News from Gambit’s spy came thick and fast – but not fast enough.

            The palace woke in its usual fashion since the restrictions began. There was no breakfast to serve; it was replaced instead with a meeting of the court. Erik Lehnsherr paced his council chamber, restless as the gilt leopard on his family crest. The members of the Iron Court would trickle in one by one, but they could not soothe him. Few ever had been able to since the massacre of his parents and their household.

            “My liege,” Creed rumbled, “pacing helps no one.”

            Lehnsherr barked out a bitter, cold laugh. “I never thought I would see the day that you would give my own advice back to me. How can I do anything else? As we speak, they draw closer.” A fierce, high clap of thunder ripped through the sky. The castle seemed to tremble around them. “They’re as good as here. And given what you’ve already told me this morning, we have reason to be concerned.”

            “We delayed them some time.” The gilt voice was familiar and soothing. The Iron King turned to regard his witch, or so they called her. Ororo’s loose gown flowed around her as she approached the table. Her wild white hair seemed to dance in a breeze that belonged only to her. “We bought a week to stockpile supplies. That is better than we could have asked just days before. And they ought to be miserable by now.” Her eyes flashed with a cool smirk. “Soaked to the bone and surrounded by lightning and thunder. Perhaps some of them regret joining.”

            “Perhaps,” Lehnsherr agreed, “but not enough for them to not be bold already.” His pacing resumed. Ororo only shrugged and sank into her seat.

            One by one, more appeared. Lady Grey and Lord Summers came arm in arm; not even the threats of war or uprising could halt the courtship their families had arranged. McCoy came pouring over his books. Gambit slunk in, dripping rain from his cloak; Howlett followed close behind, as wet and shaggy as the wolf-dog at his heel.

            The table filled steadily. Lehnsherr stood behind his chair, hands gripping the back so hard his knuckles grew white. The table filled, yes, but one seat remained uncharacteristically empty.

            They all noticed it and continued to glance at the empty seat. Finally, Erik could take it no longer. “Have any of us seen Lord Xavier this morning?” His heart gave a sharp, lurching twist when no one answered. Teeth baring in a snarl, he slammed a fist into the table. His other hand pointed towards two of his guards. “Search the palace! Find him!”

            The guards beat a hasty retreat from the room. Lehnsherr sank into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. “This cannot be,” he muttered under his breath. “He cannot-”

            “Erik,” Jean whispered. “I don’t feel his mind anywhere in the palace. It’s as if…”

            “As if he’s gone,” Emma Frost finished, her voice sharper, surer. Of the three telepaths in the court, Emma was perhaps weaker than her counterparts, but her spine was steely enough that she never cowed from being blunt, even with the king.

            Gambit’s long fingers drummed restlessly on the table. “I warned you that the Order was muttering about a kidnapping,” he said.

            “And I increased the guards at the gates and in the palace,” Lehnsherr replied. “I did everything in my power to be prepared. We found one traitor in my servants before. Likely there were more we did not find. And if they took him…” Each sword at every hip in the room rattled under the king’s rage and promise of revenge.

            “Xavier isn’t the only one missing,” Creed rasped, stepping forward from his place behind the king. “Captain Summers reported a number of his guards missing, as well.”

            Scott Summers swore under his breath. “Alex’s count is always sure. This is bad.”

            Jean glanced at her paramour, then the king. “If we’re right and they have a telepath, it’s possible they could have overpowered some of the guards. No one would have questioned guards coming to speak to Xavier at a late hour, not with this situation. It would have been easy to capture him then.”

            “Then we strike, now,” Lehnsherr declared. “We attack immediately and bring Charles home.”

            The table broke into uproar, everyone protesting. Lehnsherr clenched his fists and rocketed to his feet. “I am the king! You will-!”

            Thunder ripped at the sky, and in its wake came a familiar voice.

            People of Einsemar, I speak on behalf of Kaiden, leader of the Order of X.

            Erik froze, eyes raising towards the ceiling. In a voice of anguish and hope, he whispered one name: “Charles.”

            We are outside of your gates, Charles’ voice continued, and locking your doors to us will not stop us from entering your city. We are already with you. But we shall break through your walls – even if it means starving you all out. We cannot be stopped.

            Erik Lehnsherr. You and you alone have the power to stop this before it leads to anguish. Rescind your crown, leave it on your empty throne. Leave your palace. Grant your power to Lord Charles Xavier. Do these things, and we shall leave your city in peace and return to our lives. And we shall release Lord Xavier back to you unharmed. But should you fail to meet our demands…

            A sense of confusion swept over him. As suddenly as it came, it changed to a high, undulating scream of pain and anguish. Erik dropped to his knees, clutching at his head, screaming in tandem with his dearest friend in his mind.

            After an interminable length, Erik came back to himself. Jean’s hands, cool and soft, cupped his face. “Erik, Erik!” she was saying. “Open your eyes! He’s all right, I swear it’s so.”

            Lehnsherr jerked back, scrambling across the marble floor. “He is not all right! They’ve hurt him, and they shall pay for it! Every drop of his blood spilled will be one of their men dead!”

            “They did not hurt him,” Jean repeated, stronger this time. She rose, grasping the king’s hands and guiding him to his feet as well. “Charles sent me a hidden message. He’s fine, they haven’t hurt him, they’re caring for him well. Why did you think they’d hurt him?”

            Erik blinked, looking at them all. Confusion met him in the eyes he met. “He… He was screaming,” he whispered. “I heard it in my mind, as clearly as his words…”

            Jean shook her head, cupping his face gently once more. “That was not Xavier. Their telepath must have played a trick on you, to make you think they were hurting him. But I promise you, Charles is all right. He’s safe.”

            His hands lashed out, grabbing Jean by the shoulders tight. His eyes met hers, burning, desperate. “You swear it?” he hissed.

            “I swear it,” she replied. “For the moment, Charles is not hurt. I can’t… I can’t promise they won’t hurt him if they don’t get their way. But I doubt they would too badly. They want him as king, it wouldn’t do to be too cruel to him.”

            Erik let her go slowly. Relief made his legs weak, and he sank into his chair once more.

            “There’s more, though,” Jean said. “Charles… He told me the Order is planning an attack. If you don’t meet their demands, they’ll attack the city in three days’ time. They’ve already blockaded the road. No one can help us.”

            “Help is coming anyway,” Gambit said. “I sent word to Orleen, the Thieves Guild has already sent out its finest warriors to aid us. They should make it in time.”

            Lehnsherr straightened and focused himself. Though his heart ached without Charles at his side, he could not let the absence distract him. “We will worry about such strategies later. First, we must plan evacuation to safe places for the people of the city. We can likely use the same divisions from Shaw’s war, send people to barracks, the cathedrals, the palace for safety. The Order does not truly want to harm the people of the city, but they may if given the chance, as means to prove a point. I want everyone evacuated to a safe place before they attack. We shall announce a trial attempt at it later today, to see if it still works properly.

            “The storm may be stopped,” he continued. “It’s done its part, there’s no reason to make the whole city miserable any longer. As for our attack…” The king bent to the table, a solemn vow ringing in his head and his heart.

            I will free you, Charles, if it is the last thing I do.

Chapter 45: Chaos Falls

Summary:

Erika struggles with the memories the Order's siege brings. Logan rushes to defend the city - leaving Erika undefended and vulnerable as chaos falls upon Einsemar.

Chapter Text

            Erika set down a bag of coins on the bar counter. “My latest sum from the king,” she said. “If this carries on much longer, I fear it won’t be enough.”

            Marie Deforest untied the strings of the pouch and slowly poured out its contents. The king’s coins tumbled out, clattering on the wood. Gold and silver glittered under the women’s eyes; on the gold pieces, the face of a roaring leopard shone, and on the silver were crossed swords. There were no copper pieces, for Erika’s voice was worth more than that, but she knew them well, stamped with a simple crown. Copper pieces were the only ones that did not change their image with the rise of a new king.

            Her mother sorted the coins out, counting under her breath. When she finished, she scooped it together and put it back in the pouch. She jotted the sum on a tiny slip of paper and tucked it inside before passing it to her husband, who took it upstairs to hide away. “It will have to do. We have no other choice.”

            The Order of X’s siege on Einsemar put a strain on the city. Guards had swept through the streets to take a census of the number of citizens and refugees in the city walls. Each household was allotted a certain amount of grain from the storage towers, but the amount was small. The rations could not be too generous, not when winter would be coming soon enough and there was no guarantee of another harvest with the Order.

            The Deforests had never struggled. The Forest’s Glen was one of the most popular taverns in the city; the amount of coin that swept through it every night was more than enough to provide Charles, Marie, and Erika a comfortable living. Particularly bountiful harvests brought extra profit in from the farm as well. But with the rationing of food, the Deforests could not run the tavern to full capacity. They had only opened their doors one night, and then had only served drinks. It had been a poor night. Tempers and tensions had been near explosive, and patrons only glowered into a single tankard before dropping their coppers and slinking out once more. There had been no music, no singing, no cheering.

            The Deforest’s food was stretched thinner as well. Though they had been well stocked at the start, they had over double the number of individuals to feed with Christophe’s family under their roof as well. What crops farmers had managed to harvest and bring with them to sell were few and far between, and because of that at a terribly steep price. The gold Erika earned from the king had been stashed away for rainy days. She had not expected to pull it out so soon.

            The Deforest’s were not the only ones to feel strain in the siege. Robbery and pickpocketing had increased over the days. Just last night, Erika had woken from a deep sleep to hear her uncle shouting at someone and a scuffle downstairs. By the time she had made herself decent and scrambled down, the attempted thief had fled. Thankfully, they had not succeeded in stealing anything, but Erika felt certain there would be more attempts to follow.

            Erika raked her fingers through her hair. Haunting memories lurked around every corner of the city. Shaw’s war had seen similar food rationing, similar strained nights in the tavern and escalations of crime, and close attention to their coinage. The memories once had been hazy, pushed aside in favor of the brighter moments of her childhood that she had wished to remember more. Now, trapped in the city walls by impending violence and doom, they rushed back to her with the clarity of a clear crystal. When she stepped out onto the main streets of the city, she saw funeral parades and heard the toll of cathedral bells. When she saw men in armor, she smelled their sweat and blood.

            Little brightness filled her life. She took little joy in her nightly sojourn to the palace to soothe the Iron King. Her uncle’s jokes fell flat and short or did not come at all, and her parents had yet to find a way to comfort her. She saw little of Vivien and less of Bronwyn; the blonde kept with her family and Lehnsherr’s paranoia shackled the redhead to his side. She did not see a hint of Gambit, and if she would have, she could not fathom how she would react. A frightened part of her wanted to blame him for it all; his appearance had been the beginning of this trouble. Yet her logic told her of how ridiculous the thought was. The Order of X rose in response to the Iron King’s violence and harshness. It was Lehnsherr’s fault and his alone. And yet he was king, and having come to know him better, Erika understood that he had done what he thought best for his kingdom. It had been most of three days and the confusion and strain already made the space behind her eyes throb.

            Lost in her mulling thoughts, the creak of the tavern door startled Erika to her feet. She grabbed at her dagger as she spun to face the door.

            Logan stood just inside the tavern, frozen midstride, Vardan lurching to a halt next to him. His eyes fixed on her hand curled around the hilt of her dagger. When he lifted his gaze to hers, his eyebrow arched as sharp as the blade in her hand. “Expecting a rebel?”

            Erika’s shoulders slumped as her hand dropped from the hilt. “I don’t even know at this point,” she confessed.

            Her father appeared on the stairs in a rush. From the gleaming blade in his hand, it seemed he had assumed the worst as well. Logan’s amusement faded to wariness as he turned towards Charles Deforest. “Having second thoughts about welcoming me?”

            Charles went through the same uncoiling of tension; witnessing it made a hysteric urge to giggle surge in Erika’s throat. “Logan. You’re… always welcome here,” her father said, sparing her mother a glance in the pause. “You’ll have to forgive us any tension. We had an attempted robbery overnight.”

            The woodsman’s face darkened. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, unfortunately. Do you want a guard overnight?”

            Charles eyed Logan anew, eyes slipping to Vardan. The wolfdog had decided to sit at Logan’s side, silent as the man’s shadow. The dog was massive, his large head at the man’s hip. Similar to his master, Vardan’s strength was obvious in the broad, deep chest and muscular shoulders. His large head, lupine eyes, and mottled coat created a resemblance that leaned heavily into his wolf heritage. Whatever kind of dog had contributed to his life had passed little on to him. “We could pay you in some coin, and you’d be welcome to dine with us. I hope you don’t hold my reluctance at sharing our private rooms against me, given your courtship of my daughter.”

            “I would be surprised if you didn’t feel that way,” Logan replied, as gracious as the lord he had been long ago. “It sounds like a fine deal by me, though you don’t need to pay me anything. Knowing your family is safe is payment enough.”

            Charles smiled at that. Erika felt a swell of relief in seeing it. “I insist,” her father replied. “Help yourself to a drink if you like, young man. No charge for our brave defenders of the city.”

            Logan said his thanks before Charles went back upstairs; Erika sensed her mother drifting off further into the room to provide them a semblance of privacy. Erika sank back onto her stool with a sigh.

            Logan stepped in front of her, wrapping his arms around her. Erika nuzzled into the soft fabric of his shirt. She could smell the woods on him, and the scent of the man beneath. The comfort she found in his arms made her heart squeeze tight.

            “I know how difficult this is,” Logan murmured into her hair. “For you especially. I wish I could tell you it would improve, but I won’t lie to you, Erika.”

            She sighed, closing her eyes tightly. “What’s going to happen?”

            “I can’t say for certain. But the time for negotiation is past us. There’s going to be bloodshed.” He paused, his fingers playing through her hair. “The king is going to ask me to fight. I’m going to say yes.”

            Erika was no fool. She had known it was a possibility the day that Logan went with Remy and Vendetta to the palace. Yet a part of her had helplessly hoped that when the Order broke through the walls and swarmed the city, Logan would be there in whatever place of refuge they fled to. He would protect her no matter what. But it was not to be.

            “It’s going to be soon. Gambit’s informant believes it will be tomorrow most likely, but it could be any moment. It could be now,” Logan admitted, “but we’re ready. They won’t win.”

            “It doesn’t matter who wins,” Erika replied, pushing herself back to look him in the eye. “We’re all going to lose. Genoshans will die either way, and their blood will be on our streets. There are no winners in a battle like this.”

            Logan’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Spoken like a wise queen. You’re sure you don’t have any noble blood in you?”

            She managed a weak smile in return. “I’m not. Would you run away in shock if I turned out to?”

            He hummed for a moment. “Perhaps. But I’d come back soon enough. I can’t let any lord take you away without you knowing how I feel.”

            Erika felt her heart give a lurch. “And how do you feel?” she whispered.

            Logan’s hand curled around the back of her neck. Erika didn’t care that her family was just upstairs, that her mother was in the very same room with her back politely to them to provide what privacy she could. None of it mattered as butterflies rioted beneath her skin. “I feel,” Logan whispered, too quiet for her mother to hear, “that you complete me. That I want you beside me every day for the rest of my life.”

            “That I love you,” Erika whispered back, her voice quivering between them.

            Logan tipped her head back further, bending close. His mouth consumed hers, his kiss fervent, rapturous, adoring. Erika clung to him, drowning herself in him. Come what may, she would remember this moment and hold it close to her heart always.

            Until Logan gasped and wrenched backwards. His eyes squeezed shut, hands clamping over his ears, teeth gritting in a feral snarl. Erika gasped as he dropped to his knees, curling inward and trembling all over. She fell to the ground with him, crying out his name, clinging to him.

            Her mother rushed over. “What’s happened?”

            “I don’t know! He was fine, and then – I don’t know!” Her voice broke, sobs clawing at her chest.

            As suddenly as it came, it ended. Logan lunged to his feet, hazel eyes glittering gold. “It’s happening,” he rasped. “It’s happening right now-”

            Erika clawed at her skirts to scramble to her own feet. “What’s happening?”

            “The Order,” Logan replied. “They’re starting their attack.”

            Blood roared in her ears, blocking the sound of her family rushing downstairs to see what had caused such ruckus. “What?” she whispered.

            “You need to go,” Logan insisted. His hand wrapped around Erika’s arm, pulling her towards the door. “It was a psychic attack, likely aimed at guards they’ve seen on the walls. The bells-”

            As if summoned by his words, the first toll rang out over the city. Erika’s blood turned to ice in her veins. Her legs froze; when Logan pulled her again towards the door, she nearly fell over. He yanked the door open, opening her view to the street and the people beginning to pour out into it. Logan hauled her outside, her father pushing her from behind. The woodsman whirled her to face him, his hands vices on her arms. “Run,” he snarled. “Run to wherever you need to go, hide, and stay safe. I’ll come for you as soon as I can, but I – I have to –”

            “Go,” she whispered. “I know. Go, go!”

            People ran on either side of them, but Logan still paused to give her one last, frantic kiss. It lasted only a second before he was running away from her, darting through the crowds fleeing into the heart of the city, Vardan close at his heels.

            “Be safe,” she whispered after him before the flow of fear swept her away.

***

            Logan slammed the door to the gatehouse open. “Armor!” he shouted to the first available squire he spotted. The boy tossed him a suit of chainmail. Logan yanked it on. Before he could scramble in search of anything else, a familiar scent washed over him. Not even a heartbeat later, Remy was at his side, thrusting a pile of fabric and plate into his arms.

            “You felt it, too?” the thief asked.

            Logan only grunted as he wrestled into the old surcoat. Its colors had faded, but the red was unmistakable, as was the snarling wolverine sewn onto the breast.

            “We’re short a few,” Remy declared as he buckled the plates onto Logan’s shoulders and arms. His nimble fingers were faster than any of the young squires, and soon thief and lost lord were racing up the steps onto the wall. Vardan’s claws rasped over the stone steps in their wake. Logan buckled on his sword belt as they burst back into the sunlight. “And they don’t have the same trouble.”

            Logan felt his breath falter as he stared down at the crush of humanity below. Even if every member of the city guard were capable of fighting after the psychic blow, they would still have been outnumbered by the rebels below. He swept a glance over them, estimating the number of rebels below. Surely this wasn’t their whole force, but it was a generous number all the same.

            A flash of metal in the sunlight caught his eye seconds before the twang of a bowstring. Logan’s eyes caught the flash of an arrow headed for them. His hand shot out and caught the shaft just before the arrow struck himself in the head. His lip curled as a snarl rippled from his throat.

            Logan spun the arrow around in his hand. His arm reared back, and he hurled it back from where it came. The strength behind his throw sent the arrow hurtling back even faster than it had come. When it struck the archer in the shoulder, it tore through fabric and flesh and ligaments. The man fell, clutching his arm and screaming.

            But as he studied the field below, he saw far greater concerns. A group were clustered around a massive tree trunk, still oozing bits of sap from its recent felling. They already had it in arms; as he watched, they surged forward. A cacophonous crash echoed from below as the trunk connected with the gates.

            Logan raised an arm. “Archers! Fire at the battering ram,” he shouted. There was no satisfaction in seeing soldiers rush once more to his command; he had lost too many men under his orders to feel pride in the act.

            Arrows began to fly. Among the twang and susurrus of their flights, Logan caught the sound of footsteps racing behind him. There was a leap, a rush of air, and suddenly Vendetta was landing in a crouch at his other side. She rose swiftly to her feet, fully armored, her fiery hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. She held her twin swords in each hand, armed and ready. “How bad is it?” she asked by way of greeting.

            “Three score of the city guards are incapacitated,” Remy answered. “We’re vastly outnumbered by their total force. They’re working to break the gates down as we speak –” another crash interrupted to emphasize the point – “and we have to hold them off until everyone has found refuge.”

            “And the plan beyond tha’?”

            “Don’t die,” Logan growled. “And keep the king safe. Xavier, too, if we can find him.”

            Another growl came from behind them. “And who put you in charge?”

            Logan turned, fangs bared. “The fact that I got here first, and the city guard captain is out cold,” he replied. “Nice of you to show, Victor.”

            Victor Creed grinned, eyes raking over his younger brother. “Back in your old regalia, m’lord? Does it feel good to command a battle again? Or are you clinging to all those men who lost their lives to defend you?”

            Logan didn’t answer, instead turning back to look over the edge of the wall to the battering ram below. “It doesn’t make sense,” he whispered. “They have Gifted, don’t they?”

            “Plenty,” Gambit agreed. “My men said as much.”

            “Then why all this trouble when they could surely use their powers to get inside?”

            As soon as the words left him, his hackles rose. Logan pushed back from the wall, swearing under his breath. “We’re in the wrong damn place,” he said. “This isn’t the main strike. This is a diversion.” He shoved past them, grabbing onto the nearest city guard. “You,” he demanded, “take charge. Do whatever you need to keep them from taking the gate.”

            The guard stammered out an agreement, but Logan didn’t stop to listen. With Vardan panting at his side, he raced down the line of the wall, racing where his instinct led him.

***

            Erika knew the path to the cathedral well. Of all her memories of the war, the flight to the cathedral for refuge was one she had never been able to push away. For years she had run down those streets in her dreams, never reaching the cathedral, her panting breaths always drowned out by the sobbing bells.

            In the waking hours, an adult woman now, the trip was not nearly as long as she remembered. Soon she had collapsed into a pew with her parents, aunt and uncle, and cousins. Chaos roared around her, waves of fear crashing into her mental barriers. She sheltered behind those walls, reliving over and over Logan’s words, the feel of his kiss.

            “Erika,” her mother said, giving her a firm nudge.

            “What? I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “What is it?”

            “Logan,” her mother replied. “Are you worried about him?”

            Erika faltered. Under her mother’s kind gaze, she felt her face begin to burn. “Yes,” she finally managed to answer. “But I believe he’ll be all right. He’s… like me, and Bronwyn. His gift is healing, so…”

            Her mother nodded. “That is a fine gift to have in this moment. He’s very brave to volunteer to fight these rebels.”

            “Yes.”

            “But I’m sure you’re right. He’ll be just fine.”

            “Mother, are you trying to distract me from where we are?”

            The blonde woman sighed. One of her hands reached out to brush over Erika’s frizzed curls. “I am, though I must not be doing well if you see so easily through me. I only want you to not be agitated. I know this must bring back memories.”

            “Thank you. But I’ll be fine.” The words rang hollow in her own mind.

            The cathedral filled rapidly, and soon the doors closed and were barred shut. Erika knew it was for their protection, but her stomach twisted, and chest tightened. They were as much protected as they were trapped; it only depended on how one viewed the situation. It was a relief when the priest stepped up to his pulpit and launched into an impromptu service. The prayers and the singing of the choir slowly lulled Erika into a sense of safety and security, the same as it had when she was a child.

            Hours passed. The bell keeper did not ring for the hour; only the shifting patterns of the stained-glass windows indicated the passage of time. Late afternoon had begun to surrender to evening when Erika felt the hairs on her arms and legs begin to prickle. Something had changed. Something was happening.

            The priest swayed to the rhythm of his own prayer. Erika dared to open her eyes, stealing glances around the nave. She could not see everyone, but she did not see anyone acting out of place. All the people around her had their heads bowed in prayer and their hands either clasped or raised to the heavens. Yet her chest cinched tighter as her breaths began to come in panting gasps. Her hands unfolded, one fluttering to her mother’s, latching onto her; Erika’s own hand felt icy against her mother’s warm skin. Something just outside of herself screamed that something was wrong, wrong, terribly wrong.

            A door behind the priest flew open, and a small group of peasants flooded through. Two grabbed the priest and hauled him down. “Remove your hands from me at once!” the priest protested. “We are in the midst of a holy service!”

            One figure, seemingly the leader, let out a sharp laugh. “I care not for your service, old man.” Something about his voice was horribly familiar to Erika, but she could not place where she would have heard him. The man took the pulpit, leering at the forced assemblage. “You’re bold to all think that these walls would keep you safe from us. But the Order of X was already inside your city and halls! And we’re here for one person.” He leaned further forward, glaring out at them all. “Surrender Erika Deforest to us, and we’ll leave without any further trouble.”

            “No!”

            A deep boom reverberated through the cathedral. The rancid smell of sulfur stung Erika’s nose. In a cloud of darkness, Kurt appeared over the pulpit, flying through the air. His feet struck the ringleader, knocking him to the ground. With the same clapping sound and stench, he disappeared into another dark cloud.

            Chaos erupted in the cathedral. People lurched to their feet and scrambled in search of exits or shelter. Erika leapt up with them, ignoring her mother’s outcry of protest and fear. She could not keep close to her family, she could not risk endangering them. “Kurt?!” she shouted out.

            The smell of sulfur was overpowering as he appeared at her side. He wore the same plain robes as before, but a pair of cutlasses hung on a belt cinched around his waist. It was the only thing about him she noticed before the blue man had wrapped himself around her. “Hold on,” he hissed to her. Erika latched on tight and squeezed her eyes shut.

            She felt her stomach lurch as the dark cloud swallowed them whole. A freezing chill descended on her; she shuddered in Kurt’s arms. She couldn’t tell if he was running, though she had the clear sense that they were moving through the frigid darkness around them.

            Light suddenly crashed into her shut eyes again. Gasping, she opened her eyes to find herself behind the cathedral. She opened her mouth to ask Kurt any number of questions, but all that rose was her gorge. Erika staggered a step away and bent over to be sick.

            Kurt allowed her a moment to spit the bile from her mouth before he grabbed her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s no time. We must go!”

            He took off running, Erika staggering after him. “Where are we going?” she panted out of her raw, stinging throat.

            “The castle,” he replied. “You’ll be safer there.”

            They wove through the dark alleys of Einsemar, racing between buildings. Erika could hear, far in the distance, sounds of violence and pain. She did not let herself dwell on where her friends might be or if they were safe. She only ran.

            But they did not run far. “There they are!” the man from the cathedral shouted. “Don’t let them get away!”

            Kurt spat something out in a foreign language before drawing a blade. He pushed Erika with his other hand. “Run!” he shouted to her.

            Erika hitched up her skirt and bolted. The sound of Kurt drawing his other blade echoed against the stone walls, shortly followed by the clash of steel on steel. The sounds of their skirmish chased her as she raced towards the castle.

            Footsteps pounded after her; she raced harder, breath a saw in her throat, tears stinging her eyes with their salty burn. The steps grew louder, and soon she could hear the breath of her pursuer. She scrambled around a corner. The abrupt change in direction bought her only a few seconds. Fingers caught at the back of her skirt. Erika cried out, grabbing for her dagger, ready to strike whoever had caught her.

            Their other hand caught her reaching arm and jerked it away from the blade. Erika twisted and struggled, but the person – a man – was far stronger than her. He grabbed both her arms and twisted them behind her back until her arms burned with the strain. Erika opened her mouth to scream, but the man shifted; his large hands grabbed her wrists in one, and the other rocketed up to slap her across the cheek.

            The blow sent her reeling and Erika collapsed to the cobbled street. The man rushed down after her. “Monstrous bitch,” he hissed, winding coarse rope about her wrists and tying them tight. He grabbed her jaw. Erika tried to twist away, but he squeezed tighter. She opened her mouth, preparing to scream or speak, anything; it was exactly what he wanted. Thick fingers jammed a wad of fabric into her mouth and tied it at the back of her head.

            More footsteps pounded up to them. Erika looked around, struggling to scramble to her feet with her hands bound, knowing she needed to run still. But she was trapped. In seconds, they had her surrounded. Their ringleader stepped forward. Close to him now, Erika finally recognized him.

            Rickon grinned, sharp and sinister. “Hello again, little troubadour. Did you expect to see me here?”

Chapter 46: Duty

Summary:

The Order of X has infiltrated Einsemar. Logan must choose between duty to the crown and his heart. Vendetta faces old memories as danger mounts. Erika, now the Order's captive, must fight for her freedom.

Chapter Text

            They arrived too late.

            Logan stood atop the wall in one of the few places where the trees had grown closer. A small number of guards lay slumped on the stones. Of the five, none had survived. Blood slicked the stones around the bodies, its scent metallic and sharp in his nose.

            His hands hung at his sides as fists, nails biting his palms. He raised his head, glaring at the darkening sky. Late, yes, but not too late. The blood was still wet, the bodies still soft and mobile.

            “At least a score of ‘em,” Victor grumbled at his side. “They stink of the road.”

            “Which makes them easier to track,” Logan replied. He glanced over the wall, down into the street below. There was no visible sign of a descent; no grapple and rope, no ladder, nothing. But if all of these attackers had been Gifted, they may not need such items.

            There was no time to waste. Logan crouched, scooping Vardan up and draping the massive dog on his shoulders.

            “Wot are you doing?” Bronwyn asked behind him.

            “Hunting,” Logan replied. Without further explanation, he sat on the parapet, swung his legs over, and jumped.

            He landed in a crouch, gritting his teeth and wincing at the pain of the impact. His body, durable beyond human standards, did not break, and the pain soon faded. Vardan squirmed off his shoulders, prancing away and shaking out his coat.

            A heavy thump and a cloud of rising dust signaled Victor’s landing at his side. Vendetta floated down by her powers, landing graceful and light on her feet.

            A whistle overhead had Logan looking up. Gambit peered over a rooftop at him. “Lead de way, my lord,” the thief said. “I’ll keep up.”

            Logan nodded once before taking a deep breath; Victor scented the air in shorter, more animalistic sniffs. Both took off at the same time, at the same paced run. Logan thought briefly, bitterly, that he had missed this; hunting with his half-brother, sharing something with him.

            While they ran through the streets, Remy kept pace on the rooftops, leaping from house to house until he eventually reached a low enough height to safely jump to the ground with them. Logan chased after the intruders, aware that if they would catch them, they would be sorely outnumbered. The entangled scents ran twenty strong, at least. And while all four of them, and Vardan also, were fine fighters, he had no idea what they would be up against.

            Lost in thought and concern, it took Logan a few moments to realize that the scents had changed, had untangled. He skidded to a sudden halt, ignoring Vendetta’s attempted protest as he shoved his way back to an intersection of two streets.

            “They split up,” he rasped. “Some are heading towards the castle. Others towards…”

            Horror dug deep into his gut.

            “The cathedral,” he whispered.

            Erika.

            His muscles bunched, ready to spring. Strong, long fingers grabbed him, dragging him back. “Hey,” Remy snapped, “now ain’t de time. The king-”

            Logan wrenched free, whirling, the skirt of his surcoat spinning around his knees. “Fuck the king!” he roared. “If you’re that worried about him, you go that way. I’m going my own!”

            Remy’s red eyes flashed and glowed magneta. His mouth opened, but a clap like thunder cut off his voice. A black cloud burst around them; Logan gagged on the smell of sulfur and brimstone.

            “They have her!” a distressed, male voice wailed above them. “The Order took her!”

            “Wot?!” Vendetta cried out. “And you let them take her? Gods damn you, Kurt, I told you to watch out for her!”

            A small, lean figure dropped from the awning overhead. Logan stared in surprise at the man who had joined them. He wore a brown robe, rather like a monk or some other holy man, yet wore a belt of two swords around his thin waist. His hands and face, and the toes peeking out beneath the hem, were blue – as was the tail fitted through a hole cut in the back of the robe. The mop of hair on his head was a deeper shade of indigo. In the deepening dusk, he was hard to distinguish, with the exception of his yellow, gleaming eyes. His gaze fixed solely on the red-haired woman.

            “I tried, Brynn, I did.” His voice came thick with distress. “I got her out of the cathedral, but I had to fight them off. I wasn’t good enough,” the blue man spat out. “They overpowered me and caught her.”

            Logan lurched forward, teeth bared, grabbing one slight shoulder. “What are they doing with her?” he snarled.

            The stranger squirmed out of his grip. “I’m not certain,” he said, “but if I had to guess, they’re taking her to the castle. To help them get in, to use her for leverage, I don’t know.”

            Logan snarled, shoving past the others again. “Do whatever you all want,” he snapped, “but I’m going after Erika.”

            “I’ll go with you,” Kurt said.

            “Like hell you are! You lost her already.”

            “But I can get you to the castle quicker,” he countered. “You just have to trust me and hold on, and we’ll be there soon.”

            Before Logan could determine whether or not to agree, Bronwyn’s eyes rolled back and she staggered. Gambit swore in his Orleen patois, just managing to catch her. Even as his arms came around her, the woman was surging back to consciousness. “Xavier,” she gasped. “He’s in the city again. They have him, they’re going to try and lure Erik out-”

            “And do harm to our king,” Victor growled. “Duty calls, then.”

            Gambit’s arm tightened around Vendetta’s shoulders. “We must save him,” he said. “Xavier is the only chance for peace.”

            Logan’s fists balled tight. Beneath chainmail and cotton and skin, the dreaded part of himself stirred. “Fuck peace,” he snarled. He gave only a sharp whistle to his wolfdog before he took off down the street; Vardan loped at his side, forever his shadow. None of them tried to stop him.

            The muffled thunderclap came again. This time the cloud appeared directly before him, forcing Logan to scramble to a halt. “Quit that!” he snapped as the stranger appeared. “I don’t have time for this.”

            Yellow eyes flashed, and the blue, three-fingered hands reached out. Logan bared his teeth, moving to swat them away, but one hand grabbed him before he could. The other tangled in Vardan’s scruff. Before Logan could lurch free, darkness swallowed him whole.

            Frigid cold and vertigo swamped him for a moment before he staggered onto cobblestoned streets once more. Logan looked wildly around – finding them much farther down the street than a second ago.

            “I can help you,” the blue man said again. “Let me atone for my mistake.”

            Logan reassessed the figure. He nodded his head to the blades on his waist. “You know how to use those?”

            Fanged teeth gleamed in the twilight. “Certainly.” The hand clutched his shoulder tight again. “Call me Kurt – and hold on tight.”

            Logan did just so.

***

            Victor Creed sneered at Logan’s fleeing back. “Lovestruck fool.”

            Gambit’s red and black eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t matter. Kurt.” A nod to the teleporter had him vanishing in his strange black smoke. His eyes shifted back to Creed. “For your king’s sake, I hope you’re as fine a tracker as Logan.”

            Creed’s long fangs bared in a feral grin. “Whatever my brother can do, I can do better.”

            Bronwyn shuddered to herself as Creed took off after the scent again. The past days back among the iron guard, under Creed’s orders again, had chafed her raw and brought up old memories best forgotten. A spark of flame jumped off the tip of a finger as she ran behind the two men. She sunk her teeth into her lip, struggling to rein herself in, no matter how much she wanted to leap on the massive feral's back and drive her sword through neck to lop his head off for good.

            Distant down the city streets, the sounds of battle began. Steel rang on steel and voices raised in hoarse shouts. She knew the sounds all too well. They conjured up toppling stone towers, metal cages blooming open, copper-hot blood and the fierce sting of pain that proved you were still alive. Bad memories loomed everywhere.

            Their path twisted through Einsemar’s streets. She thought back to her brief connection to Xavier. The flash of insight had been agonizing and brutal, a net cast wide to snare whatever it could. Desperate and frightened. Not like Xavier at all. It was clear that they were not headed for the castle itself, but to castle market. The open ground would prove a fine meeting place – and a fine killing ground.

            Creed stopped and held up one large hand. He wore plate armor from head to toe. His helm was decorated in the shape of a saber-toothed cat, its wicked fangs framing his own fearsome visage. The same feline face roared from the pauldrons on his shoulders, from which the scarlet cape of the iron guard fell. The only part of him bare were his fingers, stark and pale against the gleaming metal. In the rising moonlight, Bronwyn could see his wicked claws bursting from the tips of his fingers. A spasm of ancient, remembered pain worked over her left eye and cheek.

            “Wot now?” she hissed.

            “Quiet,” Creed snarled back. “They’re not far.”

            She strained her own ears but could hear nothing. Stealthy as the cat on his armor, Victor crept down the streets. Remy followed, moving with the careful grace of a true thief. Vendetta kept by his side, focusing her telekinesis to help her steps and armor remain silent. Creed stopped them next against the wall of a building, and finally she heard the voices.

            “I will not do this,” Lord Xavier spoke. His voice remained cool and authoritative, yet a tiny hint of a tremor worked through the words. “You can threaten and manipulate all you like, but you cannot force me to betray my oldest friend.”

            “You would choose Lehnsherr over the good of the kingdom?” an unfamiliar voice replied. “He will bring us all to blood and ruin. War looms over us. You could stop it, by your words, by your very mind. Yet you will not?”

            “Never. And I will not… let you continue… to drag me away… against… my… will.”

            A wave came over Bronwyn again. She recognized it this time and did not struggle; this time, her body did not nearly collapse. She saw through unfamiliar eyes strange figures frozen in place – all but the one before her, and herself.

            As soon as the vision came, it dissipated, but she knew. “We have to act, now,” she whispered. She drew her blades with a tiny hiss of metal. “He has them frozen. We rush in now, we can get him out.”

            Gambit opened his mouth, clearly wanting to form a clear plan. Victor had other ideas. With a beastly snarl, he lunged down the street. “Damn him!” Remy snapped. Step in step, Bronwyn raced at his side into the fray.

            Creed had locked himself instantly with the one unaffected by Xavier’s powers. The figure’s gender was indiscernible with their short-hewn hair and baggy clothes, but it was evident they knew how to fight. Yet it did them little good against an enemy who could not be harmed.

            Xavier stood still, chest heaving, sweat matting his hair to his brow. Dirt smeared his clothes and mud caked his boots. His eyes were pinched from strain as he held nine struggling, powerful individuals in involuntary stillness. A quick glance proved some were beginning to fight free. One man’s hand inched to the array of daggers around his hips; a woman’s lips tried to mouth words; another person seemed to be sprouting wings before her very eyes.

            She didn’t hesitate. Bronwyn swept a hand out, throwing up an invisible shield of energy around Xavier as she sprinted towards him. Only one thought rang in her mind: save him, save him, save him-

            With an agonized scream, Xavier’s legs buckled. Immediately, the Order sprang into action. The wings burst, fully formed and demonic, matching the similar horns and talons and red-hued skin that flushed over the figure; he rose into the sky, knocking an arrow to his bow, ready to fire. The woman made her incantation and a whirlwind descended among them. Daggers burst from the man’s belt and arrowed towards Gambit; the thief, agile as an alley cat, sprang into the air and dodged each in a miraculous display of twists. Countless other displays of power flashed in an immediate second, more than she could possibly trace.

            And in that same instant, a voice roared above them: “How dare you?!”

            Fast as lightning, bedecked in his dark red armor, Erik Lensherr fell from the heavens. His sword came even swifter, driving straight through the man with the countless daggers.

            The iron guard streamed into the square after him. Bronwyn saw the faces of her past; young John with his flaming sword, massive Cain raging into view, Dominik and the ground rippling under his feet, Alex Summers with energy glowing red all around him, her sister Thornn in all her feline grace, and Eileen also hovering above. As she fell into place by her king, she saw in the corner of her good eye a face from her present: Remy LeBeau, Gambit himself, his staff spinning in his hands and glowing at its tips.

            In this place where past and present merged into one, Bronwyn knew there was only one way to survive: to fight.

***

            Hauled as a prisoner through the streets of her home, Erika fought as best she could. The men shoved and yanked at her, disrupting every attempt to squirm out from amongst them. She tugged and scrambled at the ropes around her wrist until his skin smarted and stung; she chewed at her gag and shoved at it with her tongue, half-choking herself in her furious need to be free.

            Rickon laughed and sneered at every foolish attempt. “Silly girl,” he finally said, “you should have known from the moment you stepped into the palace that you would only find ruin. The Iron King’s court is where dreams die.”

            Erika refused to stop struggling. It did not matter that her shoulders and arms grew sore and began to tremble. If she surrendered, she was as good as dead. Yet when she found herself in the shadow of the castle, she balked. Why are you taking me here? she asked; it came out garbled and foreign through the gag.

            Her attempt at questioning and her resistance to going forward earned her a hard smack to one cheek. Her head rocked on her shoulders, the pain spreading as heat under her skin. She stumbled and shuffled in the wake of it until she found herself under one of the palace’s outer walls.

            A few scraggly shrubs managed to grow in the shadows of the castle. They huddled close to the walls, growing in the thin soil beneath the massive stone structure. Over her gag, her eyes flickered around, looking for anything that could help her break free. If she could shove one of the guards holding her against the wall hard enough-

            Rickon shoved at the bushes, parting the branches until he revealed a yawning hole in the dirt. He held the branches aside as one of his companions dove into the darkness and vanished. His eyes leveled on Erika. “Shove her through.”

            An arm wrapped around her waist, hefting her off her feet. Erika screamed into her gag, kicking and squirming in the air. It did her no good. Dirt rained into her hair and down the back of her dress as she was dumped headfirst into the hole. She barely managed to break her fall with her bound hands.

            A foot connected with her backside, kicking her in further. Erika scrambled, blind in the darkness. She could only push herself along; a shove from the heels of her palms and her toes took her down the tunnel. Erika could not see anything, only hear the scrambling of others in the tunnel, only feel the dirt under her hands and the occasional scrape of her head against the dirt above her. Inching along, no better than a pink, wet worm in the dirt. Tears stung at her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

            Finally, a miniscule shift in the light signaled the opening, the faint glow of a clear night. She scrambled for it, trying to claw her own way out. Rough hands caught her by the rope on her wrists; others shoved her from behind. She gave a muffled, pained cry as she was lifted by her arms, shoulders wailing at the strain.

            The first man who crawled through dumped her on the ground, as if she were no more than a sack of potatoes. She glanced around, struggling to pinpoint her location in the courtyard from this other perspective. Behind the kitchen, perhaps? A glance back over her shoulder proved that her captors were struggling to climb out of the small hole; one particularly large man was stuck at his shoulders. Their hissed curses and complaints wove thin through the air.

            Erika scrambled clumsily to her feet and took off at a run.

            She made it to the back of the kitchen before being caught. A hand tangled in her skirt. Erika fell forwards. The tearing of her skirt sounded impossibly loud in the stillness of the courtyard. Footsteps pounded closer and hands hauled her back up, and a hand yanked her head back by her hair.

            Cold metal touched her bared neck. Erika wound tight, eyes staring wide and helpless at the sprawl of stars overhead, the Iron King’s pennant fluttering in the slight breeze. Warm breath on her ear contrasted the cold threat against vulnerable skin. “If you try to run again,” Rickon hissed in her ear, “I’ll kill you myself.”

            Real fear set in. Erika went limp in their grip, trembling and terrified. How had this happened? Only a few months ago, she had been a simple, common girl with a shimmering dream. Now she was a captive to rebels, entangled in secrets, seeing no way out of either.

            Cowed, she let herself be led through shadows to a small door in the side of the castle. Nobility wanted to see as little of their servants as possible, leading to various discreet doors and secretive passageways. A weak point in a castle’s design, she realized, as they entered the king’s home without detection.

            Rickon led the way through narrow, dark halls. Erika did not recognize their path. Eventually they halted at an inconspicuous doorway. They huddled outside it a moment, Erika clutched tight in the arms of the burliest of them, Rickon with his ear pressed to the slight gap between the door and its frame. His hand moved in the darkness, then wrenched the door inward. The members of the Order of X surged through, makeshift clubs and kitchen knives held high, roaring in triumph. Erika stumbled in the steps of her captors, only to scramble to a clumsy halt at their abrupt stop.

            She darted frenetic glances around her. The throne room was dim; moonlight arched through the massive stained-glass window at the throne’s end, casting a silvered image of itself on the ground; the hall itself was illuminated only by torches along the long aisle to the throne, a cluster surrounding its towering presence. But it was ample light to see that the room was empty, save for themselves. The throne sat barren, a long, ermine-trimmed cape thrown across its seat. Even the king’s crown had been left behind. The image of it on the throne’s seat, glittering dim in the torchlight, was all they needed to see.

            The king had left his castle.

            Rickon stood taut, staring at the tableau of abandonment. His shoulders were tight under his shaggy ponytail. Erika could see them rising and falling in hard intakes of breath.

            He stalked forward, daring to mount the royal dais. The tips of his fingers stroked the interior of the crown. Then his hand clutched it in a vice. Rickon roared, hurling the diadem across the room. “Damn them!” he screamed. “Damn them all! I told them not to bring that pathetic, soft lord into the city! But did anyone listen to I? No!” He shoved over some of the poles. Erika gasped around her gag as the flaming torches struck the ground. They guttered and died.

            Rickon raved and roared for a time, throwing and shoving all in his path. None of his companions dared draw within arm’s reach, but they did shuffle and mutter amongst themselves. Erika caught snatches over the man’s shrieking: “a flamed temper”, “never should have trusted”, “made a mistake”, other similar things.

            Rikcon finally spun. In seven quick strides, he returned to his group. The men shot backwards; even Erika’s guard let go to save himself. Only she held her ground. As Rickon drew upon her, his anger crashed over and through her. Her eyes widened, her breath gasped in and out of her nose. Rage curled its hand around her throat and squeezed tight.

            Drowning in his rush of emotions, Erika did not see Rickon’s hands lunging for her. When they caught her shoulders, she snapped free of the daze. She squealed behind her gag, wrenching free, his fingers clenching too late.

            Serpent swift, Rickon lunged after her delayed retreat. Erika’s feet caught the back of her skirt and she lurched off balance. Falling, the stinging clutch of a hand in her hair ripped a scream from her gagged lips. Her knees struck the ground, but Rikcon held her up by her scalp.

            “You,” he hissed down at her. “This is your fault. We’re too late because of you!”

            Erika shook her head as best she could. She writhed, desperate as a fish on a hook, and equally as trapped.

            “If I’d done what I thought best, if I’d ignored their orders to come get you, I could have gotten us inside in time! The king would still be here, at my mercy! My mercy! My captive! Instead I only have you.” He released her with a shove; Erika collapsed at his feet with a sob. Rickon’s anger crashed over and over, breaking down every wall she had ever built. The kick of his boot shattered massive stones; his screaming rants cracked mortar. They crumbled, cracked, shuddered, until finally with a piercing shriek, they caved.

            Rickon’s terrible, flaming rage engulfed her in its furnace. Hot on its heels came the mixture of his companions’ emotions: disgust, unease, fright, worry. It all flooded inside her mind, more and more, driving rational thought away. She could hear her own muffled wails of agony as the onslaught overwhelmed her, but could not stop herself. She felt Rickon grab her by the hair again, felt his fingers wrench the back of her gag, felt the spit-sodden fabric wrenched from her lips, but could do nothing about it.

            “Shut her up!” someone roared over her unleashed screams. “Aren’t there people still here? They’ll hear her!”

            Red hot fury boiled inside her skull. Erika struggled, spasming, fighting to run from it, ignoring the sharp yank as Rickon’s vice ripped hairs from her scalp. She sucked in a fresh lungful of air to scream, truly scream, as violent and terrible as any legendary banshee would.

            A hand struck her on the cheek. Her scream broke out only as a sob. “Grab her,” Rickon seethed through clenched teeth. Hysteric and weeping now, mind laden with the flood of emotion spilling through the broken dam of her mind, Erika sagged in the grip of those who hauled her up again. Perhaps she began to beg; she could not say.

            “And for fuck’s sake, gag her again!”

            The gag, which had fallen to her neck, was wrenched back up and shoved between her lips. Erika wailed into it.

            Rickon wrenched her own dagger from her belt. The familiar sound of the blade slipping free rang in her head, over and over. His emotions were singly bent, so sharp and clear that she could all but see into his mind, envision his plans: he would impale her soft belly with her own dagger, twist and wrench it, or perhaps he would carve her throat open, down to the very organs that produced her voice, let her blood spray out and destroy her entirely-

            Fear doused her in a cold splash. Her mind turned crystal cold and sharp with it. No no no, her mind chanted, not like this, please not like this, stop, please stop, oh God PLEASE STOP-

            Like a lance hurled through the gap in her shattered wall, her panic shot out of herself. She thrashed, screaming, her own feelings flooding outward. She felt her panic double, then double again, rising in the hearts of the men around her.

            Hands released her. She did not pause to consider how, only bolted, racing towards the exit of the hall, sobbing, tears streaking from her eyes. She had to run, she had to get away from them.

            “She’s escaping!” But there was no anger in Rickon’s voice; it was an echo of her own fear and panic. “Stop her!”

            Footsteps pounded after her. Erika gasped out a sob, running faster, racing down the length of the king’s grand hall, praying to God that she could make it.

            The door of the throne room had been left ajar, a thin gap barely big enough for a child. Her feet fought to slow herself just enough to slip through; she failed, slamming her shoulder into the closed door. Erika scrambled and clawed through the narrow gap, bolting again, a terrified doe with the hunters hot on her trail. She raced down the halls she knew, praying desperately for a guard at every one, her prayers falling silent and unanswered. Shouts and pounding feet chased her all the way.

            She slid into the foyer of the castle, the vast room she had once entered as a simple tavern girl chasing a distant dream. Her sides ached as she fought to draw breath through her nose. Erika scampered across the hall, towards the fast-shut doors so distant. As Rickon and his men charged into the room after her, Erika threw a desperate glance back to gauge their distance.

            At that single moment, she felt disaster slam into her. One foot came down on its side. Her ankle wrenched in the wrong direction. Erika wailed, collapsing to the cold, stone floor. She struggled to regain her feet, but as soon as the culprit foot touched down, her ankle shrieked in protest and she sagged again, a sob clawing free.

            The castle’s doors slammed open. Cool night air rushed in, Erika so close to the door she felt it chill her tear-streaked cheeks. Footsteps staggered to a halt, only steps away from her, yet coming no closer.

            Erika threw her gaze up to the doors. In the darkness outside stood three figures; one slight, one broad, the third between them poised on four legs. The faint torchlight from inside the castle stretched tentative fingers out towards them; not enough to illuminate them, but enough to catch their eyes. All three seemed to glow, but it was the broad man’s who glowed the brightest, cat-like and reflective.

            And from that same figure came a sound no man should have produced: a deep and echoing snarl.

Chapter 47: Battlefield

Summary:

Rescuers arrive to save Erika. Lord Xavier battles an enemy of equal power. The Iron King's castle is imperiled by the Order's plans.

Chapter Text

            The purely feral sound clawed down Erika’s spine. Her blood felt icy as fright shocked through her. The lupine dog at the man’s side echoed the sentiment and stalked forward on massive paws, hackles raised high.

            “God have mercy,” one man whispered, “it’s a wolf.”

            The wolf stepped into the light. Its lips curled, dripping saliva and trembling as it growled again. Its ears had pinned flat to its skull. Its master followed with a rustle of chainmail and a sway of the long surcoat around his knees. The red dye had faded over the years to a dullness like dried blood. Across the wide chest, a brown creature snarled with massive fangs. A long, wickedly honed sword hung in the man’s hand; he spun it once, easy and fluid and swift. Erika followed the gleaming arc of the blade as it spun upward, and her eyes froze on his face.

            Logan.

            He had come for her, to save her; Erika sagged with a heavy sob, boneless in her relief.

            His eyes, as golden and feral-bright as Vardan’s, flickered to her. Something dark passed through his expression as it flickered back to the men looming behind her. He lifted one arm, pointing with the longsword at them. His teeth bared in a snarling grin. “Let her go,” he growled, “and this will all be over.”

            Erika felt the motion behind her. She squealed into the gag, scrabbling on hands and knees towards Logan. Her dress made it too difficult, and a hand grabbed her once more by the hair and wrenched her back. “You’re outnumbered,” Rickon spat out. “You can’t beat us all!”

            Logan snarled and lunged forward.

            Cold steel touched her neck; a kiss of pain wrenched out another sob. Blood oozed hot down her skin. “One more move and I slit her throat like a pig!” Rickon shrieked.

            Logan staggered mid step, expression twisting in rage. Before he could even open his mouth, though, Erika caught a small, clap of sound. Her eyes flickered to search for it – but before she could discern it, it came again, louder and clearer. Sulfur stung her nose and eyes as an ink-dark cloud swirled around her.

            She heard a few rapid blows. The dagger at her throat vanished, then the hand in her hair, and a body hit the ground behind her. Hands grabbed her and she grabbed back at them. Before the dark smoke had even cleared, she felt herself sucked into frigid darkness before being spat out again behind Logan.

            Her rescuer only took the moment to cut the rope from around her wrists, allowing her to wrench off her gag. In that one second, Erika heard Rickon and his men hollering in confusion. The teleporter vanished again before appearing in a black cloud at Logan’s side. Kurt’s monkish robes were a contrast to Logan’s armor, but as he drew his two swords, Erika did not doubt his ability.

            Logan spun his sword again, raising it up by his head. “Wrong choice,” he hissed.

            He leapt forward, a blur of rage and devastation. Rickon yelled, staggering backwards, but he moved far too slow. The wicked edge of the sword took him clean through the neck.

***

            The dervish of wind whipped the Iron King’s cape. Bronwyn saw his eyes flicker to the hissing witch. His sword ripped free of the first body it had claimed. It flew through the air, singing from its swift flight. The whirlwind could not deter its course, and it pierced the woman through her belly.

            The wind collapsed as she did, but Bronwyn’s focus had lurched upward at the sharp hiss of an arrow. She shot one hand up, freezing the arrow mere inches away from the king. She saw in the corner of her eye a ripple of air as Eileen hurtled towards the demonic archer.

            She could not watch their battle in the sky, though. “Get Xavier!” Gambit hissed to her before he leapt forward again. His metal staff clanged as it parried a blade. The Iron Guard surged alongside him. Another high whistle through the air signaled the return of Lehnsherr’s sword as he strode into battle. Bronwyn followed, leaping to Xavier’s side.

            The young lord crouched at her side, heaving for breath. “Erik,” he whispered feebly.

            “Save your strength,” Bronwyn replied. “I have to get you out-”

            “No!” He jerked his head up to look at her with wide, fervent eyes. “They have a-”

            The shriek of a wildcat split the night. Bronwyn lurched around to see Creed had disengaged from his target, the person who had been unaffected by Xavier’s powers. Yet the person was not dead. Instead, Creed had collapsed at their feet, his helmet ripped off and thrown aside, his own claws tearing at his face. His leonine shrieks of rage and anguish made Bronwyn’s blood to ice.

            “A telepath,” she whispered to herself.

            Next to her, Xavier’s spine went stiff. His body arched upward, balanced on his knees, head flinging back. His eyes rolled back so far that only the white sclera remained visible. A glance across the roiling battle proved the other telepath in a similar state. Yet Creed remained tangled in whatever mental trap had been cast over him.

            Vendetta threw glances all around her. Xavier was vulnerable in this state, unable to react outside of whatever psychic battle he had engaged in. To leave him would be little better than forfeiting his life. But the king and his guard were well matched, each engaged with an individual. If she joined the fight, she could be the one element to tip the scale in their favor.

            “Fuck’s sake,” she spat to herself. She shoved a palm at Xavier, thickening the barricade of energy around him, and plunged into the fray.

            Her short stature and powers had always given her an edge of speed in battle. Vendetta pushed herself to her limits, surging through the heaving entanglement of bodies. She sliced the back of a leg on Gambit’s opponent; she sent a dagger slicing into the hand of the woman about to plunge her own weapon into Thornn. Vendetta aided where she could, but her main goal lay ahead.

            Finally she tore free of them. Creed had collapsed into a hissing, whimpering mass on the ground. Blood pooled around his hanging head, with fresh drops falling from the occasional swipe he gave himself. Vendetta gave him a hard kick in the side, trying to rouse him; it changed nothing. “Come on you worthless fleabag,” she snapped. “Ge’ out of your head!” She leaned down, grabbing his shoulders to shake him.

            Creed roared and surged upward. His eyes were black, feral voids. His claws swiped at her face; she screamed and bent backwards nearly in half. Memory clawed at her, trying to drag her down to the past; she struggled against it.

            Victor Creed was a powerful, loyal warrior. But the Order’s telepath had rent apart his consciousness, leaving only the feral aspects of him behind. Creed was in a fully defensive mode, and Bronwyn’s disturbance was as good as an attack on his person.

            To get to the telepath, she had to get through him.

***

            The battle raged in Einsemar’s street, but in a plane above that, it held only two figures.

            Charles Xavier stood on one side, panting and trembling. His clothes stuck fast to his sweat-soaked skin. Across from him stood the telepath known as Peregrin. They swiped casually at the blood spilling from a scratch on her forehead. “My lord,” Peregrin said, “this need not be so difficult. You and I want the same thing: peace.”

            “You have strange methods of making it,” he panted.

            “Perhaps. But if you would only say the word, the battle would be over. I would send a message to everyone, and all the fighting would be over, and there would be no more blood spilled in your city.” Peregrin blinked, lips twitching in a smile. “You would be king. The first king of your noble, storied line. You would be written in history as the king of peace-”

            Charles screamed and raced forward. His fist struck the other telepath in the nose. Peregrin staggered backwards, clutching their nose, eyes burning at him.

            “I don’t need to be king to enact peace,” Xavier hissed back.

            “Yet you fail even now! The Order of X wreaks havoc in your city. And even now, Alyria readies their forces to march upon Genosha. What peace this kingdom has had has been kept through execution. You fail in your position; rise and achieve what you wish!”

            Xavier screamed again. But before he could strike, Peregrin lashed out to him. The blow to his jaw sent him staggering. A kick laid him out on the cold cobblestones. Peregrin pinned him with a knee to his chest. Cool hands grabbed at his temples. “If I cannot convince you,” Peregrin hissed, “then I shall force you.”

            The ground gave way beneath him. The young lord flailed, falling down, down, down. He lurched and gasped as his consciousness slammed back into his own body. Swift as a falcon, Peregrin’s self flew into himself as well. His eyes rolled back again and he collapsed to the ground.

            It was not the castle of the Iron King he found himself in, but the ornate palace of Westchester – his ancestral home. His own psychic asylum, a place he retreated to within himself for safety. The halls were dark and silent – except for footsteps somewhere within them.

            “You cannot expect to hide from me for long.” Peregrin’s voice rang cold in the imagined halls. “I will follow you no matter what illusions you cast within yourself.”

            Charles knew there was truth in those words. They were not within a true castle; they were in a psychic dimension within himself. His only hope was to stand his ground and fight, to trap the other telepath somehow. And he knew just the place to do so.

            Xavier hurried through the halls, always just out of sight from Peregrin, until he reached the dark stairs plunging beneath the castle. As he raced down them, the other began to gain. Charles couldn’t help but grin to himself. He stepped into the dark, damp space and finally through a doorway before turning about.

            Peregrin skittered in after him, grinning themselves. “Nowhere left to run, my lord. Let’s be reasonable, now.”

            “Hardly,” Xavier spat. He lunged, grabbing Peregrin’s shirt. He whipped them around and gave the telepath a push with all his might. Peregrin staggered back and fell prone on the ground. Xavier danced back through the doorway and threw it closed behind him – enclosing Peregrin in a dungeon cell. “You are inside my mind. You have no power here, certainly not over me. I will never join your cause, I will never betray my king, my friend, my-”

            Peregrin cut him off with a shrill laugh. “A foolish thing to admit! If you will not join us, then you are only in our way.”

            A stab of pain lanced through Charles’ head. His eyes snapped open as he cried out. The fighting still raged onward before him. He glimpsed, briefly, Erik’s bloodied sword gleaming in the starlight as it arced through the air for a killing strike. But then his eyes were drawn to Peregrin, staggering up. Through the shifting, lurching bodies, Xavier saw one finger level at him.

***

            Drenched in sweat and breathing hard, Vendetta lashed out with her blades with a violent scream. The swords both connected with Creed’s armor. The force dented one plate, but did not affect the man beneath in any way. Creed’s fist slammed into her mouth. She felt her lip split and tasted blood as she stumbled backwards.

            It had only been minutes, but Bronwyn knew she was running out of time. With half her focus on her shield around Lord Xavier, she was tiring much quicker than her opponent. If she couldn’t break the telepath’s power over him, Creed would overpower and kill her. And if she did not reach the telepath soon, who could say what might happen to Xavier in their psychic battle?

            Vendetta ducked another blow. Before Creed could swipe again, she hurled herself into the air. A slight push from her telekinesis sent her over the much taller man’s head. With another scream, she hurtled down towards him. She kicked one foot out at the last moment and connected solidly with his unhelmeted head. Creed staggered as she lighted in a crouch, ready to spring away; but the feral did not lash out at her. He shook his head hard, and when he glanced around, his eyes were clear once more.

            “About time!” Vendetta didn’t say anything else before sprinting past him.

            Their battle had taken her away from her true target. She saw, with horror, that the Order’s telepath had risen once more, and had one finger pointing across the battle ground.

            Right to Xavier.

            “No!”

            She took one step; a figure appeared behind Xavier. A second; the figure struck hard against the barrier of energy; Xavier whirled around. Sprinting now, Bronwyn raced towards them, feeling the blows against her barrier and surging it stronger. It had to hold, just a moment longer–

            Something hard and fast slammed into her head. Bronwyn dropped to the ground, dazed and disoriented.

The barrier around Xavier gave out. Unarmed and exhausted, the lord could only try to resist by striking out at his assailant. The stranger blocked his blows as if they came from a petulant child. Strong hands grabbed him tight, and in seconds, they had vanished into thin air.

***

            It did not matter that it had been centuries since his last battle; Logan Howlett fought with the skill of a lifelong knight, and with the ferocity of a man whose greatest treasure lay in peril.

            Five of the traitors had held their ground, and all rushed to meet his blooded blade. The rest tried to flee at seeing their leader cut down; Logan left those for Vardan and Kurt to fend off. Logan cut the first down with a swift slash to his unarmored belly. The others came together, with some semblance of form. A second fell before him before the others began to strike him with blows. The chainmail did nothing to protect him from the blunt club striking at him; the pain only heightened his anger.

            His hand lashed out, grabbing the club and wrenching it from the man’s grip. The wood clattered and slid across the floor. Logan didn’t bother dodging the stabs of a dagger; he would heal in seconds.

            In such close quarters, the sword became a hindrance. He dropped it without pause. His hands, ungloved and unarmored, curled into tight fists. Pain flashed through his arms and fists as three bony claws sprouted from each fist, piercing through the skin between his knuckles. Two quick stabs had two of the three dead. He shoved them off his hands in a second. He did not need to glance around to check that the others had been dispatched; his keen senses told him of such. One set of claws retracted as he reached towards the last.

            “Don’t touch me! Monster!” the man shrieked. He swiped and stabbed wildly with his short dagger. Logan snarled in annoyance. He snatched the blade in his bare hand and tore it from the man’s grip. He tossed it down and grabbed him by the collar.

            A yank of his arm had them nose to nose. Logan, a spare inch taller, still loomed over him. His face had twisted into a feral snarl, and when he spoke, his voice was tinged with a growl. “What were you going to do with her?”

            “Leverage! She’s our hostage, for the king! But he’s gone!” The man shook his head, frantic. “We weren’t going to kill her, I swear it.”

            “I don’t believe you,” Logan hissed. “But if you tell me the Order’s plans, I’ll spare your life.”

            “I don’t know, I swear I don’t know!”

            “He’s lying!”

            The unexpected voice had Logan whirling, facing deeper into the castle. A red-haired lady raced down the hall; he recognized her as Jean Grey, the daughter of a highly regarded knight in the king’s army. Close behind her came the youngest Lord Summers, his blade at the ready. Logan recalled that, like Lord Xavier, the young lady was a telepath.

            Logan forced the man to his knees, ignoring his pleading cries. Lady Grey slowed to a sedate walk as she drew near, then stopped a few steps away, with her lord at her side. Her green eyes blazed with excitement. “He doesn’t know that he knows,” she explained. “He overheard things beyond his rank, and his memory was hidden from him. I can find it.”

            “Jean,” the young lord hissed to her, “are you strong enough?”

            She nodded once. “Take him, Scott. And hold him very still.”

            Logan backed away to let them work. Scott stood behind the prisoner, hands strong and tight on his shoulders as Jean knelt in front of him. The Order member flinched when she brought her hands up around his head. Jean Grey closed her eyes.

            The man surged in Summers’ grip; Scott bore down on him, pinning him in place. Logan watched closely, brow drawn into a tight scowl.

            In short order, Jean opened her eyes with a gasp. “The Order is going to come in force to take the castle. They’ll storm the walls using the powers of the Gifted, and kill whatever guards are in the way. His Majesty will have nowhere to retreat to.”

            “I could have guessed as much,” Logan snapped. “Anything else?”

            Jean frowned at him. “Not that he knows. A word of gratitude would be kind-”

            “And a waste of time.” Logan reached out, grabbed the man’s head, and gave it a hard snap. He collapsed dead out of Summers’ grip as Logan stalked away.

            Summers shoved the body away, his mouth twisted in a grimace. He whirled after Logan, grabbing him by the shoulder. “That man was our prisoner.”

            Logan jerked out of his hold. “And now he’s one less thing to worry about. The Order is coming, my lord,” he sneered, “and hauling a prisoner around would waste what time we’ve got to prepare. How many guards are there in the castle?”

            Summers’ eyes flashed crimson for the briefest second; he squeezed them shut tight with a grimace. “No more than forty. All of us on the council who remain can fight, in some fashion.”

            “Then get them all down here so we can make a plan.”

            “That is my call,” Scott argued. “I am next in the line of succession.”

            Logan stepped closer, lips curling in a fresh snarl. “And how many battles have you fought? Studying strategies is not the same as using them. Now bring me your fighters.” He turned and stalked away.

            Logan swept a glance around the foyer and allowed himself a grimace. He had burst in with his blade swinging, and it showed. Blood spilled and spattered across the floor. The bodies lay where they had fallen. Most gruesome of all was the leader of the little rabble; his body lay in a massive pool of blood from his severed neck. His head had managed to travel a fair few feet from him.

            Vardan padded up to him, his muzzle streaked with gore. A small gash on his side oozed blood into his thick, gray-brown coat, but he was otherwise unharmed and untroubled. Logan wished he could say the same about Erika.

            She knelt where Kurt had left her, eyes wide and glassy, fixed securely on her captor’s decapitated form. The strange blue priest crouched next to her, his hands clasping hers. Logan could hear him murmuring a prayer, but Erika did not join her voice to his.

            Logan slowed as he approached. Surely, he made a sight, spattered in blood from the battle. As he drew more clearly into her line of sight, Erika seemed to lurch back to herself. She stumbled onto her feet, wobbling noticeably. Kurt followed her up, allowing her to lean into him.

            Logan paused a few steps away. He could tell from her posture that she favored a leg. “Did they hurt you?”

            Erika shook her head. “Not my leg. I – I tripped while running. My ankle…” She trailed off, her eyes sliding off of him towards the mess of devastation.

            Logan stepped closer, blocking the worst of it with his broad frame. “And other parts of you?”

            He watched her wince and rub her wrists. Her face was redder than usual, a bit swollen. He didn’t need her to speak to affirm that they had slapped her. Rage at them and satisfaction at killing them writhed through him.

            “Thank you,” Erika finally stammered out. “To you both. For finding me. I… If you hadn’t, I…”

            Logan didn’t care that he was spattered with gore. He lurched forward, grabbing her into a fierce hug. Erika clutched him back just as tightly. “I would never let anyone hurt you,” he whispered to her. “Not ever. I swear it.”

            He held her for a long moment, until she drew back on her own. “They’re coming, aren’t they?” she asked. “What are we going to do?”

            At the sound of approaching footsteps, Logan turned his head. Jean and Scott had returned with their makeshift army. It was not much, he mused, but it was all they had. “We fight,” he said, “and we pray.”

Chapter 48: Battle Hymns

Summary:

The War of X rages and heroes rise.

Chapter Text

            Erika fought to listen as Logan strategized the castle’s defense. But her eyes kept falling around the hall and drinking in the carnage he had wreaked. She had fallen in love with a rugged woodsman who helped her find her way, whose steadfast sureness had anchored her in the heaving uncertainty of the recent few months. Finding out he was the lost lord and heir to the eradicated Howlett family had been a shock. But compared to tonight’s revelation, that was nothing.

            Blood dried tacky and dark on the floor. Rickon’s headless corpse still lay there. His head thankfully did not face her; she felt if she saw his dead eyes that she would shatter.

            War had painted her childhood in macabre and deadly shades. But she had never seen battle with her own eyes. She had imagined, foolishly, that it would be like the melee fights in tournaments: dignified and honorable, a battle between skilled warriors. Instead, she had witnessed a slaughter.

            Logan had saved her life. Yet now she saw a fuller image of him. Not only a quiet, stoic man of the forest, nor a grieving noble chased from his home. She saw now a Wild One, a beast inside a human’s skin, brave and wild and loyal to death. She saw a warrior who had fought and killed to survive. A man who would do the same to ensure her survival, as well.

            Erika’s eyes sank back to each body, one by one. A shudder worked down her back. She knew Logan now, more intimately than she had ever dared before. Darkness and violence lurked within him alongside the tender care she had become so familiar with. Her feelings bore no doubt, not any longer.

            “Erika? Did you hear me?”

            Logan had stepped in front of her again. His hands gripped her shoulders. She blinked into focus on his face. His eyes no longer carried that feral gleam; they glowed dim beneath his troubled brow. Blood spattered his cheeks and brow, and she knew his hands would be streaked in it as well.

            “No,” she admitted. “I’m sorry. I tried to focus, but I...” She shook her head. For a second, Logan’s form unfocussed before she lurched herself back.

            His eyes closed for a moment. “You’re in shock,” he muttered, drawing back abruptly. “I’ve asked Kurt to watch over you. There are no safe places in the city, but if we do lose too much ground in here, he can help you escape the city.”

            Erika’s eyes widened. Her empathic shields had crumbled under the strain of her capture and fear of her death, and she had not rebuilt them. As she focused, she became glaringly aware of Logan’s troubled emotions. “You aren’t sure your plan will work,” she whispered.

            Logan’s mouth drew tight as he shook his head. “No. I’ve fought with small forces more than enough times to know it does no favors. I hope... The Order isn’t a group of knights. We stand a chance. But if they outnumber us too much...” His eyes found hers, dark and burning. “If it does go bad, and Kurt does take you, go wherever he takes you.” He seemed ready to say more but stopped himself. “Go now. We don’t have much time.”

            Without another word, Logan turned and stalked away to make any last-minute adjustments. Erika’s shoulders slumped. Before she could start to lose herself in the events of the night, Kurt was at her side. “Come,” he urged gently. “We’ll find somewhere safe.”

            She shook her head, slow and unsteady. “I don’t think anywhere is safe,” she countered. “I want to stay somewhere close. I want to know what’s happening to them.” And if it’s time to run, she added to herself.

            Kurt seemed to understand, though. He tipped his head upward. Erika followed suit. Kurt’s blue, fuzzy hand gestured into the dimness above. “There seems to be a small hall up there. It’s dark, but it would hide us well.”

            Erika nodded and let Kurt grab onto her again. She felt less disoriented and queasy from his teleportation when they reached their destination. “Sit,” Kurt urged her. “You should rest while we can.”

            Erika sank quickly to the ground. Through the gaps in the railing’s ornate supports, she watched as the slain rebels were dragged off to the side. Logan’s voice swept through the hall. Her eyes followed him the most, enraptured by how easily he had shrugged on the mantle of leadership. Under his orders, the doors to the palace were barricaded; Jean’s telekinesis proved a boon, as did Anna-Marie’s unexpected strength. Logan organized his fighters into the most strategic positions. Vardan followed at his side until, abruptly, he stalked to the doors.

            Logan stopped abruptly as he picked up on his wolf-dog’s raised hackles and low growl. “It’s time,” he declared. He drew his sword once more, cleaned now from the earlier gore. He looked at his rag-tag soldiers one last time. “I don’t care if you fight for your king,” he said. “Fight for your family, your friends, your home. For whatever gives you a reason.”

            Erika saw him glance up, staring fixedly at her for a moment. Then he turned and faced his battle.

            Even from high above, Erika could see the doors to the castle tremble under a ferocious blow. It came over and over, stronger and stronger. The size and strength of the barricade did not matter against the determination of the attack. With a crash and a roar, the doors gave way and bodies flooded into the castle.

            The violence below her was astounding and sickening and awe-inspiring all at once. The brutal efficiency of the knights stole her breath. The wild courage of the rebels clashed against steel. Farm tools and makeshift clubs swung against swords and axes and halberds.

            It should have been as much a slaughter as Logan tearing through her captors. But it seemed the members of the Order of X came in an unending flood from the courtyard. When one fell, another immediately took its place. Erika wept in silence as lives ended below her, over and over. It was madness.

            She did not know much of battle, but she knew she could not let it continue. And she had only one way to stop it.

            “Kurt,” she hissed, “I need you to do something for me, now.”

            Kurt grasped her hands. “If you wish to run, we shall run. We can look for your parents–”

            “No.” She pulled her hands free. “Cover your ears. Please.”

            Kurt’s yellow eyes flickered for a second, but he slowly put his hands over his ears. Erika nodded and squeezed his shoulder before she stood.

            Her legs trembled beneath her. As she gazed down into the madness and bloodshed, she thought for a moment she would swoon. But she knew, if she did, she would lose her opportunity to stop it all, here and now.

            She drew in a deep, deep breath. Her chest expanded and filled with air. For one second she held on, hurling a silent prayer into the heavens above. Then her mouth fell open and she screamed with the ferocity of a banshee.

***

            The Iron King was drenched in blood.

            He had been for years, since the death of his parents at Shaw’s orders. From his years fighting under Shaw; slaying the foe upon the field had always been easy. He had slain Shaw in a fair duel and drenched his hands in a crimson tide. Then his arms to his elbows, wading in to his ankles, his shins, his waist, his heart. Now he stood with the blood-waves lapping at his chin and mouth. It tasted bitter and coppery on his tongue.

            His sword did not feel heavy in his hand. It was as much a part of him as his thundering heart and roaring head. All he knew was rage. These people had attempted to usurp his rule, to kidnap his closest friend and dearest companion, to destroy his kingdom. His sword was justice, swinging in gleaming arcs from his wrist, flying through the air out of his palm.

            Battle was his hymn. The melody of clashing steal and the tenor of barked orders and demands bore a beauty akin to the cathedral choirs. His armor hummed around him, rippling and shifting to deflect blows from even the miniscule gaps. His sword wailed in his touch. Every scrap of metal around him bent and ached to be his and his alone. He could soar above them all, cast all their weapons against them, yet he relished in the closeness, the struggle, the exertion of it all.

            Until he heard the scream.

            He knew Vendetta’s voice. He had witnessed her battle in the gladiator arenas in Dostraria, had heard her Amazonian warcries. He knew her voice in victorious triumph – raised and almost girlish, her words a speedy blur of Britainnian accent – in crushed defeat – deep and rough as any man, sparking flame on the end of each bitten syllable – and in horrified terror. Yes, he knew that last well, had witnessed it more often than he had ever desired. He had pushed her to the point of shattering, had heard such anguished shrieking when he had locked her within a tower for her own sake. And to hear that shriek now, on the field where he must triumph, was the only thing that could chill him to the core.

            Erik whirled, seeing his once glorious Hand of Death stagger into the ground. He jerked his head around, eyes dancing, searching, needing to see Charles well and safe – but Lord Xavier had vanished into air.

            He roared. His sword cleaved a man clean in half. “Where is he?!” he roared, rising into the air. “WHERE?!”

            “Erik!”

            Charles’ voice, strained and hoarse and urgent, cut through the bloody night. Swift as an arrow, the Iron King surged through the air; an arrow tried to race him, but a mere flicker of his will snapped its iron tip clean off. The wooden shaft careened wildly off course.

            Erik landed lightly on a roof high above the street, sword clenched tight in his fist, teeth grit together. The hazy silhouette of two tangled figures stood at the far end of the roof. Under the silver glow of the moon and stars, he could just make out Charles’ achingly familiar features.

            His hair, always combed so neat, hung in tangled, limp disarray. His blue eyes were wide and fever-bright, mouth open in panting and ragged breaths. Charles hung in his captor’s grip, skin wet with sweat. His exhaustion was obvious, yet still he tried to fight. The young lord wrenched and wriggled in the fast grip.

            The other figure was a man, taller than Charles but equally as thin. Dark eyes glittered over Lord Xavier’s disheveled head. The man’s arms banded around him tight. Erik saw thick leather gauntlets on his arms and hands. A flicker of his wrist found the only metal before him was Charles’ heavy, familial crest on his breast.

            “I know better than to bring iron against you in battle, Bloody King,” the captor hissed.

            Erik raised his sword to point level at the man’s forehead. His hand slipped from the hilt, but the blade remained in the air still. “And you should know better than to take what is mine.”

            The pair rippled before his eyes. Erik hissed, lurching forward one step. As his foot came down, they disappeared – and reappeared at the very edge of the roof. Charles gasped, flinching, one foot slipping.

            His captor – a teleporter, Erik now realized – gave a giddy laugh. He swung with Charles’ imbalance, precariously tipping them towards open air. “Be careful, your Majesty,” he tittered, “or we might fall. If the pretty lord slips from my grasp, I cannot say what will happen!”

            Slowly, reluctantly, the Iron King’s sword lowered. “Release him,” Erik grated out. “Now.”

            “Ah-ah, this is a negotiation! You must give me something in return.”

            “And what would you ask?”

            The teleporter grinned, teeth flashing white in the dark. Charles shook his head, a sweep of hair falling into his desperately wide eyes. One long, thin hand clapped over his mouth before he could protest. “Abdicate the throne,” the teleported demanded. “Surrender your crown. Then we shall all go to the palace together, and once you give them to me, I’ll give you back your dear, sweet Lord Xavier. But, should you not…” The hand jerked down to his waist, fumbling out a shank of wood. The tip was black and whittled to a wicked tip which was brought hard against the pale, delicate hollow of Xavier’s throat. “There will be blood,” the captor promised, “and nothing you can do to stop it.”

            Erik stared hard at the makeshift dagger. So little force would be needed to achieve that goal. And the man spoke true. Erik could not cross the roof without him teleporting away; he could not divert the weapon from a distance.

            He flicked his gaze up to Charles’. Years flickered between them; boyhood days spent racing ponies and sparring with wooden blades, their heads bent together over tomes of history and politics. The bitter, blood-soaked night Erik had been carried to Winchester Hall, the tears he had shed in Charles’ arms over his murdered family. Each fretting word and gesture before he went into the fields of the war, the desperate attempts to sway him from his path of revenge. His conscious stood before him, a mere flick of a wrist from death.

            He saw the same memories in Charles’ eyes. He saw the glimmer of tears in them, felt their sting in his own eyes. One helpless, desperate thought surged in his mind, stabbing outward: You are my serenity.

            Charles’ answer washed over him. Erik closed his eyes tight, clutching at the whisper in his mind that was all his heart had ever known.

            The Iron King snapped his wrist into the air.

            Silver arced through the night air, faster than the eye could follow. He heard the crack of bone, the wet and oozing sound of the fleshy brain slicing apart, the crunch again. Erik snapped his steel-blue eyes open as the small dagger he had worn at his hip burst out from the teleporter’s skull in a spray of ichor.

            And then the body careened backwards.

            Charles yelled, his voice spinning through the darkness. Erik roared out his own echo, feet flying over the roof. Charles, still tangled in the teleporter’s arms, fell backwards off the edge.

            Erik stretched one hand, searching, finding the thrum of the pendant. He grasped at it, reaching up its chain. He felt a hand curl around his grip as he wrenched backwards on it. A heavy jarring nearly tore the metal from his grasp, but he dug in with a scream through his teeth.

            Erik crashed to his knees on the edge of the roof. “Charles!” he gasped, leaning into the chasm above the road.

            Charles dangled in the air. His hand clenched in a vice around his pendant. “Erik!” he called up, reaching upward. “Help me!”

            Erik’s fist clenched tighter. He raised his fist towards himself. Charles rose only bare inches. The pendant strained and groaned under the two opposing forces. Sweat poured down the king’s brown and pooled in the lord’s palm. Charles’ grip turned slick and unsure. Erik lifted again, grunting with the effort. One more tug, and then he could lean down, he could–

            Wings flapped behind him. Too late, Erik realized he was unfocussed, undefended. Something sharp as talons latched onto his shoulders, trying to pierce through his armor as it squeezed down. The force of the blow knocked him flat onto the roof.

            A scream came from below. Erik roared, flailing his arms outward, desperate to catch Xavier again. The pendant flashed in the moonlight, slipping from the lord’s fingers.

Chapter 49: Shatter

Summary:

Erika reaches into the darkest, most frightening part of herself; the Iron King's world shatters.

Chapter Text

            Her ears rang with the echo of her own voice, with a high and piercing whine. Her vision slewed sideways, her body staggering. Hands caught her and she flinched. A voice said her name, again and again and again, until finally it cut through the haze.

            “Erika, please!” Kurt begged. “Please, look! See what miracle you have accomplished!”

            Leaning into her friend, Erika peered down into the hall. The battle had stopped. Every man and woman below had sunk to the ground, clasping their head. Weapons lay forgotten on the floor. She swallowed, her throat stinging with pain. “Take me down,” she rasped.

            Kurt obliged. Erika staggered when they reached the ground, head spinning and screaming. Thin, foamy bile surged from her; she barely avoided spitting it out on a stranger at her feet. She cringed a step or two away before sweeping her gaze over the stillness.

            She thought she heard weeping, she thought she heard prayers. Movement caught her eye; she turned to see Logan staggering to his feet. He stumbled; a growl rippled from his throat. Erika forced herself not to rush and see if he was all right. Instead, she reached inward, to that darkest corner of herself and her powers, and wrenched it forward.

            “Members of the Order of X, rise.”

            Her voice came out sharp and echoing, as if a second Erika spoke hot on her heels. She felt the sirenic enchantment dance off her lips and tongue, flushing her body with heat and power. The order whipped into the air, and, in a drunken stupor, the Order staggered to their feet.

            “Lay down your weapons,” she demanded. Clatters of wood and metal on stone rang through the hall. “Heed my word! You are prisoners now. Guard!” The nearest shambled to their feet and to her side. “Escort the prisoners to the dungeon.”

            No claiming of prisoners had ever been so swift and efficient. Yet the price was steep. Erika stumbled on her feet, one hand drifting up to her pounding skull. She collapsed onto her knees. Black dots waltzed behind her eyes. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. Longer, she had to hold out longer, just a bit longer.

            She could sense the reach of her influence stretching down below her, into the belly of the castle. Only when it did not move for a count to one hundred did she untether herself. Erika’s stomach seized and she wretched up more acrid bile. Uncontrolled, she began to sob, pitching herself sideways to lay on the cold stone floor.

            “Erika!” Logan’s voice did nothing to soothe her frayed nerves. Nor did his warm, calloused hands as they stroked over her teary cheeks. She dimly sensed another person kneeling over her, another hand touching at her skin, but she could not find it in herself to react.

            “What’s happening to her?” Logan’s voice asked. “What did she do?”

            “Xavier has told me of such power,” a woman’s voice – red hair, green eyes? – replied. “The Sirens, he calls them. Empathy that can be used to control the will of another. I never knew it could control so many at once…” The cool hands parted her lids further open, brushed her brow. “She’s overwhelmed, in shock, exhauster, perhaps more as well. I’ll tend to her. See to keeping the palace secure.”

            She registered the words in her periphery but could not untangle their meaning. When hands coaxed her to her feet, she followed their urging. Erika could not see where she went through her flood of tears, only that she was led by someone soft and gentle and warm despite their cool skin. Finally, she felt herself lain down in a soft bed. A glass was pressed to her lips; she drank the contents without tasting them.

            Bit by bit, her tears dried. Exhaustion flooded in, instead, and her eyes flickered, drooped, and finally closed.

***

            Darkness and red rage consumed him.

            With a roar as fierce as the leopard of his sigil, the Iron King surged back to his feet. The talons were forcefully wrenched from his steel plate. His sword screamed through the night air and bit savage into flesh.

            Erik did not linger. He tore his sword free and sprinted the bare few steps to the edge of the roof. He leapt into the air and plunged down to the ground. He did not land with lightness and grace; the Iron King staggered and tripped to his knees beside the crumpled figure sprawled on the cobbled street.

            Charles lay immobile and gasping. His eyes stared wide and glassy, flickering back and forth. Erik choked out his name, gathering his body into his arms-

            Charles gave a sharp, gasping cry. His eyes flashed sharp and alert. One trembling hand jerked upward, reaching up and snagging on Erik’s pauldron. “I – I can’t,” he gasped out.

            “Save your strength,” Erik hissed. His teeth ground together and his eyes burned with fire. “They will pay for this. Mark my words, they will all pay tenfold for what they have done to us.”

            “No.”

            Erik’s breath caught. “No? No? You could have died, Charles – you may die still! This cannot stand.”

            “Their death will not change that,” the lord whispered. “It will not bring you peace. It never has. Please, Erik, this once, listen to me. Have mercy.”

            It burned him to do such. Mercy was never within his nature; it had been burnt away like dead undergrowth. Mercy belonged to doves and he was the racing hawk. As much as revenge screamed in his heart, he could not bring himself to leave Charles’ side. Not when this could be their last moments together.

            Creed found them as such, cradled together. Erik had bent over Charles, sheltering his vulnerable and broken body with his own. No words passed aloud between them; theirs was a conversation of silence and familiarity. Creed interrupted them with a quiet address.

            Erik lifted his bloodshot eyes. “What is it?”

            “The rebels have been subdued, sire,” Creed rumbled. “We have taken their weapons. We await your orders.”

            Charles grip tightened. “Mercy, Erik. This once, please, have mercy on them.”

            Erik closed his eyes tight. “We take them to the dungeons. I will cast my judgement on the morrow. For now, I must bring Charles to the castle. He is-” Here his voice faltered, caught and broke in his constricted throat.

            Creed approached, quiet as a cat. He knelt with them; his blood-drenched hands scooped ever carefully underneath Xavier’s body. The gentleness with which he lifted the young lord was not evident in any part of the man.

            The Iron King did not once deign a glance upon his captives. He raked a swift, assessing gaze over his soldiers. They were battered and bloodied. Vendetta had an arm slung around Gambit’s waist, his long arm draped over her shoulder; the Orleenian thief had a bloody bandage around one leg, but showed no weakness otherwise. The red-haired woman herself looked pale and pinched, her eyes bearing that jittering glance that the king recalled from shortly before her banishment.

            But none were as hurt as his beloved companion. Erik walked at Creed’s side, his attentions fixed solely upon Xavier. He saw that Charles had sank into unconsciousness; it was both alarming and a relief. Perhaps he was dying, but at least he was not in pain.

            Erik knew as soon as he entered his courtyard that the night had been terrible at the palace, also. Guards thronged about the courtyard and walls, but none dared meet his eyes. The doors of the castle were thoroughly battered and partway open. The log that had been used as a battering ram lay where it had been dropped in the doorway. Astride the log stood a massive wolfdog, lupine eyes half-glowing in the night. It made a low, dark noise at their approach.

            Lord Howlett appeared seconds later, looking as unkempt and bloody as the king’s own warriors. His broad shoulders loosened only slightly when he saw which victors had returned. The lost lord gave a stiff, almost awkward bow. “Your Majesty,” he greeted. “Members of the Order attempted to infiltrate the castle. We held them off and have them captured.”

            “Then we bring more to reunite to their numbers,” the king replied. “I need Lady Gray, immediately.”

            Logan’s eyes flickered to Lord Xavier’s still and silent form. He jerked a swift nod and darted back inside.

            Erik strode into his castle. Blood and gore decorated the hall in deep, dried crimson. He saw with grim pleasure the way that the captured members of the Order cringed away from the sight of their slaughtered comrades. But his attention was soon drawn by Lady Gray running to him.

            “Lay him down,” she demanded. Creed did not balk at her orders, obliging with as much speed as caution allowed.

            Charles roused with a groan as he was laid down. “Erik,” he whispered. His voice was achingly thin. The king dropped to his knees at his side, clutching his hands, silent and grim.

            Jean held her hands over the lord’s body and closed her eyes. Erik could not see or sense her powers at work, but did not doubt their use – not when her brow drew tight. When her eyes opened again, they were dark. She leaned over Xavier’s lower half and began to feel over his legs.

            “Is one broken?” Erik asked, finally feeling a dim flicker of hope.

            “No,” Jean replied. “Charles, can you feel my touch?”

            Erik watched as his oldest friend and dearest companion shook his head.

            Jean drew her hands back after a time. “It is his spine, your Majesty,” she said softly. “It is broken, and has taken from him his ability to move or feel his legs. It happened likely when he struck the ground. This is not your fault, Erik,” she said, cutting off the thought forming in his mind. “You tried to catch him. The fall was too high, the way he hit the ground… Nothing could have prevented it save a miracle.” Her gaze shifted back to Xavier. “I can do some work to help the broken bones heal, but it will not return your limbs to you. I do not believe anything can.”

            “I understand,” Charles whispered. “Do what you must.”

            Jean positioned her hands just so again and focused. Within a breath, Charles’ hand clenched down on Erik’s as he screamed and sobbed. Erik grit his teeth and held on just as tight.

            When the Lady Grey finished, Charles lay sweating and sobbing on the ground. Erik gathered him up within his own arms, cradling him to his chest. How often would they be this way, falling upon the other when their life turned so unexpectedly?

            Only when Charles was half unconscious from his tears did Erik stand once more. He carried Charles, up to his chambers, into his bed. No words were spoken, but he heard Charles’ need, his voice as intimate and familiar as his very own in his mind.

            Erik shed his armor, poured water in a basin, dampened a cloth. With utmost care, he helped Charles from his muddied and bloodied clothing. He wiped his fair skin with the cloth until not a speck of dirt remained. The Bloody King cleaned his own filthy hands before redressing Charles in fresh, clean garments.

            Erik did not clean himself with any tenderness. He moved fast, scrubbing brutally at his skin. Penance, perhaps, but it could never pay for this mistake. He did not deserve to don fabrics that smelled of Charles, nor did he deserve to climb into the bed with him. Charles’ own trembling and wearied hands were too kind on his flesh, too forgiving. He did not deserve the refuge and love within that embrace, but he coveted and clung to it with selfish desperation.

            “I do not blame you,” Charles finally whispered. “I never could. You saved my life; I truly believe that.”

            Erik did not reply. He only closed his eyes and prayed, futilely, for sleep.

Chapter 50: Aftermath

Summary:

The day after the battle, and the hour of the Iron King's fate, dawns.

Chapter Text

            Erika sprung awake, lurching upright in bed. The chamber around her was unfamiliar: stone walls, a huge bed beneath her stuffed with downy feathers, heavy pillows at the head and lush blankets tangled now at her waist. A massive rug lay upon the floor. For a moment she was terrified, lost, confused – but then the endless night before surged back. Retreating to the cathedral with her family. The attack upon herself. Kurt trying to whisk her away, her subsequent capture.

            The threats upon her life. Logan’s slaughtering of her captors. The bloodshed, the fear.

            Her powers…

            Erika wrapped a hand around her throat. A dull scratch lingered there from the strain of her shriek. What had happened the rest of the night? A glance out the tall, narrow windows revealed the blue sky and golden light of a new dawn. The city, the castle, must not have fallen if she had been undisturbed until now.

            An insistent knock came upon the door. “Miss Erika?” a muffled voice said through the heavy wood.

            Erika realized that an earlier knock must have woken her. She tried to adjust her tangled hair into a semi-presentable state. “Come in,” she rasped out.

            The door opened to reveal a pale, pinched Elizabeth. She held a small tray in her hands bearing a light breakfast. Elizabeth smiled even as Erika felt the same relieved expression upon her face. “His Majesty sent me to rouse you. And I brought you a bit of extra food. I imagine you had quite a concerning night, as well.”

            “An understatement,” Erika replied. She rose from the bed, eyes fixed on the cup on the tray.

            Elizabeth set the tray upon a small table and sat down in a chair by it, while Erika took the other. “Tea with honey,” the maiden offered, “to soothe your voice.” Erika drank it heartily and ate as Elizabeth poured her a second cup. “I was also sent to bring you to the meeting His Majesty has summoned of his court. It will begin soon.”

            Erika grimaced, flicking a swift gaze upon her dress. It was spattered in blood, soiled at the hem and skirt from dirt during her flight through the city. Her hair lay frizzed and tangled and hopeless. “I am not presentable for such a meeting.”

            “His Majesty insists. I brought you a clean dress to wear if you wish. Your hair, we can brush and braid. It will do.”

            Erika conceded. Elizabeth helped her change and promised to have her dress washed. Elizabeth brushed gently through Erika’s dark curls, but no amount of gentleness were soft upon the knots. Still, it was swift to be done, and soon Elizabeth was escorting the troubadour through the halls and finally into the king’s council chamber.

            At an immediate glance, it was clear that the Iron Court’s night had been no easier. Bruises littered every member, from the king himself, to Lady Darkholme, to his personal guards. The back of Bronwyn’s head had a clump of hair matted with blood. Remy nursed a wound on his arm.

            Most clearly injured, though, was Lord Xavier. He sat stiff and rigid in a chair, his face pale and mouth pressed tight. A pained sweat beaded his brow. As Erika approached, she noticed that his legs sat motionless, his feet limp and lifeless. Erika had heard of what injuries caused such a situation: paralysis. High falls or cuts through the spine could prevent a body from moving, either from below the waist, or even the neck down. What had happened to him in his captivity?

            Erika took a seat next to Vendetta. The redhead slung an arm around her shoulders. “Glad you’re okay,” Erika whispered to her.

            The redhead grinned. “I’m always alrigh’,” she teased.

            Past her sat Logan. The only person who had fought who was unscathed, Logan’s expression was knotted with troubled thoughts. His eyes flickered to Erika, dark and questioning. She shot him a faint smile, but it did nothing to lighten his expression.

            The King rose. “We all know what happened last night,” he declared. “But we have succeeded in defending Einsemar, and our kingdom at large. We have suffered injuries, deaths, grief. This cannot continue. This cycle is bloody, destructive, ruinous.”

            Xavier spoke up from his seat beside the king. “That is why the leaders of the Order of X are joining us here this dawn.”

            Voices rushed through the room, protest, agreement, argument. But the doors opened still and the leaders came inside.

            Erika did not recognize any of them. Some were obvious Gifted like the Court; others she could not say. Irons clung to their wrists. They took the empty seats as a heavy silence fell. The Iron King’s gaze burned down upon them. “You have ransacked my city, killed and harmed innocents alongside those you have blamed. Yet, most terrible of all, you nearly killed the one man you wished to rule this land.

            “I propose we strike an accord,” the king continued. “Propose terms for peace, so that we may end this cycle of rebellions. Despite my intentions to protect my kingdom, to give it peace by ruling with a heavy hand, it is clear that I have failed. I wish to repair that now, before it is too late. Especially in such dire days as these. Alyria will invade us, and we cannot be vulnerable now, or risk being destroyed once and for all.”

            “Strength is needed most now,” agreed the scholarly young Lord McCoy. “Alyria’s army has been growing, reports of a new force of highly trained, highly powerful knights that Traask calls his Sentinels. They are trained to hunt our kind. We have to band together and create a strong front now more than ever.”

            A thin, unassuming figure among the group of rebels spoke up for them. “And if His Majesty remains king,” they sneered, “then we shall drown in blood once again in war. You will never change, Bloody King. We will give you no peace unless you do not rule.”

            “No,” Xavier said. “I told you last night, Peregrin. I will not take the throne. I am not made to be a king in times of war. Erik possesses the mind for battle, for overpowering enemies and coming out victorious in the end. If you make me king, you will destroy Genosha as surely as Traask’s men will.”

            Peregrin’s eyes narrowed. “Then tell us someone else who can rule.”

            Silence. A few mutterings cropped up around the table as members of the court pondered the question. But it was Jean Grey who spoke up first. “Erik Lehnsherr,” she declared, “and Charles Xavier. Both, together, sharing the throne. We can be safe in these dangerous times and have peace when they are over.”

            Peregrin and the other rebels exchanged glances. “Let us discuss this possibility,” a man amongst them said.

            The king nodded. The rebels were escorted out, leaving only the court and Erika in the room.

            King Lehnsherr began to round the table slowly, drawing each member of his court aside for a brief discussion. When he finally came to Erika, she let him lead her a few steps away. “Why am I here, Your Majesty?” she asked. “I know nothing of politics.”

            “You are one of my citizens,” he replied, “one of the only common folk I believe and trust. I want to know what you think of this proposition.”

            “I’ve never heard of two kings ruling a kingdom,” Erika admitted, “but Lady Grey has a fine point. Qualities for peace, for… war. I think it would be wise to do, so long as the Order of X agrees. Do you believe they will ask anything else?”

            “Perhaps,” the king said. “We shall negotiate as we must. I will not let this kingdom fall, and I will do all I can to protect us from Alyria’s threat.” He kissed the back of her hand ever so slightly before moving on.

***

            It took some time for the rebels to return. But as soon as they returned, they agreed, with one condition: that families who had lost a member receive compensation from the royal court. It seemed almost too easy, yet it was done.

            Erika stepped out into the day with a light feeling coming over her. Relief loosened her shoulders. “Thank God it’s behind us,” she whispered.

            Bronwyn hummed in agreement beside her. The redhead had returned to their normal attire of a tunic, leather underbust, and brown trousers and boots. The belt of swords and daggers still draped across Vendetta’s torso, as if she doubted the idea of peace. “It’s a beautiful day, all things considahed. What now?”

            “I go home?” Erika mused. Except she felt restless still, anxious and unsettled. When she looked down, her hands trembled ever so slightly. “I need to let my parents know I’m all right.”

            “I’ll walk you,” Vendetta offered. They linked arms and began down the street and through the city.

            Efforts of cleaning and repairs had already begun, but there was no mistaking what had happened. Some buildings had been set ablaze; burnt husks and half-ruined buildings cropped up at random. Some bodies lay strewn in the street, left where they had died or gathered to be buried. Blood smeared the cobblestones. It twisted Erika’s belly into a knot, but she managed to walk past without panicking.

            As they approached the tavern, Erika felt worry and fear beating at her mind. The two hurried through the doorway.

            “She can’t be hurt,” Marie was saying, sweeping harshly across the floor. “She’ll come back to us. She must. She must.”

            “She will,” Charles agreed. “Marie, you have to – to turn around!” he declared as he saw Erika in the doorway.

            Her mother whirled, a cloud of blonde curls fanning around her face. Her eyes flew wide at the sight of Erika. The broom clattered to the ground and she flew forward with a sob. Erika fell into her arms, clutching her mother tightly.

            Ample fussing followed, her parents hugging and kissing her, searching her for injury. None were visible, only pain and fear in her heart, but she would not say that to them. “I want to help clean,” she said.

            “Nonsense,” her mother declared. “You need to rest after such an awful night.”

            Despite sleeping heavily through the night, she found she was tired still. “But,” she tried to protest, “it will be quicker if I help, too.”

            “I won’t have it,” her mother declared. “Rest, now. You can help later.”

            Erika cast a glance at Vendetta. The redhead shrugged. “I think Marie is right,” Vendetta offered. “It’ll do you good. I’ll see you soon, yes?”

            Erika nodded, bidding her dear friend farewell. She didn’t try to protest any further and climbed up to bed. It seemed she only closed her eyes for a moment, yet when she woke, the sun hung high above. When she went downstairs again, she did not see her parents, only a note on the bar saying they had gone to buy supplies for their stocks. Erika only hoped that the Order of X hadn’t destroyed too many crops on their way to the city, and that goods could be acquired once more. She added a note of her own saying she was out to check on her friends before hurrying out into the city streets.

            She knew her friends were all right, at least those who lived within the city. Yet she wanted, badly, to see Logan. With the fear of disaster set aside for the moment, she could think only of him. A Wild One, a lost lord, a woodsman. A man who had stolen her heart…

            Erika hurried through the woods, her braid swinging across her back. Despite his revelations and donning armor with his sigil, Erika felt certain Logan would still be in the woods, at least for now. She moved with confidence through the trees, and soon reached the river that ran past Logan’s cabin. She followed it down the way, approaching the bend – only to abruptly stop at the sight greeting her not far past.

            Logan stood waist deep in the water. His skin and hair shone wet in the sunlight. One large hand rubbed soap across his arm, scrubbing blood and sweat and grime from his skin. He sunk in deeper to clean off the lather.

            “Found me without getting lost, I see,” he teased over his shoulder.

            Erika flushed at being caught staring. Logan made no movement to cover himself, nor asked her to look away. And she found she wanted to look. “I wasn’t sure if you would be here.”

            Logan hummed. “I don’t want my title back. What good is it? My family’s lands are gone, divided into the Drake and Frost lands. What wealth I had is long gone. His Majesty wants me on his council; I suppose I can accept. But become a lord, with a fief? I want no part of it.” He turned towards her, revealing his gleaming wet skin, body hair sleeked down across his belly and chest. Erika’s eyes jerked downward for a split second, seeing a hint of his physique from beneath the rippling surface.

            Logan either did not notice or did not mind. He gestured with the soap to the woods around them. “This is my home, this is my land and my wealth. The forest gives me most of what I need. Food and furs, wood for shelter and warmth. What I can’t harvest here, I trade for in the market. There’s one thing it can’t give me, though.” He fell silent, scrubbing at his skin again, scooping water to rinse it off.

            “It’s the perfect temperature,” Logan spoke up again. “If you want to bathe, there’s no better place than this river.”

            “I would,” she managed. “I feel… utterly filthy.”

            Logan smiled, held out one strong hand. “Then join me,” he murmured.

            “Now?” she stammered. “But it’s…” She wanted to say inappropriate despite the urge tugging her forward from low in her belly.

            Logan waded a bit closer, his expression somber. She could see the angle of his hips now, the way that his hair had narrowed down his belly but now began to thicken again. Yet she came back to his eyes all the same. They glowed dark and somber at her. “I was terrified that I was going to lose you,” he said. “And I realized I never wanted to spend a day without you, Erika. The woods give me much, but they cannot give me a lover. I want you with me, now and always. I want to marry you, will ask your father this very night for your hand in marriage. I do not have much land or gold to offer you, but I can offer you this, quiet days in the woods, no one to see us but ourselves. I can offer you love and joy and all the happiness I can give you. Join me?” he whispered.

            Erika’s hands shook as she reached to the top of her dress, untying the knot holding the bodice closed. A shrug of her shoulders had the fabric sliding down her body. She fumbled behind herself, tangling her stays loose. She unbound her braid, but hesitated. “Would you only live out here, in the woods?” she asked.

            Logan’s eyes, which had so ardently tracked her undressing, slid back to her face. “I feel most at home here now,” he said, “but I understand that you will not. Nor would it be efficient to be a member of the council and live outside the city.”

            “So you would live in the city? Where would you be comfortable? I don’t want you always agonized by your senses.”

            “Perhaps a house of our own close to the castle market,” he suggested. “We would both be near our duties to the king, and you would not be far from your family, either.”

            Erika breathed out a low, soft sigh. She could see every dream falling into place: the king’s troubadour, a life where she was no longer pawed at and ogled by drunks, a loving husband, a future sprawling out before her. Her hands no longer trembled. With a swift motion, she shed her chemise.

            She stood on the bank of the river, naked, Logan’s eyes burning into her skin. He looked her over only once before finding her eyes again. “Beautiful,” he whispered.

            Erika flushed crimson and hurriedly waded into the water. “I’m filthy,” she replied. “Perhaps say such later, and I’ll be more willing to believe you.”

            Logan chuckled. He gently took one of her arms and began to rub the soap against her. “I disagree. But that’s all right.”

            Logan bathed her gently, his calloused hands a gentle caress on her skin. Her self-consciousness eased away at each touch until she leaned readily into his hands. Only when her skin was clean did Logan wash her hair, combing the knots out with his fingers. He used the utmost care until it fell raven dark and sleek down her back, the ends floating on the water’s surface. Lastly, he kissed her, his damp hand cupping her jaw, his other arm holding her close.

            Erika melted into him, chest to chest, hips to hips, nothing between them. She felt the heat of him against her, the firmness of his body, and it made her shudder hard. She drew out of the kiss, breathless and hot to the very core. “Logan,” she whispered. “Please… I… I want the same as you. Be my husband. Now.”

            Logan’s eyes darkened a bit, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Now? And where shall we consummate this love of ours, my darling?”

            Erika took Logan by the hands, wading backwards and out of the water. She let him press her back against an old tree. The roughness of the bark dug into her skin, barely felt when Logan’s palm cupped her breast, his thumb traced over her nipple so it drew hard and tight. Logan devoured her, inhaled her, and she let herself burn in his grasp. When his hands gripped the back of her thighs, she let herself be lifted and held by him.

            His erection was hard and blazing against the inside of her thighs. His fingers rubbed sweet and slow at the sensitive, aching nub at the crux until Erika found herself gasping and whining into his lips. Then and only then did he press inside her.

            It was a slow, sweet love that unspooled between them. Erika felt it bloom warm and sweet in her breast. Logan whispered words of love and devotion to her, his touch perfect on her skin, drawing the pleasure out until she gave a sweet cry as it released.

            He followed not long after, shuddering in the grip of her legs around his hips. Logan held her a few moments longer, kissing her slow and sweet before finally setting her down again.

            Erika kissed him one more time. “I love you so much,” she whispered.

            “Always,” he whispered back. “Always, my love.”

            The words sounded sweeter to her than any wedding vow ever had.

Chapter 51: Dawn of Kings

Summary:

Reparations are made, and peace is found for the moment as Charles Xavier ascends the throne beside the Iron King.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

            The autumn fog had mostly burnt off Einsemar’s streets when Erika stepped out of The Forest’s Glen, her cloak once more swaddled across her shoulders against the chill. The city streets were all abustle with motion and voices; she squeezed through the crowds with nimble grace, her long braid bouncing against her back in her rush.

            Three months of peace had seen the city returned to its splendor. The burnt buildings had been built anew, those who had lost their lives laid to peaceful rest, and the blood long washed from the stones. No one had forgotten, lease of all Erika. The night the Order of X attacked haunted her dreams some nights.

            But Grismere was a kingdom born anew – and that new birth would be celebrated today.

            It had taken time for Lord Charles Xavier to heal properly from the fall that had broken his spine. Though he did not regain feeling in his legs, he was in good health once more. A wheeled chair had been designed for him, and much work had been done about the palace to provide ramps that he could roll it up and down to access its entirety. Erika had even seen a unique saddle being constructed for Xavier to use, should he need to ride a horse.

            Now that the young lord was healed and no longer in pain, the day had come to make good on their promise to the Order of X. Erika felt butterflies in her belly as she scampered over the King’s River and to the palace. She had only a few hours to prepare, and intended not to waste any of that time.

            “You’re nearly late!” the seamstress chided her when she reached the room that she worked in.

            “Nearly is not late itself,” Erika replied. Between herself and the seamstress, Erika was soon stripped of her modest dress and donned in a stunning gown. The kirtle was the deep blue of Xavier’s house, patterned with curling vines in a lighter shade. The kirtle underneath, visible through the open front of the kirtle and the slashed sleeves, was Lehnsherr’s maroon. The bulk of her hair was pulled back from her face, wound about the back of her head in a braid; the underlayer of curls lay free across her shoulders. She wore a modest necklace at her throat, and a plain ring glinted from the fourth finger on her left hand.

            She smiled at the ring, spinning it around her finger. In the months since the rebellion that rocked the city, Logan had worked hard to acquire the golden band. He had done everything properly since their daring tryst in the woods: requested the blessing of her father in their courtship, spent chaperoned time together. In the old traditions, though, Erika and Logan were already wed by consummation. In private, in the shadow of the woods, they referred to each other as husband and wife.

            But they had agreed to still hold a proper ceremony. The details were still in the midst of finalization. Erika had asked Logan about the old traditions of the northern fiefs. Besides the intimate dance of The Circle, he had told her of olden gestures. How the man provided a fine cloak, bearing his family’s sigil if he had one, and wrapped his bride within it during the ceremony. The woman wore a coronet of seasonal flowers and greenery, seeking the favor of ancient goddesses for happiness, healthy children, and love. Their ceremony would incorporate as many of Logan’s traditions as possible.

            But that celebration was not today. It was time for the dawn of two kings. Even as Erika finished her preparations, the royal procession had already begun moving through the city. Charles Xavier would be seen by his soon to be subjects – and the Iron King, Erik Lehnsherr, would ride at his side through it all.

            Erika thanked her seamstress a final time before hurrying to the royal cathedral. The chamber was even more lavish and vast that that which had harbored her during sieges. The ceiling of the vaulted chamber soared far overhead. Panels of ornately stained glass bore images of the story of Christ, alternating with panels of the greatest rules of Grismere. Erika gazed throughout the cathedral, eyes aglitter with wonder.

            They had rehearsed the ceremony ample times; Erika knew where her designated place to observe was and planted herself accordingly. She stood among the other assembled members of the gentry who had not joined the procession. Erika soon found herself the subject of awkward and stinted conversation. Despite the Iron King’s late night confidences and clear approval of her, some nobles still snubbed her.

            Soon, however, a shade in the shadows crept to her rescue. “Bonjour, mon amie,” Remy lilted as he slipped to her side.

            “Hello,” Erika squeaked out. Despite herself, she found her eyes widening at the sight of Remy’s attire. She had only ever seen him in his plain clothes, and light armor the night of the attack. His silk-lined cloak with its golden clasp was the finest item he seemed to own. Today, however, he wore a doublet of a deepest black. Across the breast, a fleur-de-lis of gold and purple gleamed at even the smallest motion, as if encrusted with gems. His supple boots were polished to a glow and silent on the marble floor. A beautiful rapier hung at his side. His usual brown cloak with its silk lining was replaced with a lavish fall of royal purple cascading off one shoulder. A few rings glinted off his long fingers. He looked every inch a prince.

            “No need to look so startled,” Remy drawled. His grin glittered as bright as his strange eyes. “The Thieves of Orleen are true allies now to Grismere. My father asked me to represent our Guild.”

            Her eyes only grew wider. “Your -? Your father -?” Erika recalled what Remy had said, that the patriarch of a Guild in Orleen was rather like a king. If Remy’s father was the patriarch, he was by rights the king of Thieves. And that would make Remy its prince.

            Remy caught her shoulders on the way into a deep bow. “S’v plait, non,” he insisted, “no need to bow. I’m not actually a prince.”

            Erika found herself blurting questions. Remy answered with smiles and subdued laughter and patience in spades. The assembled nobles of Grismere – many elderly – shot them disapproving glares. It only served to heighten their chatter and giggling.

            Finally, the sound of drums and horns penetrated the thick stone walls. Excitement gripped Erika hard in the belly. She remembered the coronation procession for King Lehnsherr, but she had seen no more than a glimpse of him astride a white stallion. She had not been permitted to watch the entire ceremony. But now she wou.d.

            The massive doors that led to the palace courtyard gave a mighty groan. Two horses led the parade, stepping in tandem. The Iron King sat astride a grand stallion black as night; Charles Xavier sat on the white at its side. Each man wore lavish robes; Lehnsherr in royal purple with his family crest emblazoned on a long cloak trailing over his stallion’s rump, and Xavier in the traditional golden robes of a rising king. His own blue cape fell long across his horse, but it did not hide the way his legs were strapped into the saddle. Though paralyzed from his waist down, Xavier refused to give up, and had worked closely with the most intelligent minds to design ways to navigate the castle and city.

            Only Lehnsherr wore a crown, though that would not remain so for long. Lehnsherr wore his finest crown, studded at regular intervals with precious stones. It gleamed among his hair. Erika saw, with relief, that the tired and pinched look was fully gone from the king’s face.

            Just behind the horses, the Iron Guard followed. All eight knights were their full suits of ornate armor, crimson cloaks draped down their backs. Their ornate swords were drawn, held before them as they marched after their kings. A ninth figure, a bit smaller than the others, followed the eight. From underneath the knight’s helmet, a piece of red hair curled free. Erika couldn’t help but bite down a smile at Vendetta’s touch of rebellion against such perfect formation.

            The stallions drew to a halt at the front of the cathedral. The Iron King dismounted while, for the moment, Lord Xavier remained astride his horse. The priest’s voice rang through the grand hall.

            “In the name of our Lord and Most Holy God, I recognize Charles Xavier, first of his most lauded name, as he ascends to the throne of Grismere.” The priest then addressed Xavier in a quieter voice that could not be made out amongst the crowd.

            Lehnsherr unbuckled the other man’s legs from the stirrups. With utmost tenderness, he lifted Xavier from the high-backed saddle; the large golden pendant of his crest swung and glittered briefly in the sunlight cathedral. The horses were led away as the king supported his friend to kneel. Xavier stabilized himself on Erik’s shoulder.

            The ceremony shifted into archaic Latin intonations. Erika did not understand a word of Latin, unlike the clergy and gentry about her. Yet she was no less riveted by the proceedings. Around the priest, a retinue of white-robed youths held various items for the ceremony: an ornate amphora and ladle, an array of swords with hilts decked in gemstones, and far more. Erika watched as the priest first took the ladle and dipped it within the jar. Oil gleamed golden in the light as it was dribbled upon Xavier’s head. Next, the priest took each sword and knighted the new king by each in turn: justice, wisdom, and mercy. He was then allowed to rise, helped once more by Lehnsherr into his wheeled chair.

            Xavier’s hands were then anointed with oil before he was presented with the crowned orb and sceptre. The sapphire crowning the orb glowed in the light. The sceptre she had only seen once, but Erika recalled it vividly. Small glyphs, said to be the ancient language of En Sabah Nur, were engraved at the top of the sceptre. At its crown was the largest diamond Erika could fathom, cut and polished into a perfect sphere. As Xavier lifted it, a shaft of sunlight pierced the gem; rainbow prisms of light burst about the young Lord.

            Lastly, the priest raised the new crown: a golden circle, bearing small diamonds. At its front, Xavier’s encircled X was present. Where the lines of the X joined gleamed a beautiful sapphire. Amidst a final intonation from the priest, Xavier bowed his head, offered his own solemn reply, and the crown was set upon his brow. Xavier turned his chair briefly to Lehnsherr. The king bent, cupped the other man’s jaw, and pressed a kiss to his brow. Then the new king was presented to his people.

            “All rise for His Majesty Charles Xavier, first of his most lauded name, protector of our land and granter of our mercy. Long may our kings reign.”

            Chants of “Long live the kings!” burst through the cathedral. Erika joined her voice to the chorus. The two kings answered with a lifting of their joined hands, saluting the gathered crowd.

***

            The feast lasted long into the night. Erika spent much of it singing. During breaks, she managed small servings of the delicacies provided and sips of the rich, sweet wine. Vendetta sat at her side, out of her Iron Guard armor for the final time; the two friends laughed raucously together at every joke of the jester. It flew by in a blur of joy and wonder as the new era dawned over Grismere.

            Finally, in the deep and late hours before dawn, the celebration found its close. Erika and Vendetta each aided in cleaning; Remy struggled to disengage from a droll conversation with a lady who refused to release the arm of “such a handsome rogue.” His glances of long suffering to the two women put them in fits of giggles.

            A small cough finally caught Erika’s attention. She turned, blushing suddenly at being caught by the newly crowned King Xavier. She bowed hurriedly to him. “Your Majesty,” she greeted. “I do hope my singing was to your liking?”

            “Erika,” he replied, a hint of laughter in his voice, “it always has. Your voice is Heaven sent, no doubt. I wanted to thank you. Not for performing,” he said before she could reply. “Walk with me a moment?”

            Erika nodded. King Xavier pushed the wheels of his chair with the ease of practice now. Erika matched her stride to his pace. “I wanted to thank you for what you have done for this kingdom,” Xavier said, “and for its king. Or, kings, now. You have done more than I believe you know to aid us in acquiring peace.”

            “It was the right thing to do,” Erika replied.

            “In your heart, yes. But not all believed that. And not all still do; I am no fool to think a coronation heals all wounds. You knew more than enough information to have given to the Order of X. You could have turned the tide of events if you had given it out. You could have let their assassin slay Erik at the ball. But you did not.”

            He fell quiet a moment, his chair rolling to a natural halt, his head turned towards another part of the room. Erika followed his gaze to see the Iron King seeing out the last of the castle’s guests. “I feared for some time now,” Xavier whispered, “that he would lose himself in his own darkness. But you have seen what I have always seen: the goodness within him, the good he can do for this kingdom.”

            Erika hesitated but could not resist finally asking something she had wondered since becoming troubadour. “Do you love him?”

            Xavier laughed, soft and fond. “Is that a question you truly must ask? I do love him. For our entire lives, I have loved him. There are no marriages accepted in this church we follow for people who are not one man and one woman. But we intend to find a way. And I thank you for that, also.”

            Erika bowed to him. “It has been my honor.”

            When she rose again, Erik was just stepping to Xavier’s side. He rested one hand at the nape of Xavier’s neck, on a touch of bare skin above his collar. The gesture bore such sweet intimacy that she felt she should avert her eyes.

            “Your voice was particularly lovely tonight,” Erik said to her. “Bronwyn volunteered to see you home. Rest a few days,” he urged. “You have earned that, and far more which will be arriving to you soon.”

            Neither king allowed her to protest a promise of lavish repayment for what was, quite simply, her job now. With a final bidding of farewell, Erika soon found herself leaving the castle. Bronwyn and Remy walked with her, arm in arm.

            Erika wrinkled her nose to herself. Between the kings and her friends, she was feeling rather left out of the romance that night. Logan had been invited to the coronation, but had declined; the social duties of nobility fit him like a garment far outgrown, tight and strangling.

            None bothered them on the trip back to the tavern. Erika tipped her head back, admiring the crystal clear sky and the stars above. “To think I feared all might be lost this summer,” she mused, her words a thin cloud in the chilly evening. “And now here we all are. Peace at last, love abounding…”

            “All thanks to us,” Vendetta agreed. “We all played a hero’s role in that shite, like it or not. I think we’ve all earned some damn peace and quiet.”

            “So you say now,” Erika countered. “You’ll be saying you’re bored in no time.”

            “I will not,” the redhead argued. “I’ve had my fill for a while, thank you.”

            “I give it a week,” Remy said.

            “A week?” Erika replied. “Nonsense. Three days, mark my words. Come to the tavern in three days and see what she says.”

***

            “There really is nothing happening,” Vendetta muttered into her cup.

            On the other side of the bar, Erika fought back a smirk. “It’s been very quiet the past few days,” she spoke up over Vivien’s singing. The sweet blonde had insisted on taking the brunt of the singing duties, providing Erika a chance to rest after the madness of the past few months.

            “Yeah – boring quiet, at tha’.”

            Erika caught Remy’s eye from where he sat next to her. The southerner snickered, but brought his arm around Vendetta’s shoulders. “Have no fear, ma chere,” he said, fingers tangling at the end of her fiery braid, “come spring, we’ll take a trip to Orleen, you and me. Sounds fun, non?”

            Bronwyn’s green eyes sparkled with interest. “I hear there’s never a dull moment in Orleen.”

            “And that is my cue,” Erika said. “You lovers plan your trip.”

            “Oh, wait!” Vendetta smacked the wooden bar. “I’ve finished the sketch for tha’ floral crown. Come by tomorrow and we’ll finish the plans?”

            Erika grinned, butterflies fluttering in her belly. “Certainly.” Since Logan had told her that, in his youth, his lands had still followed the ways of the old gods of the Vikings, Erika had consulted with Vendetta for sneaking in some more paganistic traditions for their wedding ceremony. The church would call her a witch if she wasn’t careful, but Vendetta had followed her pagan gods for years in secret. If anyone could help her give Logan some sense of old familiarity, it was her dear, fire-haired friend.

            With their plans in place, Erika left Bronwyn and Remy to discuss their trip to Orleen. Erika swept out to the tables, laden with bowls of steaming stew and pitchers of mead. Autumn had set the fires to flaming shades of orange, yellow, and red, and chilled the air. The patrons all wanted food and drink to warm their bellies. The blazing hearth kept the tavern cozy, and the assembled guests inside added even more warmth.

            The door swung open with a gust of chilly wind. Ushered inside, the woodsman came laden with a stack of logs. His wolfdog, appearing even larger with his thick winter pelt coming in, followed behind; a sled laden with even more wood was strapped to his powerful frame. Logan led his dog around the outskirts of the tables.

            Much like talk of their upcoming wedding, the mere sight of Logan set Erika’s heart aflutter. She hurried to disperse the last of the food and drink before scampering to his side. “At this rate you’ll bring so much wood in that there won’t be space for any guests!”

            Logan snorted as they worked together to unload the sled. “Except for the fact that every night the pile is notably smaller than I left it.” Between the two of them, they were done in no time. Logan squeezed her hand as a silent thank you.

            Erika gripped the calloused hand back. “We should be ready within the month.”

            “Good.” Logan tugged her a bit further from the fire, giving them as much seclusion as possible. He leaned in, breath a wash of warmth over her ear. “My bed feels rather lonely without you in it.”

            Erika flushed hot. “Your patience will be rewarded soon, my love.” Vivien began to play a lively jig on the lute; chairs scraped as the crowd rose and began to sing and dance. Erika grinned, grabbing both of Logan’s hands to tug him along. “Dance with me!”

            He put up a valiant effort, but was no match against her large, luminous eyes. As Erika danced into the night, surrounded by the love of her husband and her friends, joy swelled in her heart. And perhaps it swelled over all of the city as well, she mused. Peace was never a guarantee, she knew that now, but it was in the moment. She would take that above a worried future.

 

fin.

Notes:

I first of all want to say a whole-hearted and deep thank you to those who have read through this story in whole. This is, quite honestly, the length of a novel, so congratulations! And thank you for the dedication to this story.

This has been a wildly ambitious project of mine for the past six years. From its earliest inspirations from a game on my Kindle Fire, to the many layers and twists it took after reading George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire, this has been a story that has grown and evolved so much. There are parts where I struggled, parts where I succeeded, and so many parts where I've learned. It's been a joy to share this journey with you all!

To my beloved friends Jasper and Sarah, my most adoring thanks and endless gratitude. Without your suggestions and encouragements, I'm not sure I would ever have finished this story. This one is entirely, wholly, lovingly for you both.

To everyone else: If you're wondering about further events in the Alternate Universe - which I've lovingly named IronVerse - please leave comments with questions or things you would like to see! I already have other ideas for this setting, particularly a certain fall wedding for a certain brave heroine ;) But I would love to write even more if anyone is interested in reading other things!

My thanks once again, and my love, to you dear reader. You're the reason I'm here.

- Megan