Chapter Text

HIERARCHIES

Nobility

• King & Queen
• Prince & Princess
• Duke & Duchess
• Marquess & Marchioness
• Earl & Countess
• Viscount & Viscountess
• Baron & Baroness

Military

• General
• Colonel - one per regiment; not a rank that could be purchased.
• Lieutenant Colonel - between one and three in a regiment.
• Major
• Captain
• Lieutenant
• Ensign
• Sergeant
• Corporal
• Private

PRONUNCIATION

Losan - loss-ann

Duvlinn - dove -lin

Ligne - line

Múin - moon

Ulla - uh -lah

Aughrim - ock -rim

Poitín - puch -een

Derra Tallún - derra thol-oon

CLOTHING

These are not the actual clothes Lucy and Tim wear, but simply quick reference images for the contemporary terms used in the story.

Lucy - Chausses and Gambeson

Tim - Mantle and Tunic

Lucy - Kirtle and Caul

Chapter Text

1

Once upon a time, Tim used to love Lyon.

It was a beautiful city, full of grand, soaring cathedral spires and narrow, tantalising boulangerie doorways. On every corner stood a new perfumery concocting unbelievable scents, or a silk merchant weaving garments of vibrant jewel-toned hues, luring in  passers-by with a spritz of bottled wildflower meadow, or the soft brush of a satiny kerchief.

Usually, he’d have spent entire summers in the city. As a visiting royal, Tim would have his attendants rent out a villa and spend a month or two rambling the cobbled side streets incognito, or joining a hunting party in the country in search of wild quail. He’d visit the best tailors and replenish his wardrobe with the most stylish of fashions, or get elbow-deep in trade discussions with spice merchants over pints of mead in the pubs and bistros.

Usually, he would have an endless list of tasks to undertake, meetings to schedule and agreements to negotiate and, despite it all, he’d return home feeling exhilarated and accomplished.

This visit was not one of those times.

It had rained since the moment they’d disembarked the ship in Cherbourg, and the roads to Lyon had been turned to mud and slush long before Tim’s entourage had even begun their journey. The horses were exhausted, the carriages overburdened and eternally getting sucked into miry potholes, and the windows were so splattered with rain and muck that there wasn’t even any view to provide a reprieve from the jostling and jerking of the damp interior walls and guttering oil lamps. His boots were covered in mud, his cloak sodden and dirty, and his mood as dark and rankled as the grime that surrounded him every waking hour.

When they’d finally reached the city, there’d been no red carpet rolled out. No trumpeting fanfare for his arrival. Barely even a welcoming committee of some bedraggled stable hands and a few grim servants to hold a wilting parasol over his head as he hurried indoors, while the coachmen unloaded crates and trunks from his carriages.

He stayed for a week, to seem polite. Met up with his ambassadors and merchants in the city just to have something to do. Ensured trade routes remained open and delegated emissaries to broker deals on his behalf.

And he’d met with the King.

Once only, in his private quarters, with a sneering state minister looming over the royal shoulder like a lanky vulture, scribbling Tim’s every word onto a thick vellum sheet. The Queen sat to one side, stony faced and white knuckled and almost camouflaged by the fabric of her ornate embroidered armchair.

And the Princess - slumped in heap at the king’s feet, sobbing softly into a soaked handkerchief.

Princess Isabel. His betrothed.

Tim had thought they could make it work. He’d thought they could overcome the distance between their two kingdoms, the language barrier between her people and his - even the fact that he’d have been happy to marry immediately, while she preferred a long engagement. He’d thought that with the combination of his determination to do the right thing and her obligation to make a suitable royal match, they’d be able to figure it out.

But in the end, it had all come crashing down. 

Isabel, along with her ladies-in-waiting, several hand-picked servants, and her stern chaperone - Aunt Colette - had come to stay with Tim for a few months, and the cracks had appeared almost immediately. The weather, the food, the language - none of it had appealed to Isabel’s tastes. She couldn’t stand the informality of the city merchants, or the fickle nature of the ocean climate. She hated the dun-coloured mountains surrounding the city and more often than not refused to go riding with Tim along the windswept peaks.

And then he discovered her addiction.

Cut off from her own suppliers, Isabel had resorted to back-alley alchemists and whispered recommendations of shadowy herbalists. More than once, the palace doctor was roused from sleep to attend to her in the dead of night. She would be found sprawled on the cold floor of her chambers; body convulsing violently, eyes rolled back in her skull, and froth gathering at the corners of her lips. Aunt Colette, ominously unfazed by the chaos, was always nearby, reciting prayers under her breath, her fingers methodically working through her rosary beads as if she were a bard idly strumming a lute.

Of course Isabel’s father had blamed Tim. Her mother had sent hysterical letters to Colette, almost illegible in their scrawling lamentations, and Colette had only dourly passed them on to Tim after he’d adamantly demanded to see them. Doctors from Lyon were sent immediately but, though they said nothing, Tim could read the recognition in their eyes. They knew the symptoms of her addiction: the gaunt cheekbones and twitching fingers that were a sure sign of her use of the drug.

And so, with a heavy heart, Tim had called off the engagement.

He’d waited for weeks, until Isabel was well enough to travel, and then he’d decided to do the honourable thing and travel with her. Leaving her to face her parents alone seemed cruel, and despite what she’d put him through, he found he couldn’t hate her.

He just couldn’t marry her.

And after returning her to her castle, dissolving their engagement and completing the few perfunctory duties he had with his ambassadors, he loaded up his carriages and high-tailed it north to Cherbourg, wanting nothing more than to be miserable and alone in the familiar surrounds of his own city.

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Losan was a coastal city, perched on the wild edge of the ocean and just barely shielded from the tumultuous maritime weather by low-lying hills and a generous deep-water bay. Ships from all over the world docked along the coastline, eager to meet and trade with travellers from foreign lands, and the merchants of the city grew rich and fat on the thriving economy.

Outside the city, the kingdom of Mid Wilshire was green and rolling; sparse rocky mountains where woolly goats and sheep roamed wild, and rich green pastures where grain grew golden and hearty in the summer and cattle lowed placidly at milking time each evening. Small fishing villages clung to the rugged coastline and calm lakeshores, and the kingdom was known for its salty seaweed and bitter mountain herbs that added a dash of ocean zest to any menu.

The borders of Tim’s kingdom stretched north to the tribal domain of Ullah - much harsher territory divided amongst intermittently warring chieftains and their clans. To the south was the peaceful kingdom of Múin, a vast and productive land led by a monarch voted into the role by the head of each household, and who ruled from the aptly named city of Queenstown. To the East was the island’s largest city, Duvlinn, and the kingdom of Ligne, and neither Tim nor the other two provinces liked to think too long about them, for they were arrogant and unpleasant.

For now, however, Tim was happy to be off the rolling deck of the ship and travelling back home through the green and fertile fields of Múin, scribbling now and again in his journal, or staring idly out of the window at the passing farmland and villages.

He didn’t realise he’d dozed off until he was jarred rudely awake by the carriage coming to a juddering halt, the driver’s voice tearing through his dreams as he hailed another traveller. Tim had barely even straightened himself up, wiping a small thread of sleepy drool from the corner of his lips, when the carriage door was hauled open and a breeze carrying the weak grey light of the pre-dawn moon sent the stubby ends of his candles sputtering in their sconces.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

A broad smile gleamed at him through the dark, and a figure loomed large in the doorway, blocking out the moonlight as he hoisted himself into the carriage opposite Tim.

Tim blinked, squinting, and the man’s face came into focus.

“Colonel Grey,” he said by way of greeting, once he’d recognised the intruder. “What time is it?” 

“Sharp as ever, I see,” Grey acknowledged, pulling the curtains back into their ties to let in the faint light. The carriage lurched back into motion and Tim heard the whiny of the Colonel’s horse as the footmen guided it onto the road alongside them. “Early morning. A rider reached us last night to say you’d landed. Thought I’d come out and meet you at the border myself.”

“Very generous of you,” Tim replied, his suspicion rising. “Why? What happened?”

Grey hesitated, taking longer than necessary to loop a neat bow into the curtain ties and settling the ribbons into place with a sedate pat before he spoke again.

“How did things go in Lyon? I see you at least got away with your scalp still attached.”

Tim growled and balled his hands into fists.

“It went about how you’d imagine it would. Trade routes are still intact. Anyway - it’s done.” He shook his head and fixed his gaze back on Grey. “Now tell me: why are you out of bed and on the road at this ungodly hour?”

Grey took in a breath, straightening up in the seat and steadying himself against the rocking of the carriage.

“There was an attack.”

Tim frowned, his mind turning immediately to the memorised images of his kingdom maps; green borders shaded where there was peace and easy passage, or orange darts where there were skirmishes or uncertainty. There hadn’t been the red slash of direct conflict for years - not since he was a child, at least - and nothing that would warrant Colonel Grey rousing himself from his comfortable bed so early in the morning.

“An attack? Where? When? Who-”

Grey held up a hand, staunching the flow of Tim’s questions. “I’ll tell you everything, just let me speak.” 

Tim bit his tongue, rolling his lips into a thin, impatient line while Grey composed himself.

“It happened last week. You were already on the return journey and there wasn’t time to send a messenger. It was over before they’d have gotten to you, at any rate, so I made the decision to wait. I’m telling you this now so you don’t haul anyone else over the coals for it, all right?”

Tim nodded grimly, while Grey leaned forward onto his thighs, his eyes following the faint edge of the dawn horizon through the carriage windows.

“It happened out of the blue. An incursion from Ligne in the middle of the night. They were over the border and through our patrols almost without warning. A messenger ran all night - a boy from one of the villages - and General Andersen roused the troops. We met them in the fields of Aughrim. It was a bloodbath, Tim.” Grey shook his head wearily, dropping it into the palm of his hand for a moment and rubbing his eyes. Tim swallowed thickly.

“How many did we lose?”

“Too many. Too many,” Grey repeated, sitting up and looking straight at Tim. There was a heavy pause, the air growing chill between them. “We lost Zoe, Tim. She died out there with all the others. Leading the charge, as usual. Leading by example.”

“Oh god…” Tim closed his eyes, feeling his ribs sagging in on themselves as he pictured the brave General ploughing through the battlefield on her white mare. Andersen was the first in her family to join the military and she’d paved the way for more women to join. She’d set up a training camp for young girls who thought they had what it took, and oversaw the pairing of new recruits with more senior training officers. She had an eye for talent and a nose for danger, and her loss to the kingdom’s army was devastating.

“It was Duvlinn,” Grey said into the silence that had fallen. “Duvlinn were the ones who attacked.”

“Rosalind,” Tim snarled, gripping his knees. “The king is barely dead six months and she’s already attempting hostile encroachment.”

“She sent her son,” Grey added, “Baron Stanton. Her boys aren’t the king’s heirs, so they have no claim to the throne, but you can be damn sure she’s going to find a way to change the rules so they can. Well, the surviving one, at any rate.”

“Surviving?” Tim asked, intrigued despite the grim news.

“Stanton was killed.” Grey replied flatly. “Percy West’s boy took him out when he attacked Andersen’s platoon. Private Jackson West. A good kid.” Grey’s face grew dark again, and the pit that was forming in Tim’s stomach widened.

“He didn’t make it?”

“No. I sent word to Percy myself. He’s somewhere in the near east, recruiting cavalry from the Steppes. It’s going to be a hard blow.”

Silence fell again, both men recognising the barely justifiable waste of life that stemmed from any battle. The palace scribes would be working overtime, handwriting letters of sympathy and appreciation to the families of the dead and injured. Tim would have to host a requiem for General Andersen, and all the others who’d lost their lives. He could feel the responsibility already weighing him down, heavy as the anchor of the ship he’d left behind in Queenstown.

“How did we hold them back?” Tim eventually managed to ask, rubbing his knuckles into his tired eyes.

“Well that - that was rather unexpected.” Grey sounded almost amused, and Tim opened his eyes again to see the man smiling as he reminisced. “One of Percy’s foreign recruits. Corporal Chen. She was good friends with young West, and she took over on the front when Andersen fell. It was her quick thinking and decisive command that turned the tide of battle. Without her, I’m not sure I’d be here talking to you today.”

“A corporal?” Tim asked, astonished. “How did a corporal manage to pull that off?”

Grey shrugged, shaking his head. “She’s got a way with people. They listen to her. And when things looked dire, she didn’t hesitate. She rallied the troops and routed Stanton’s forces. Used the landscape to her advantage and sent Lieutenant Young’s cavalry to the forest to flank them. She redirected the infantry’s fear and rage into a knife-point feint and scattered the enemy into Young’s flanks. They were leaderless and outmanoeuvred. They had no choice but to call it off.”

Tim let out a low whistle. “Impressive.”

Grey raised an eyebrow. “I’d say it’s more than that.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I’ll have a medal made.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be generous. Orange slices.”

“A commission?” Tim asked incredulously. “I can’t give a corporal a commission!”

“You can if she saved the entire kingdom from invasion.” Grey argued. “Besides, the papers Percy sent when he recruited her say she was already highly ranked before she joined our forces. It’s not like it would be inappropriate.”

“She’s a mercenary,” Tim grouched.

“You’re just irritated that you didn’t find her first,” Grey gibed. “But that’s down the line. She’s already doing the work - she’s inspecting the training camps and reviewing the troops at the borders with the generals every day. I’ve insisted on her being at every war council.”

“‘War council’…” Tim repeated, growing sombre again. “So we’re really at war now?”

“I’m afraid so, sire.” Grey held Tim’s gaze. “They tried to catch us off-guard, and they failed. Rosalind may bide her time while she licks her wounds, but mark my words - she’ll try again.”

“I suppose peace talks are out of the question?”

Grey tilted his head from side to side. The sun had finally broken over the horizon and the carriage was slowly filling with the steady glow of dawn.

“Maybe not. But the queen is deceitful and manipulative. There’s no guarantee she’ll stick to her word, even if we managed to extract a détente from her. Strengthening our ties with Múin and the chieftains in Ullah is our best bet now, before they agree to let Rosalind have her way with us in exchange for peace with them.”

Grey paused, rubbing his chin and looking at Tim peevishly. Tim scowled. The man had something to say and he was holding back. Tim was too weary for games.

“Spit it out, Colonel.”

Grey took a deep breath, knocking on the roof of the carriage to bring it to a halt and propping a hand on the door latch before speaking again.

“You picked a bad time to call off your engagement. You have no successors and no wife, and the law states-”

“That in the absence of children, the monarch’s successor will be chosen by his thirty-fifth birthday,” Tim reeled off bitterly. “I’m well aware, Colonel.”

Grey opened the door and heaved himself out of the carriage and down the rickety iron steps. The sun glinted on the top of his bald head, and a footman appeared from the road behind them with his horse. The colonel shook out his travelling cloak and turned back to the carriage, leaning in through the open doorway and fixing Tim with a stern look.

“I’m just saying that without fulfilling the law, you can’t change it. And if you can’t change it, and you don’t fulfil it, then it gives Rosalind grounds to stake her claim on the kingdom. And none of us want to see that come to pass, Your Majesty.” Grey took a step back, swinging the door closed, and Tim was once again on his own, the carriage lurching back into motion, his stomach sick and his thoughts troubled.

~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

2

Awake now, and unlikely to sleep again for months, Tim kept his gaze on the countryside passing by his window. There was the regular flurry of early morning activity - cattle to be milked, eggs to be gathered, water to be collected and brought home to wash sleepy and contrary children - but alongside this, Tim noticed an unusual fervour amongst the populace.

Carpenters were in the streets outside their workshops, sawing and chiselling at enormous ash trunks; blacksmiths were moulding and hammering mounds of metal at steaming anvils; there seemed to be an excess of wheelwrights churning out hoops and spokes; and everywhere he looked, young children were running to and fro with folded notes and satchels of goods. 

The peasantry were preparing for war.

Tim pulled the curtain out of Grey’s neatly knotted ribbon and drew it back across the window. Time enough for that when he arrived at the palace.

He hoped Genny was safe.

His sister’s husband had died abroad, leaving her to raise their two young boys by herself. She rose to the occasion admirably, refusing any more assistance than provided for her by her widow’s allowance and a small country estate her husband’s family had bequeathed them in Mid Wilshire. She was strong and resilient, and gentle in ways that Tim could only wish to be.

She’d refused to permit her sons to be considered for royal succession.

Rob - her arrogant husband - had tried to thwart her request, but Tim couldn’t bear the bastard and, despite his own misgivings, he’d decreed both nephews out of the line of succession. It had repaired his bond with his sister, and solidified the unspoken separation between her and her husband.

It had left the continuation of the monarchy in limbo.

Their father had been king before Tim. Absent when they were fortunate, and cruel when they were not, he’d beaten their mother into submission and an early grave. He’d turned his attention to Tim soon after, and Tim had taken every hiding he was given in order to protect his little sister. He’d ground his teeth and put up with the bruises and broken bones, learning how to wrap his fractures and staunch the open wounds with furtive advice from the palace doctor’s young daughter.

He’d escaped to Europe as soon as Genny moved to finishing school, happy to spend months on end making diplomatic connections with young royals and nobility like himself all across the continent. He slowly learned to develop trade contracts with merchants and traders from around the world, finding negotiation and good-humour much more reliable tactics than the belligerence and threats his father preferred to lead with. Zoe was always at his side, drily acerbic and ever-watchful, and she kept his small entourage of royal guard in line, and Tim and his advisers safe without ever drawing unnecessary attention to herself.

Tim hadn’t cried a single tear when Tom had died, standing at the funeral almost as stiff and cold as his father’s corpse, and leaving a weeping Genny to be attended to by her ladies-in-waiting.

It was weeks of ‘he was marvellous tactician’ and ‘such a loss to the kingdom’, before Tim was finally crowned king and he could begin to bring his own style to the government. He’d grown up knowing many of the senators and officers - like Grey - and he insisted on keeping them on as his advisers. Others, he was less forgiving towards. Those who had sided snidely with his father in his cruelty, or profited from his callous disregard for the lower classes. These people, Tim demoted or restationed to isolated outposts, as far from his cabinet as possible until he could find a reason to remove them from power entirely.

And the kingdom had flourished.

Free from the aggressive and defensive posturing of his father, trade and craft had taken precedence, finally making use of the realm’s position as the last sea port before the expanse of ocean leading to the new world. Merchants had flocked to the city, building fine castles and emporiums to exchange and barter between the well-known bounties of the old world and the untold riches flowing in from the new. The country-folk now had many options open to them rather than simply following in the footsteps of their parents, and the wealth they found on the open seas or in the markets of the city flowed back into the kingdom and raised most out of the poverty of base survival.

It had taken time and dedication and diplomacy Tim wasn’t even aware he was capable of. But, against all odds, he had succeeded. He had made strong and peaceful links with the monarchy of Múin, and even cultivated alliances with some of the warlords in Ullah, and soon they’d all forgotten about the looming threat of Ligne and the court of Duvlinn. Scheming and power-hungry, the old king had married a young widow and Duvlinn bided their time. 

And Mid Wilshire had been blindsided when it came.

Tim had done everything in his power to avoid becoming a man like his father, and now it seemed as if old Tom’s ghost was coming back to haunt him. The law had been designed to keep men like Tom in power, and if Tim refused to be like him, then the law would allow for Rosalind to invade and seize the throne.

The sound of the city’s iron gates clattered and screeched heavily through his thoughts, and Tim straightened up the collar of his wool cloak.

He was home.

~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~

“Good trip?”

Tim was marching briskly through the quietest palace corridors, trying to get to his chambers before too many people noticed his return, but at the sound of that voice he slowed down and looked over his shoulder.

“Yikes. You look like you got run over by a dung wagon.” Angela - Marchioness Evers - was nothing if not blunt. Tim rolled his eyes and resumed his course, but he made space for her at his side. “I heard Grey rode out to meet you. He update you on what happened?”

“Yeah,” Tim replied, coming to a sudden halt as a thought struck him. “Wait, are you okay? Wesley and-”

“We’re all fine, Tim. Wesley took the children to his mother’s estate and I stayed with the War Council. We were never in any real danger.”

Tim sighed, tapping a hand briefly against Angela’s elbow. “That’s good. I’m glad. Did you hear anything from Genny?”

Angela nodded quickly in the affirmative. “She’s fine too. The fighting didn’t come anywhere near her cottage. I’ve doubled her guard though, thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“Thank you,” Tim said, truly grateful.

“De nada.” Angela turned and started walking again and Tim followed, submitting to the inevitability of her presence despite his wish for peace. “You get rid of the princess alright?”

He grimaced. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Angela gave him a sidelong glance as they arrived at his quarters and she veered nimbly around the chamberlain who’d tried valiantly to block her entrance. Tim waved the young assistant away and closed the door behind him, ignoring Angela’s rapt perusal of a fruit bowl gifted to him by some merchant - probably with a card attached requesting a royal favour -  to welcome him home. She picked a ripe nectarine, dusting it perfunctorily on her embroidered skirts, before draping herself casually on a velvet chaise longue. 

Tim disappeared behind an ornate bamboo screen, glad to finally be able to remove his stale and muddy travel clothes, and he washed quickly at a basin of warm water left out by the servants. He’d have preferred a bath, but Angela didn’t appear to be leaving any time soon, and he’d rather not give her the opportunity to pin him down while he was in a compromising position.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” her voice sailed over the screen, interrupting his ablutions, and he sighed wearily into a warm washcloth. “But it’s all anyone’s talking about at court. You can’t avoid it forever, Tim. You have to get married.” 

“I don’t have to get married!” he countered, accidentally splashing himself with too much soapy water in his haste to respond.

“You have to get married, or you have to name a successor. It’s black or it’s white. There’s no grey area here.”

Tim strode over to the screen and stuck his head around the side. Angela was still lounging on his furniture, but she’d moved on from her nectarine to a bunch of fat, ripe grapes, and she looked like a painting, her head tossed back and her hair trailing over the cushions as she ate.

“Can’t you think of some other way out of this? Surely there’s some way to delay it, at least?” he said.

Angela shook her head, spitting the seeds out into the palm of her hand.

“No point in asking me. I’m not the legal scholar. You’ll have to ask the Marquess.” She grinned at Tim, plucking another grape from the vine. Tim scowled and went back to his basin.

“Your husband doesn’t come cheap.”

“No, and it’s one of the many reasons why I love him.” 

Tim finished washing and pulled on some fresh clothes, still feeling stressed and exhausted, but at least his skin wasn’t caked with mud anymore and his head felt lighter without the tacky grip of sea salt weighing down his hair.

He emerged from behind the screen again, to find Angela sitting up, casually flicking her grape seeds at the fireplace and watching as they spat and crackled in the orange flames. She looked up at him, her face more serious than before.

“Hey - I’m sorry you had to go through… all of that. You deserve better.”

He nodded once, dropping onto the seat beside her and watching the fire flare and spark as it caught on the logs stacked in the grate, the grape seeds fizzling brightly on the cracked bark.

“But you have to do something, Tim. You’ve given so much to this kingdom, raised us all up with you…” She shook her head, staring straight ahead at the fire. “You can’t let it all go just because of some words on a piece of paper.”

He gripped his own fingers tightly, his imagination running away with what could become of Mid Wilshire if it were handed over to some minor lord, or a wealthy merchant family. What would become of his nephews, or Genny, or Angela, or any of the people he’d brought into power with him? Or worse, those he’d removed?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

A quiet knock on the door stirred them both out of their thoughts, and Tim called out to admit his chamberlain. The young man bowed briefly, locking his hands behind his back and staring resolutely at the wall at the far end of Tim’s room.

“Sire, it’s the War Council. They’re ready to meet you.”

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Chapter Text

3

“The border with Ullah is more porous, we absolutely must have extra defences stationed there!”

“We’re not at war with Ullah! The majority of our forces need to remain at the eastern front!”

Tim could feel a headache beginning behind his eyes before he’d even made it through the door to the council room. The chamberlain announced his presence and Tim strode in, dismissing the attendant and signalling the officers to be at ease.

“Good morning, everyone,” he offered in clipped tones, making his way to the huge circular table at the centre of the room. The officers bowed curtly and muttered various greetings as Tim and Angela arrived.

The War Council was being held in what had, until now, simply been called ‘the map room’. Tim loved the map room. As a child, it had been a sanctuary while his father was off serving in campaigns with one ally or another and, as Tim grew to understand the intricacies of the topographical contours, geopolitical borders and waymarks plotted along thousands of miles of trade routes, it became a way to dream of a better life. Of a future that awaited him out there on rolling seas or endless plains. Somewhere he would be free to be his own man. Somewhere without titles or duties or authoritarian royal fathers. Somewhere safe.

Time and wisdom had adapted his desires, but he still felt overcome with the same sense of calm when he entered the room as an adult. He usually came here to outline defence patterns on merchant routes, or to argue with foreign dignitaries about a reasonable price for their imports over a glass of fine whiskey. And the room still cast its spell; the smell of parchment and ink and leather bindings still whispered of the adventure and romance that awaited him if he followed the maps into the unknown, chasing stories that hadn't yet been written.

Today, however, a gloom hung over all his favourite charts and bookcases. The fire crackled low in the grate and the open curtains seemed to have no effect on the wavering shadows scattered by the candles and oil lamps lit in high sconces on the stone walls.

A map of the kingdom was spread over the entire surface of the central table. Model ships bobbed in the bay between Mid Wilshire and Múin, and the countryside was littered with crudely-made flag pins and stubby wooden platoon markers. Croupier sticks lay in a lattice over the outer edges of the map, or were held in the fists of older officers, propping them up as they muttered into their collars and beards. Tim scanned the stretch of his forces across the hills and valleys, his jaw ticking with apprehension.

“Well, what news today?” Angela was the first to break the tense silence, and Tim was grateful to hear Colonel Grey clearing his throat, taking on the duty of spokesman while tapping a rolled up piece of parchment in one hand.

“Word from the border is that our troops remain steadfast. We have a clear line of sight to Rosalind’s platoons here, here and here.” Grey used the parchment to point to three locations on the map. “We have guards stationed at all the river crossings - bridges and ferries - and, so far, relations with Múin and Ullah remain good. The boglands could be an issue.” 

Grey pointed to the vast tract of land where the border between Mid Wilshire and Ligne grew indistinct. “It’s too marshy to send in any troops, but it’s equally as dangerous to leave the area unguarded. General Andersen…” A sudden hush fell over the room at the name of the late General. Grey coughed dryly and tried again. “General Andersen had a constant rotation of troops at the fringes of the wetlands. We’ve also sent in individual operatives covertly. They keep an eye on things; report back when it’s safe to make their way out. Otherwise, we’re at an impasse.”

Grey settled back into a composed stance while Tim digested this information, his eyes counting off the scattered platoons one by one. They were stretched thin - there was no denying it. If things got much more serious, he’d have to recall the merchant defence, or have Percy West return with whatever paid mercenaries he could scrounge up at short notice. This was going to put a strain on both the military and the treasury, but there didn’t seem to be any way of avoiding it.

“Alright,” Tim conceded. “Leave things as they are for now, and update me if there’s any change before tomorrow’s meeting.” He thumped the table once, firmly, and the officers mumbled in agreement and inclined their heads towards him, taking the gesture as a dismissal. Tim was just envisioning the comfort of a brief nap in the royal bedchamber, warm sheets and feather pillows and a mattress that wasn’t almost entirely composed of wooden pallets, when a voice rose out above the murmurs of consent.

“That’s a mistake.”

Tim, just about to turn for the door, stopped, scanning the room to see who’d spoken. “What did you say?”

“I said,” came the voice again, from somewhere behind Colonel Grey’s shoulder, “That’s a mistake.”

A young woman materialised from the shadows, her long hair plaited into a thick braid that was slung over one shoulder. She sported a worn leather gambeson, and her red chausses and black boots were spattered with mud. A sword swung low on her hips, its scabbard dull and well used, and she rested both hands on the hilt as she strolled towards the centre of the room.

Tim stared at her incredulously, turning slowly on his heel as he crossed his arms over his chest. The woman’s cheeks were pink with the high colour of fresh wind, loose strands of hair framing her face and floating in the light draught from the doorway, and her eyes… her eyes reflected the flicker of the candles on the table, doubling the flames back at him in sharp amber glints. She cocked her head to one side and held his gaze.

“If you leave things as they are, we risk Rosalind finding a weakness. She’s already had days to size us up. We need to refresh our drill tactics just as much as our defence forces. And besides - you’ve all missed a crucial element in our barricades.”

Tim felt his jaw drop open at the woman’s audacity, and the grumbles of the generals around him echoed his disbelief.

“Your Highness, I’m sorry about her, let me just…” Lieutenant Smitty started to fuss at the woman’s shoulder, attempting - to no avail - to shuffle her back into the corner. Tim waved a dismissive hand, quieting the muttering of the older officers, and nodding tersely at her.

“Leave her be. This must be the famed Corporal Chen.” The woman tilted her head in the affirmative and Tim gave her a tight smile. “I’ve already heard all about you, Corporal. I hear we owe you a great deal of gratitude.”

“For what? Doing my job?” She flashed a grin at Tim, and its suddenness and unexpectedness nearly sent him stumbling backwards. Colonel Grey shot her a warning glare, and the other officers shuffled and muttered uncomfortably.

Angela, however, seemed thrilled by the kerfuffle, and she leaned her fists on the table, peering across at the Corporal with a broad smile.

“And what is it exactly, Corporal,” she inquired, “That you think all of the wise and esteemed officers present here are missing?”

Chen held Angela’s gaze for a moment, then reached for a croupier rod, swiping it through the air and landing on the blank outer border of the map in a brisk strike. Everyone stared for a moment, and Smitty shrugged in bewilderment.

“Perhaps you could use your words, Corporal,” Grey suggested, stiffly.

“We’re ignoring the obvious,” Chen elaborated, dragging her stick to the eastern edge of the parchment. “Ligne has a sea border, just as we do. We live on an island. There’s nothing to stop them going up and around.” She raised her rod and drew a vast semi-circle in the air, surrounding Ullah and the northern half of Mid Wilshire, before slicing it down again with a swift crack at the bay in front of Tim’s crossed arms.

He stared at the small wooden boats of their fleet, harboured cosily around the city of Losan, then he followed the line of the coast, past the rocky headlands and islets, out to the ocean and up along the rod to Chen’s hand, her arm and, finally, her intelligent face. He had expected to see smugness there, because - dammit - she was right; but her expression was intent and serious, her eyes fixed on him, waiting for a response.

Tim held a breath, feeling the tension in the room rising with him. It was something one got used to as monarch - dictating the emotions of an entire courtroom with an errant groan, or a poorly-timed roll of the eyes. But this was different. This was war, and the tension stemmed as much from the little figurines trooping across the map as they did from the tired royal personage.

He let out a sigh, pressing the pads of his fingers into his eyes and nodding.

The air in the room relaxed, then changed as the officers realised their oversight and began to shift and mutter uncomfortably again. Tim opened his eyes and waved a listless hand at Chen.

“You’re right, Corporal. So,” he raised his eyebrows at her, “What do you suggest we do?”

Chen paused, narrowing her eyes at him for a moment, before snatching the stick back and tapping it thoughtfully against her empty hand.

“We need to mobilise the navy, obviously. Spread our warships along the entire coastline,” she said, nodding at the wooden flotilla. “But with all the talk of troops and platoons and defensive manoeuvres, we’re forgetting one of this kingdom’s greatest assets.” She stopped again, her face lit up with keen expectation as she waited for Tim to grasp her meaning.

He couldn’t.

“I’m tired, Corporal. I’ve been travelling for weeks. Just spit it out.”

She smirked, reaching across with her rod again to tap at small points along the coast, extending out from the city.

“Our people, Your Majesty. The farmers in the mountains and the fisherfolk along the shore. The ones who know this land like the back of their own hands. We have to get out there and ask them. See if they’ve noticed anything unusual, and prepare them for what to do if Duvlinn tries anything. You can bet Rosalind has sent moles here, and we have to know our own people just as well as she does. A campaign like this won’t simply run on troops at the battlefront. We have to be prepared for espionage and ambushes, just as much as direct confrontation. We have to be ready for anything.”

Silence followed her words, and even Angela seemed taken aback by the young woman’s insightful judgement. Years and years of combined tactical experience in the officers gathered in this room, and it was all blown out of the water by one outspoken young corporal.

Tim shook his head, resigned to her accurate assessment of the situation.

“Where do you suggest we start, Corporal?”

Chen straightened up, dropping her croupier rod on the map and dusting her hands off with a flourish.

“This afternoon, at the city walls. I’ll send instructions to Marchioness Evers. You get your beauty sleep. Majesty.” She shot Tim a wicked grin, curtseying with a flourish and absconding swiftly from the room to the horrified gasps of the older officers.

Angela watched the door creak shut in Chen’s wake, her eyes dancing merrily, and she folded her arms with satisfaction.

“Well. She is going to be fun.”

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Tim scratched at his collar irritably, pulling the rough wool away from his neck.

“Why couldn’t these clothes be less itchy?” he grouched, jutting out his lower jaw in an attempt to decrease the amount of contact he had with the horrible material.

Angela quirked one eyebrow in amusement. “It’s actually surprising how easily you turned plebian.”

They were waiting in a small cloakroom at the entrance to a servants yard at the palace. After the council meeting, Tim had been granted a few hours of blessedly uninterrupted sleep, followed by a hearty meal, before Angela paraded into his quarters with a note bearing detailed habilement instructions from Corporal Chen. There had followed a brief flurry of activity, his perturbed valet, Thorsen, scrabbling to find enough suitably ‘peasant-y’ clothes for the royal form.

“You’re certain this is what you must wear this afternoon, sire?” Thorsen had inquired, turning up his nose at the rough garments as Tim shrugged into a prickly beige mantle. “They’re really rather… dull.”

“That’s the point, I believe, Thorsen,” Tim answered, mugging at his reflection in the looking glass. “I’m required to ‘blend in with the common folk’.”

“And there’s more to that than just clothing!” Angela sang from across the room, where she was rooting in the clay beneath a pot of pale purple roses. She turned to Tim with an almost demonic gleam in her eyes, and he barely had time to register Thorsen’s horrified gasp before she had gleefully plastered his entire face in muck.

He’d since wiped a lot of it off, but it had turned out that the mantle was the most uncomfortable of all, its bristly woollen cords irritating his neck and the openings squeezing tightly under his arms. If Chen didn’t get here soon, he’d insist on having her-

“Oh brilliant, you’re ready!”

As if summoned by the power of his thoughts alone, Chen breezed into the cloakroom, fresh-faced and enthusiastic as a sunbeam. She’d changed out of her mud-spattered uniform, and instead wore a long leather coat over her red chausses, neatly belted at the waist. Tim made a conscious effort not to tug on his own ugly outfit.

“Was all of this really necessary, Corporal Chen?” he asked, waving vaguely to his drab disguise.

Chen took him in, her eyes travelling slowly from the itchy mantle around his shoulders, down along his oversized grey tunic, the loose brown trousers Thorsen had acquired from the servants quarters, and Tim’s own soiled leather boots, still splashed with all the mud from his long journey. She twisted her lips in an amused smile and took a step closer to him. Tim tried not to flinch.

“It’s pretty good but this could be a problem.” She tapped a finger lightly at the base of his chin, just once, and Tim felt an involuntary shiver spread along his skin from that one small point of contact, travelling all the way through his nervous system and down into the base of his spine.

“I tried with some potting soil, but he rubbed it off.” Angela, though unnecessarily snarky, fortunately still had the use of her tongue, and Tim hurriedly swallowed the unexpected sensations that had arisen in him.

“I figured his head would be our biggest issue, so I borrowed this,” Chen said, pulling an ugly black hood from some hidden pocket in her coat and taking another step towards him.

Tim held out a hand, shaking the head in question hastily. “I am not wearing that,” he insisted, backing away from her. Chen dropped the hood to her side and regarded him sternly.

“You have the most recognisable face in the kingdom. It’s literally carved onto the money! And there is nobody - nobody - out there with hair that clean.” She gestured towards Tim’s head with the woollen cloth. “It’s either this hood, or you let me paste your hair with fish guts. The choice is yours.”

Angela made a sharp noise that sounded almost like a delirious scream. Her hands flew to her mouth to stop the sound but her eyes betrayed her, glittering with delighted merriment at Tim’s utter discomfiture. He worked his jaw, trying to find a way out of his predicament, but slowly coming to the irrefutable conclusion that Chen was right.

He reached out and snatched the hood out of her grasp, spinning it around to find the opening, and mashing it roughly onto his head.

“There. Happy now?” he grumbled, refusing to meet either of the women’s eyes.

“It’s perfect. I wish we could commission a painting,” Angela admitted in a strangled voice.

“Whatever. Let’s go, Corporal.” Tim marched out of the cloakroom and into the servants yard, and he heard Chen’s boots on the cobbles as she hurried to catch up with him, only to be immediately drowned out by the wild shriek of Angela’s laughter from the cloakroom.

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Chapter Text

4

“You going to tell me what exactly it is we’re supposed to be doing out here, Corporal?” Tim asked after they’d left the palace grounds and were wandering at a relaxed pace through the crowded streets of the city.

Chen had fallen into an easy stride beside him, her face mellow and her gait steady, but one hand was always ready on the hilt of her sword. He himself had two small daggers stashed in narrow pockets on the sides of both boots, but it gave him an unexpected sense of comfort to walk beside Chen. Her quick eyes were constantly assessing the crowds around them, and he noted how she discreetly manoeuvred him to her more protected side every time they rounded a corner.

“We’re observing,” she said, making way for a small boy chasing a hairy dog. “You can learn a lot about the state of a kingdom by listening to the common folk.”

“What makes you think I don’t already listen to the common folk?”

She shot him a scathing look, and he almost laughed.

“I know you held open court once a month, at least before your fiancée took ill. I never attended but I heard about it now and again.” Chen didn’t seem discomposed by the mention of his annulled engagement, and Tim nearly missed a step in the cobbles while scrutinising her expression. She steered him around a lace vendor and continued speaking. “The people are never going to tell you to your face what they really think. They’re going to come to you with family feuds and disagreements over the price of eggs, not about how they lie awake all night worrying that their daughters and sons will be killed in battle in the peat bogs.”

Tim grimaced, knowing all too well that she was speaking the truth - he’d had to mediate countless bitter disputes between neighbours that had stemmed from something as trivial as the baking of an apple tart, or the escapades of a rambling nanny goat. Both commoners and courtiers frequently came to the king looking for advice, but they rarely offered any in return, and if they did, it was often cloaked in saccharine flattery; nothing more than a veiled attempt at getting their way with some ulterior scheme.

“Hey, look at this.” Chen held out an arm to stop him walking, and he came to a halt, following her gaze to a group of people gathered around a pub stall at the side of the street. Their faces were intent and their voices raised, and more than once a statement was followed by a pounded fist or a thumped tankard.

“What are they arguing about?” he asked, frowning at the commotion.

“The guy in the red cap says he saw lights on the mountain one night. The guy with the green shirt says he was drunk, because that’s his land and the only thing out there are his ewes and lambs.”

Tim chewed his lip, trying to follow the flow of the conversation, but the men’s thick accents and fast speech made it difficult to understand. Chen tapped him with her elbow.

“Come on, let’s get closer. You can buy me a drink.” She grinned at him and motioned them towards an empty table near the pub window. He followed awkwardly, not fully sure whether his disguise would hold up to close inspection, but nobody paid either of them any attention. A woman carrying a bale of laundry on her head even knocked Tim sideways with her hip as she hummed a loud melody and sauntered down a side street.

He followed Chen to a table and leaned on the edge of it with his elbows, directly opposite her. It was chest high and there were no seats, but Chen didn’t seem to mind, and she was already busy making complicated hand gestures at a barmaid who was gathering empty tankards nearby. She turned back to Tim, smirking at his tense stance and, out of the blue, punched him lightly on the shoulder.

“Ease up. You’re a fisherman back from a month at sea. Try to act less suspicious.”

Tim glared at her, absently rubbing the spot on his shoulder and rolling his neck in an attempt to appear more relaxed.

“You know it’s treason to assault the monarch,” he reminded her, trying to look stern.

Chen didn’t appear bothered in the least, and she tipped her head back, closing her eyes and smiling up at the blue sky.

“I’m sure there’s something in there about challenging him to a duel and winning over the throne too,” she mused, pushing a loose strand of hair away from her face. He watched as the sunlight danced across her skin, catching the sheen on her smiling lips and highlighting the soft rose of her cupid’s bow.

“No there isn’t,” he said, looking away. “I’ve checked.”

She opened her eyes again and regarded him steadily, and he could swear he could see her mind running through the multitude of meanings behind his stiff response. A breeze passed between them, ruffling the cords on the end of his mantle and sending the sour smell of rotting fish rising up his nostrils. Tim held back a sudden urge to gag. Chen smirked.

“Not often I have that effect on a guy,” she remarked dryly. “Here, drink this. It’ll burn your senses away for a little while.” The barmaid had returned with a tray and was setting two full tankards of ale on their table while Chen scooped up a pair of small glasses filled with clear liquid and handed one to him.

Suspicious, he took the proffered glass and sniffed at the rim. “What is it?” he asked, getting nothing but the strong aroma of alcohol.

“Home brewed poitín,” Chen replied, clinking his glass with her own. “To the end of the world.”

Tim tipped his head wryly, raising his glass to her. “Whenever that may be.”

The brew was potent, harsh and caustic on his tongue and throat, burning through his every sense, and for a moment he thought he might have completely blacked out, until Chen’s amused face swam back into focus in front of him.

“...it quickly. It takes the edge off.” His ears were ringing, but she was holding his tankard out to him, and he grabbed it, guzzling gratefully from the overflowing rim in a bid to relieve his scalded throat before she’d even let go of the handle. It seemed to work, and after a few seconds he could feel his face again, his eyes watering at the bittersweet aftertaste.

“Well… I certainly can’t smell fish anymore,” he wheezed, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth. His lips were still tingling, his eyes watering, and he had to clear his throat twice before he could speak again. “How have I never tasted that before?”

Chen grinned, taking a quick mouthful from her own mug. “Simple - it’s illegal to brew.” She winked at the barmaid, who’d been watching Tim’s tortured expressions with open amusement. “You have to know the right people.”

“Well, it’s going to stay illegal if I have anything to say about it,” he groused, but his heart wasn’t in it and he was finding it hard to hold back a grin of his own.

“Pshh-showoff…” Chen slurred, rolling her eyes to the sky.

“What was that?” Tim asked, leaning across the table and blinking innocuously at her. She blew a raspberry at him  and tipped her head to one side.

“Don’t you ever take a minute off? Let down your hair, or your royal robes, or whatever?” She gestured vaguely at his chest, then seemed to realise the connotations of her phrasing and blushed, her eyes widening in mild horror. It was a nice change to see her on the back foot, and he let her stew for a moment, deriving a smug sense of satisfaction from finally having her at a disadvantage.

“If this isn’t the very definition of ‘letting down my royal robes’, Corporal, then I shudder to think what you have in mind.” He narrowed his eyes at her, and she held his gaze, her honeyed irises caught in a beam of sunlight, and the moment seemed suspended in time. Hair and robes and lips and sweet herbal liquor all blended into fuzzy fantasy in the back of his mind, and a soft breath left his lips as his fingers twitched on the handle of his tankard and brushed the back of her knuckles.

“Freeeeesh fish! We catch ‘em, you buy ‘em! Get your freeeeesh fish!”

A hawker with a tray of silvery mackerel clattered over the cobbles on a rickety wagon, and Tim shook himself out of his sudden daydream. He was overtired, travel-worn and possibly already a little bit drunk. That was all.

Surely, that was all.

“Hey, let’s move on before they close the gates.” Chen was draining the dregs of her tankard, dropping a small pile of coins on the table and waving a quick farewell to the barmaid. If she’d had any inkling of where Tim’s thoughts had been headed, she didn’t show it, and she cocked her head at him, stepping nimbly back into the flow of people on the street.

Tim abandoned the end of his ale and hurried to catch up with her, trying to maintain a respectable distance from her side and failing amidst the busy clamour of the narrow streets. She kept up a brisk pace, and they walked in silence for a while, soon coming to the imposing facade of the city walls. 

The walls were already centuries old before Tim’s father took the throne, and he’d invested a lot of the kingdom’s taxes into fortifying and extending their reach. Heavy limestone was quarried and carted from around the kingdom, adding height to the battlements and mural towers that defined the upper skyline of the city. Merchants had begun to see the value in the security provided by the King’s Guard stationed on the walkways, and they funnelled money into having ornate family carvings erected on various towers to advertise their wares.

The gates to the city were also guarded, and tolls extracted from merchants and caravans travelling through. Tim had done away with the toll on the common folk, seeing it as a method of preserving his father’s elitist notions by prohibiting the kingdom’s potential for expansion. It had been a gamble that not all the merchant families had supported initially, but as trade increased and the city prospered, their former disgruntled rumblings gradually died away.

He followed Chen through the gates now, into the higgledy-piggledy collection of cottages that had sprung up in the growing village of settlers outside the city walls. These were people too poor to afford lodgings within the safety of the walls, whose jobs called them to the land or sea beyond the boundaries of the merchant’s fine emporia. There was still trade - lacemakers, washerwomen, ironmongers and publicans all had stalls and shops from which to sell out here, but the streets were narrow and dirty, and the smell of fish was overwhelming.

Tim felt his stomach churn uncertainly as the smell hit him again. 

Ever-watchful, Chen noticed and slowed down until he fell into step with her.

“Here, wrap this around your face.” She pulled at her neck, unloosing a fine silken scarf in muted reds and blacks, dyed with minute batik markings that he couldn’t quite make out. She passed it to him, and he held it to his nose gratefully, tucking it in behind the wool of his itchy hood and instantly feeling the relief of the soft silk against his skin.

Jasmine. 

Pear. 

Something warm and exotic - fresh coconut, maybe, that he’d tried once as a child at his mother’s feet. Giggling as he shared the unfamiliar white flesh with Genny over a worn footstool and their mother’s wobbly cross-stitching.

Tim shook his head to dislodge the unexpected memory, feeling his throat constrict at the simple joy that it had dredged, unbidden, from the recesses of his mind. Chen nudged him and he looked up at her in surprise, almost forgetting where he was in reality.

“You okay? Are you going to get sick?” she asked, concerned. He shook his head, keeping the scarf pressed over his mouth with one hand as they clambered up an uneven, rocky hill. She stayed beside him, steadying him with a palm on his elbow when the path narrowed and turned drunkenly into a shaded alley.

She could be taking him anywhere, this woman. What did he know about her, really? Nothing, except that she excelled in battle, had no reservations about contravening basic palace decorum, and smelled like the scent of a long-lost memory. She’d plied him with alcohol and coerced him, on his own, outside the city walls before curfew, and he was so thoroughly disguised that if he called out for help, no-one would ever believe he was the king.

Still. He found he trusted her.

She’s got a way with people, Grey had said. 

She’d led his army to victory. Won Angela over with a cocky grin and a succinct argument.

Tim was beginning to understand what they saw in her.

The street tapered into a thin gap between the gables of two thatched cottages, and Tim had to turn sideways to make his way between the rough stone walls without getting stuck. Chen still had a hand on his elbow; firm, steadying, but not demanding, and he emerged from between the houses after her, finding himself suddenly blinded by brilliant sunlight reflected all around them.

He raised a hand to shield his eyes, squinting as his pupils readjusted after the semi-darkness of the narrow streets. “Where are we?”

“Derra Tallún. The end of the world.” She held a hand above her own eyes, blinking at the bright light and gazing off into the distance.

They were at the pier of the fishing village, looking out into the bay and the open ocean beyond. It was late afternoon, and the sun wouldn’t set for hours yet, but it was low enough to cast a dizzying array of sparkling beams across the gently lapping water in the harbour and off the whitewashed walls of the tiny cottages. Fisherfolk were at work all around them, hauling crates of fresh catch and laying out wreaths of seaweed to be dried. Men sanded and retarred the black hulls of small curraghs, and women sat singing and repairing reams of fishing nets. Grandparents rested against bales of thick rope, smoking stubby clay pies, while children darted about amongst the adults, carrying wire trays of small fry, or rooting about in buckets full of mussels. It was loud and it was busy and it was hectic and it was smelly and it was entirely unfamiliar and unexpected to Tim’s eyes.

He knew, of course, that the ordinary people had built lives outside the city walls. He knew they fished for themselves, and bartered and traded with the city merchants daily. He had seen their houses from his carriage or during his promenades on the battlements. He knew that, like it or not, not everyone could afford to live a life of luxury and ease.

But he had never been this close.

Here was their king, right in the midst of the common folk, and they hadn’t even batted an eyelid. 

“What are you thinking?” Chen asked, eyeing him curiously.

Tim shrugged, pulling her scarf below his chin and letting the remnants of jasmine and pear fade into the background.

“I’ve never been out here before.”

She frowned dubiously. “What? You never sneaked out the back door as a kid? Ran around with the milk maids behind your father’s back?”

Her tone was teasing, but it struck a nerve he hadn’t realised was raw.

“I didn’t have that freedom,” he said, his voice rough, as he recalled the time his father had locked him in his quarters for an entire week simply for kicking a ball with the servant children in the courtyard. He still had a scar behind his left ear from the beating he’d taken.

“Hey…” Her voice was soft, and it was the light tap of her fingers against the  skin of his wrist that pulled him back from the memory. “I’m sorry. You’re right - I don’t know what it was like for you growing up here.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “A pretty bird in a gilded cage.”

It wasn’t far off the mark, and he swallowed a lump in his throat before meeting her eyes.

“You calling me ‘pretty’, Corporal?”

She snorted and tossed her plait over her shoulder. “Oh, gag! Come on, we have to pry some useful information out of these people before the sun sets, or the Marchioness will never let me sneak you out again.” She threw him an amused grin and sauntered off to a group of women gathered around some lobster pots at the end of the pier.

“Well, we couldn’t have that now, could we?” Tim muttered, returning her grin and following her along the slope of the pier and down to the water’s edge.

~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~

Hours later, full of chowder and hearty brown soda bread that was insistently plied into their hands in sturdy clay bowls by the women in Derra Tallún, they found themselves returned once again to the small servant’s cloakroom at the palace. The sun was slung low and red on the western horizon and the bells of the city clamoured and clanged the hour of curfew.

Tim heaved a great sigh and yanked on the strings of his mantle, relieved to finally be rid of the coarse material.

“I cannot wait to get out of these clothes,” he grumbled, but he was too full and satisfied to inject any real disdain into the sentiment.

“Mmm, I’m not gonna miss this hood,” Chen agreed, reaching up to pull the fishy-smelling garment from his head and crumpling it into a ball in her fist. Tim rolled his neck, hearing his joints pop in relief, and then Chen took a step closer, stretching out a hand and running her fingers lightly through his hair. Tim froze.

“Yeah, I’m glad we didn’t go with the fish guts,” she said, laughing airily and tugging at the longer strands of hair near his forehead. He let out a short breath, his jaw falling open and his eyes darting quickly to her smiling lips. Her hand stilled as she caught his gaze, her thumb slipping down to graze the edge of his cheekbone. He realised he’d steadied himself by resting a hand on her waist, his fingers latched into the loop of her sword strap, and he could just about feel the end of her rib cage shiver as she let out a soft gasp.

What was happening here?

She was a Corporal! He was her king!

Chen stirred first, ruffling his hair once; roughly, quickly. “Yeah that’s - that’s good.” She pulled out of his grasp, almost tripping over a rack of wooden clogs in her haste to get away from him. “My Lord.” She bowed stiffly, biting her lip as she considered his face for one more split second; then she turned and dashed out of the room and through a startled flock of hens in the centre of the courtyard.

Tim was left with one hand in mid air, his skin alight under the phantom pressure of her touch, and the smell of pear - of jasmine, of coconut - wafting delicately towards him from her scarf, still wrapped snug and secure around his neck.

~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

5

He didn’t see Chen much in the following days. She attended the war council meetings, and she’d given a succinct and detached account of their undercover trip outside the walls to the assembly at Angela’s request. She always bowed demurely along with the other officers when he entered the room, and he acknowledged her regular reports on troop movements and training with a quick glance or a terse nod.

Grey agreed with her that using the local populace along the coastline as part of their early warning system not only boosted the amount of eyes on the ocean, but gave the people a sense of purpose and empowerment against the menacing threat of Ligne. With Grey endorsing her, the other officers were quick to follow suit, and soon she’d been tasked with steering her suggestions into reality.

She handled herself ably, diverting handpicked individual recruits to various towns and villages along the kingdom’s thousand miles of coastline. These soldiers would see that the villagers and townsfolk were trained in what to look for from the enemy and how to react if they saw anything that aroused suspicion. They were also to work with each town’s local militia, ensuring they were drilled and ready if battle came to their doorstep.

It meant Tim never had another moment alone with her; never had a chance to ask why she’d decided to run her fingers through his hair, or if the quickening pulse thrumming through the blood in his fingertips on her waist had been his discomfiture alone, or if he’d felt her heartbeat racing too. He never had the chance to return her scarf and it lay, instead, stashed in a hidden pocket of the drapes around his four-poster bed. There, the servants would never accidentally find it, and he could smell a hint of jasmine if he turned his head just so each night before he fell into troubled slumber.

All of a sudden, Angela elbowed him in the ribs and Tim startled alert, shuffling upright in his seat and sending the Marchioness a miffed glare. Angela looked pointedly at her young son, who was sitting placidly at her other side, focused and well-mannered, while Tim had been literally off in dreamland. It simply wouldn’t do.

They were in the cathedral of Losan; a many-spired limestone edifice at the very heart of the city. It was a short carriage ride from the palace, but Tim wasn’t particularly religious and he didn’t visit often. As a child, he’d attended with his mother on holy days, but he’d much preferred to be outside searching the gables and eaves for carved gargoyles and hidden mermaids spouting rainwater from the heavy grey slates.

Today, he was inside, dressed in sombre black velvet and dark fur, and trying to stay alert while the reverend droned on and on about the eternal peace that awaited the brave souls who had fallen in battle while defending the kingdom. While Tim had no major convictions on the afterlife personally, he recognised the importance of gathering together as a community - as a kingdom - to honour their dead and support their families in a time of such grief. There wasn’t much else they could do.

“And now I believe our king wishes to say some words. Your Majesty.” The reverend stepped away from the pulpit with a deep and ostentatious bow, spreading his arms wide to allow Tim to have the floor. Tim swallowed a lump in his throat and rose to his feet, feeling Angela tap a supportive fist against his arm as he stood. He hated public speaking at the best of times, and had honed his delegation of the task to a fine art at this stage. But this speech was one he couldn’t shirk.

He stepped around the gilded rails that kept the rabble from befouling the rarefied air of the altar, his boots echoing on the ornate marble tiles as he made his way to the raised dais of the pulpit. He could feel the eyes of the congregation on him, and made a conscious effort not to fiddle with the cuffs of his robes as ascended the steps. Rounding the pillar of the pulpit, he gripped his fingers onto the cold stone surface, and began.

“We didn’t ask for the burden of battle,” His voice resonated loudly through the still air and over the hushed heads of the people gathered before him. 

“Our kingdom thrives on peace and diplomacy, and, yes -  the strength and skill of our army - but we never wanted to have to send them to certain death.” A stifled sob from somewhere in the centre of the crowd sent a shiver of sorrow through him. “We have always relied on our stalwart and steadfast troops to protect our endeavours, both in our own lands and abroad, and we have made our name as a kingdom that is true to our word and will guard our interests, both in action and in deed.”

Tim tightened his grip on the pulpit and chanced a glance into the audience. In the front pews were the familiar faces of the officers and nobility that made up his court; a small sea of silver gathered towards the back half of the cathedral, where the troops wore their dress armour as a mark of respect to their fallen comrades; and, everywhere else, were the dull black veils of mourning - parents and siblings, classmates and companions, widows and orphans. He ducked his head back down and took a steadying breath.

“Our army held true to their word under the vicious and unprovoked attack at our borders recently. They flew to the defence of our lands, saving countless towns and villages at our eastern border from being pillaged or destroyed. They fought back against the invading forces and sent them running home to their queen, beaten and disgraced.”

A rough cry of ‘hear hear’ rolled through the crowd, and some of the soldiers hammered upon their breastplates with their steel gauntlets. It gave Tim courage.

“In the coming days, I will be sending letters of gratitude from the crown to the families of those who died in battle. I know it is trivial in the face of such incomprehensible loss, but I believe it is important that you, the families, know how indebted we are to your loved ones for what they’ve given for us.”

Tim raised his head, meeting Angela’s eye and garnering an approving nod. He continued.

“While every life we lost is one too many, there is one in particular I would like to make note of here today. General Zoe Andersen.”

Tim didn’t need to elaborate. The people loved Andersen. She was famous throughout the kingdom, and children read her life story as they learned their letters at school. The chapel was completely silent.

“I grew up with Zoe,” he said, locking his fingers together and looking away from the crowd, towards the stained glass windows that arced high and magnificent on either side of the building. “We trained together with the master-at-arms in the palace - in sword work, archery, mounted combat - everything. Her family have been at court for decades, but she was the first to join the army. And of course she excelled at it. I’m not ashamed to admit that she bested me more often than not.” A ripple of watery laughter flowed through the congregation, and Tim gave them a lopsided grin. 

“There was no question that she would be my commander in chief when I ascended to the throne. There was no one I trusted more than her. Today, I ask her niece to join me, and light a perpetual flame on the altar in General Andersen’s memory. A flame that will burn brightly in the darkest of times, and remind us that - no matter the odds - we are never alone. And we are never outnumbered.”

A young girl in the Andersen’s pew stood, and Tim inclined his head towards her as she walked up the aisle, bearing a small oil lamp with a flame from the hearth of the General’s fireplace. The reverend offered her a taper, and with it she lit a tall white candle, the small flame flickering heartily against the draughts in the old building. It licked at the wick and caught, flaring high, sending sparks up into the dark rafters of the building, and Tim watched them soar away while the girl genuflected and returned to her seat. The candle burned strong and bright. Tim turned back to the congregation.

“General Andersen knew her troops well. Maybe too well. Her notes and ledgers put all the rest of us to shame.” Another small chuckle, deepest amongst the ranks of armoured soldiers, and it gave Tim a boost of confidence. “Colonel Grey has been going through her notes and in the imminent future we will be issuing new commands to posts where officers were lost. General Andersen knew you all best, and these positions will be filled based on her recommendations, as well as those of my other senior officers. I want to thank you, with all my heart, for your dedication to the protection of this kingdom and our people.”

A murmur of assent ran through the crowd, and Tim glanced pointedly at Grey, seated in the pew beside the Marquess Evers. The Colonel nodded, pulling a small case from the pocket of his robes, and stood, walking up to join Tim at the pulpit.

“There are many honours to bestow, but I would be remiss if I did not use this opportunity to thank one officer in particular. Her name appears time and time again in General Andersen’s ledgers, and I know she was highly regarded in her military campaigns before she joined our ranks. I have been told of how she turned the tide of battle in the wake of General Andersen’s death and how, without her quick thinking and fearless leadership, we might not even be here today to honour those we lost. I’m speaking, of course-” Tim looked up, raising his eyebrows at the sudden giddy commotion in the ranks of the armoured soldiers, “Of Corporal Lucy Chen.”

Slightly hysterical applause broke out, the steel armour worn by the army clattering loudly through the resounding calls of approval, and Tim caught a flurry of motion as Chen was propelled from their ranks at speed, steel-plated gloves and chainmail knocking against her armour and sending her almost head over heels as they thumped and shoved her forward enthusiastically.

She caught herself - gracefully, he thought - and threw a sharp, but not unkind, look over her shoulder at her comrades. Tim stepped down from the pulpit and onto the marble floor of the altar, making his way to the open gate at the front of the nave. Chen steadied herself on the edge of a pew and rolled her shoulders back, before striding up the aisle confidently as the applause continued to spread through the cathedral. Her hair was loose today, and it bounced lightly against her shoulders as she walked, and Tim felt the memory of jasmine brush against his senses. He straightened his spine restlessly.

She continued up the aisle, barely slowing as she came closer to him, and only coming to a sudden stop when she was mere inches from the altar steps. She thumped a fist against her breastplate and bowed her head and, forgetting himself, Tim copied her, only realising what he’d done when Grey cleared his throat quietly at his side. Tim shook himself, and met Chen’s gaze, not surprised in the least to see mirth dancing in the depths of her dark irises and pulling at the corners of her lips.

“I’m sensing a lack of fear in my authority, Corporal,” he muttered, as Grey opened the wooden case at his elbow.

“Yes, sire,” Chen replied, practically winking at him. Tim screwed up his lips, trying and failing to hide a smile, and he turned to Grey to remove an engraved golden medal from the box. He unlatched the clasp and faced Chen again, waiting for silence to fall in the crowd before he raised his voice to speak.

“Corporal Chen. For going above and beyond the call of duty on the battlefield, and for protecting this kingdom, its people and its army with unconditional courage, bravery and leadership, I offer you the freedom of the city of Losan, along with the King’s Heart.” He raised the medal above him, and the golden circlet caught the light pouring through the stained glass windows and twinkled brightly. He looked back at Chen, whose face had melted from wry amusement to glowing joy, and he stepped closer to her, lowering his hands. “That’s the name of the award,” he murmured, in case she wilfully misinterpreted him.

Chen shot him a wide grin and dipped her head, allowing him to loop the chain around her neck and to click the clasp together as the medal clinked heavily against her armour. He reached down and flipped the pendant face-out and, without thinking, followed the trail of the chain to where it rested against her shoulders, running his hands lightly below her jaw to lift her hair free and sending a waft of pear and jasmine drifting towards him as he settled it back into place.

Her face grew serious and he could feel the pulse in her neck speed up below the pads of his thumbs. He pulled his hands away quickly, fastening them tightly over his belt instead.

Grey cleared his throat again and jostled Tim with his elbow.

“Yes, of course,” Tim started, shakily. “And with this award comes responsibility, although you are already far exceeding your expected duties. It is with great honour, Corporal, that I, along with my cabinet, promote you to the rank of Captain.” As the congregation began to applaud again, Tim held his hand out and Chen took it, beaming with pride as he clasped it between both of his own. “You deserve to be recognised. Captain.”

And he let her go, nodding quietly at her mouthed ‘thank you’ and stepping back as she turned to face her admirers.

He caught Grey’s eyes on him, one brow raised in mute interrogation, and Tim held up a warning finger, gritting his jaw and letting the applause fade into the background.

Grey was astute, but he was clearly inventing issues where there were none. Because there was nothing untoward going on here. Absolutely nothing.

~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~

Apart from a few minor skirmishes at their southern flank, conditions on the battlefront remained at a stalemate in the following days. Tim continued to attend the war council meetings, but preferred to wrap the discussions up quickly and let his officers get back to their real work. For the most part they appreciated his expeditiousness, although Smitty invariably found a reason to divert his onward journey to one of the city’s raucous taverns rather than the training grounds where he was required.

The situation became so tranquil that Tim was momentarily blindsided when Lord Nolan accosted him in the palace corridors one afternoon while he was making his way between tedious meetings with terrified merchants considering moving their stock south to Múin for safety.

Nolan was … fine. He had his moments of inspiration but, in general, Tim ignored the man and left him to his own devices. He’d spent a few years running through courtships with a variety of noblewomen who were - at least as far as Tim was concerned - way out of the man’s league. He seemed to have settled in recent times however, and had had a long and steady engagement with Lady Nune, a woman almost as inconceivably multi-talented as Nolan himself, and the two seemed happy together.

They didn’t usually bother Tim, in any case.

But today wasn’t one of those days.

Nolan, in a rambling monologue of far more words than was strictly necessary, sputtered and stammered his roundabout way into asking for the king’s permission to hold the ceremony for his wedding to Lady Nune at the palace. Nolan would see to the grounds and decor, Lady Bailey’s family would provide extra security, and Tim would hardly even notice they were there, they’d be so well-behaved.

Tim was on the verge of fobbing the man off - a nation at war! A crisis at the border! The crown didn’t have time for such piffling matters as societal matrimony! - when Angela, almost perpetually glued to Tim’s side these days, held out a tentative hand.

“This could be good for morale,” she’d mused, as Nolan’s eyes lit up.

Tim jammed the heel of one boot into the stone floor and stared down at her. “I don’t do weddings.”

“You wouldn’t be expected to attend, my liege, although - of course! - you’d be so very, very welcome!” Nolan prattled, his eyebrows practically crawling all over his face in his efforts to express all the emotions at once.

“Well there you go,” Angela said, as if the matter were decided. “Let the wedding party use the banquet hall, and you can mope around in peace in the west wing. You’ll barely even hear the carriage wheels from your chambers.”

Tim gritted his teeth. She wasn’t wrong; a party could boost morale amongst his officers, as well as sending out the signal that the kingdom was comfortable enough to divert its attention from the battlefront. The merchants would be delighted with the boost to trade, and the chance to flaunt their wares to the aristocracy would take their minds off the notion of leaving the city.

“I’ll consider it,” he grunted, striding away and leaving Angela to curb Nolan’s effusive thanks.

~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~

Nolan’s request had almost evaporated from Tim’s mind by the time the war council meeting rolled around the following morning. 

He’d missed Angela at breakfast. She was usually there with his to-do list, having already been up for hours chasing after her two children - a task, Tim reminded her, she could easily have enlisted assistance for. She was determined to raise her children in-person as much as possible, however, and her duties as Royal Counsel sometimes took second place to a feverish infant or a troubled night’s sleep. It never bothered Tim. To him, she was worth more than her weight in gold, and that included any time she took to see to his adopted niece and nephew.

Angela had privileged access to the crown, and that included days of rest, so he was surprised to see her already in the map room, deep in discussion with a small knot of officers in travelling cloaks. Everyone jumped to attention when Tim walked in, rising to bow from wherever they’d perched, and falling silent under the dim cloud of tobacco smoke that always pervaded the room.

“Good morning,” Tim began, marching purposefully to the centre of the room and resting his fists on the table. “Where do we stand today?”

“Much the same as yesterday, sire, I don’t think-”

“Actually Lieutenant-” Angela interrupted Smitty with a raised hand, catching Tim’s eye and moving to one side to introduce the man she’d been talking to. “We have news from the northern coast.”

The old man behind Angela stepped forward and bowed meekly, a pair of thick wire spectacles almost slipping off his nose as he raised his head.

“Major McGrady, Your Majesty. At your service.” He shoved the spectacles up with his index finger, smiling nervously at Tim.

“Major,” Tim nodded. “You’ve come to us from Ullah?”

“I have, Your Majesty,” the man confirmed, taking a nervous step forward. “I’m sure Your Majesty doesn’t remember me - you were only a child when I left. My wife, you see.” He smiled fondly, then sighed. “She died years ago, but her father was a chieftain in the north. A minor lord, Your Grace, but we were blessed with a small estate and some servants. We had a happy life.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, Major,” Tim said, wishing the man would get to the point instead of spinning his idyllic yarn. “Although I’m sorry for your loss.”

“My thanks, Your Majesty, you are kind.” McGrady cleared his throat wetly, looking down at the spread of maps on the table, and leaning nervously on his wooden cane. “But of course I didn’t come here to extract your sympathies. My estate, my lord. It looks out over the northern sea.” He raised his cane to point at a small-scale map of the island, dropping the muddy metal tip over the far coast of Ullah.

“We’ve had sightings of a flotilla crossing the straits. They bear no flag, but the ships are not the design of the Norse invaders. They’ve kept their distance, but with telescopes we’ve been able to see the uniform worn on board one ship that sailed close enough.” He looked up at Tim with a remorseful expression. “They wear the colours of Ligne. Duvlinn is on the move.”

The air in the room seemed to compress, and the officers puffed and muttered quietly to one another as their situation sank in.

Chen had been right.

Though they’d sent military emissaries to the furthest outposts as a dubious precaution, the attack was coming by sea. And Tim wasn’t sure if their navy was ready.

He scanned the room for Chen, catching her dark eyes in a corner beside the fireplace. She tipped her head in a lopsided shrug, biting her lower lip thoughtfully. 

“You were right,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

She eased away from the fireplace, slipping neatly between the shoulders of two taller officers and up to the table opposite Tim.

“There’s still hope, sire. Even if they’re already sailing around Ullah, they’re spread thin and labouring against the open ocean. We have cannons and archers stationed at every headland and island along the west coast. We can take them out from a distance and they’ll never even see us coming.” She bobbed on her feet, suddenly overcome with eagerness. “And we have the most modern cannonball system, forged from designs that have only just arrived from the emperor’s palace in China.”

She was watching him earnestly, eyebrows raised in hope, clearly thrilled with her own discerning foresight. He narrowed his eyes at her.

“Bookworm.”

“What?” Chen started, offended.

“I’ve heard great things about the Chinese armoury. It’s a good call to utilise their devices,” said McGrady, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Thank you, Major,” Chen chirped, throwing Tim a dark look.

“We can’t rely solely on a land-based assault - with this information, we have to send the navy on an offensive sortie!” Grey waved his hands at the wooden ships on the map, where they were still gathered close around the bay sheltering Losan.

“I agree,” said Tim tapping restlessly at the table. “Commander Harper. What do you think?”

Another woman emerged from the shadows near the fireplace, her crisp blue uniform clearly marking her out as navy. She flicked her eyes towards Chen, and Tim realised the two must have been together discussing this very topic before he’d even arrived.

Harper picked up a croupier rod and started to move the ships out into the ocean, one at a time, in a manoeuvre Tim wasn’t familiar with.

“I don’t think Chen is wrong. We’ve - hopefully - got an advantage if we attack from the land. Major McGrady’s reports sets their armada at quite a distance, but with our new weaponry and the element of surprise, it’s possible we’ll take out most of their ships before they ever encounter our forces.” She tapped the rod against the table and looked at Tim again. “But just in case, I recommend a protective offence. Spread out to meet them before they make their way to the bay, and keep the coastline secured at our stern.” 

Mutters of assent met Harper’s succinct suggestion, and Tim nodded, considering his options. Angela roused him from his musings, knocking on the table to get his attention.

“So what is going to be?” she asked, tossing in a belated: “Your Majesty,” for propriety’s sake.

“I say we focus our attention on coastal defences, and have the navy ready to back us up if the ships get too far south,” Chen offered, tipping her chin haughtily.

Tim couldn’t resist baiting her.

“And I say we’re more likely to achieve a resounding coup by meeting them at sea,” he countered.

Chen smirked.

“Care for a friendly wager?” She dropped her fists to the table and leaned on them, boldly holding Tim’s gaze. “Who demolishes more enemy ships?”

The other officers gasped at her audacity, but Tim smiled smugly, keeping his eyes fixed on her.

“You’re on, Captain.”

“A wonderful suggestion!” Angela interjected, clapping her hands together nervously and trying to reel the conversation back on track. “The army and the navy in friendly competition - it’s sure to drive everyone to perform their best.”

“No,” Tim said flatly. “This is between me and Captain Chen. If your coast guards sink more ships than Commander Harper’s navy, then…” he trailed off, suddenly at a loss for what stakes he could suggest in polite society.

Ever ready with a solution, Angela jumped in again, pointing at him sternly. “Then you, my lord, will recant your convention against society weddings, and attend Lord Nolan’s upcoming nuptials!” She was a little short of breath and, in the back of his mind, Tim was vaguely sorry for perturbing her so much.

Chen’s grin broadened, however, delighted to have this tidbit of libel against Tim. “Deal,” she agreed quickly.

“And if Commander Harper wins,” Tim said, holding his hand across the table for her to shake. “You have to attend Nolan’s wedding - dressed appropriately.” He flashed her a smile. “Short sleeves.”

Chen pursed her lips, but she was already reaching for his hand, and he grasped her fingers in his own, giving her arm one firm shake while he held her gaze level. She tipped her chin again, her eyes never leaving his, and he felt her fingers twitch, tightening against his own.

The moment stretched on, and Tim wasn’t sure which of them would have broken their hold first, if Angela hadn’t clapped her hands again and declared an end to the morning’s meeting. Chen let go of his fingers, stepping away from the table slowly, and curtseying only briefly as she passed him, following in Commander Harper’s wake as she marched out of the room. Tim watched her from the corner of his eye, but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of turning to see her go.

That little…

“What was that?!”

Angela was back at his side, hissing darkly from just below his shoulder. Tim shrugged casually, picking up one of the small ships for inspection as the other officers bowed to him and left the room.

“Like you said - boosting troop morale.” He spun the ship around between his fingers. “And it looks like you’re getting the wedding you wanted too. You should be happy.”

“I’m ecstatic,” Angela deadpanned. “But, speaking of weddings - I might just have found a solution to one of your other looming problems.”

Tim dropped the little ship back into place and frowned at Angela, trying to recall what could possibly be more important than triumphing over Rosalind’s armada at sea.

“Major McGrady,” she said, with a sly smile. “He’s travelling with his daughter - and she’s single. You have to meet her. The Lady Ashley.”

~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

6

Despite all of Angela’s best efforts, a pall of gloom hung over the kingdom in the following weeks. The population of Losan swelled beyond capacity as subjects from across Mid Wilshire trekked their way to the city for the safety provided by the imposing limestone walls. The bell for curfew tolled earlier and earlier, and droves of people piled into the narrow streets, finding shelter for the night in crowded dormitories or the draughty pews of the city’s churches and chapels.

Some of the nobility had already absconded, pleading ill health or an urgent call from their relatives in the Swiss Alps - that simply had to be met with the full force of their entire family and complete retinue of servants. A number of businesses in the city had closed their doors, claiming negotiations abroad, but it was clear that there simply wasn’t the market for exotic spices or fine linens when the kingdom was preparing for an attack on all fronts.

In fact - and Tim hated to admit it - if it weren’t for Nolan’s impending nuptials, many of the city’s more exclusive trades and ranking nobility would probably have already left. As it was, the prospect of a wedding at the royal palace - with no less a guest than the king himself - whetted their appetite for gossip and gave rise to enough social anxiety that most people were paralysed by indecision, and ended up staying too late to make alternative arrangements.

Angela was delighted with her manipulations. 

She’d smirked smugly every time Tim held court, and one more lord or lady came up to quietly murmur that of course they would stay in Losan to see everything through, and they had never even considered abandoning the kingdom, and, if he would be so gracious, would his majesty consider recommending their services to Lord Nolan? And, perchance, did Lady Bailey have any siblings that would be of a similar age to their own unwed sons and daughters?

Major McGrady had stayed in the city too, renting out a small manor not too far from the palace and opening his spare rooms to a few impoverished families with nowhere else to go. His daughter helped out, running a small school from her parlour to give the children somewhere to practise their reading and writing. 

When she wasn’t being a good samaritan, Lady Ashley was at court, easily breezing into the exclusive social circles of the young ladies in the aristocracy. They liked her striking appearance and elegant clothing, and some even followed her lead in supporting the schooling of young refugees in the city.

But most of all, Tim assumed, they were fascinated by her apparent courtship of the king.

While it could have its uses - and they were few and far between - Tim abhorred idle gossip. He usually left it to Angela to sort the useful from the banal in the court rumour mill, but he stayed out of it as much as possible. With Isabel, he’d seen the proof of the rumours in her bouts of distress and despair, but his courtiers had never known the full scope of her true affliction. Although she spoke their language fluently, she’d kept an aura of mystique about her, preferring to spend time with her ladies-in-waiting from France, and only leaving her circle to engage with merchants and nobility who were from, or had recently been to, her home country.

Lady Ashley was the daughter of a local lord, but had just enough of her mother’s Ullah manner to be a novelty. Her conduct was refined, but she hadn’t been brought up at court, and she was easy to please with a slightly unusual dish, or a stroll through the palace oak groves.

And Angela made the best of their limited options.

Between war councils, diplomatic talks, trade negotiations and court sessions, she scheduled Tim for frequent outings with the young Lady McGrady. He hadn’t seen so many peaceful and idyllic sections of the palace or city for a long time - certainly not since the early days of Isabel’s visits - and there was always a tactfully placed seating nook, or a small but sumptuous table of canapés for their perusal.

In one way, it was nice. Nice to get away from the eternal push and pull of diplomacy and negotiation, and the headache-inducing concessions that came with every meeting of every committee that the crown simply had to be present for. To just stroll and let someone chat aimlessly at him about the wonderful verging on his parterre, or how convenient it must be to have a delicious array of cuisines instantly available at the snap of a finger.

To appease Angela - and to have some peace for himself - Tim submitted to these contrived engagements and allowed the word ‘courtship’ to be whispered throughout the palace once again.

But each night, before he lay his head on his pillow, he peeked into the pocket folded secretly into his bed curtains, and inhaled the scent of jasmine, pear and coconut, and when he finally fell asleep, his dreams would send him soaring to the faraway islands of the northwestern coasts, where he could watch over a lone figure bravely guarding the horizon, her dark hair billowing behind her like a banner.

~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~

“Tim! Uncle Tim!”

Little Jack burst into Tim’s quarters just as he was wiping the remains of his shaving foam from his jaw. Thorsen, too close to the entryway for comfort, leaped away from the valet stand, one hand pressed to his chest in fright, and Tim’s neatly folded outfit rolled onto the floor in a crumpled heap.

Tim dropped his washcloth, bending down to scoop the little boy up. Jack settled comfortably into his arms and ran his hands over Tim’s face, scrutinising his handiwork. Tim scrunched his nose in amusement.

“What is it, young man? What has you charging in here so early in the morning?” Tim asked, bobbing the boy onto his other hip.

Jack finished his examination of Tim’s face, and turned his attention to the loose strings of his linen undershirt, looping the ends around his fingers as he considered his reply.

“Mommy says: the bracket is over. The piñata is stunk.”

Tim frowned, trying to unravel this cryptic riddle. He walked over to his bed and sat Jack on the end, bending down to face him properly.

“What did your mommy say?”

“The piñata got knocked down,” Jack clarified, making an explosive gesture with his hands.

Angela and Wesley had spared no expense for their son’s last birthday, importing all manner of party favours from Angela’s relatives in Spain and further abroad, and clearly the centrepiece of the affair had made a lasting impression on the child.

“Are you sure she said ‘piñata’? Like you had for your birthday?” he asked, trying to keep the boy focussed.

“No!” Jack exclaimed, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “The piñata! The one that stunk!”

“The armada!” came Angela’s voice from the corridor, and she appeared in the shadows of the hallway and ran through Tim’s open door. “The blockade is over, Tim. The armada is sunk!”

Tim stood up so suddenly he nearly got dizzy, and he stared at Angela in disbelief. “You’re kidding…”

“No, Tim,” she said, hurrying over to him and catching his hands. She was beaming from ear to ear. “They did it. Harper and Chen. They lured them into a trap. A feint of unguarded coasts and a depleted navy. They encircled them in the ocean and sank almost every last one.” She laughed out loud, reaching out her other hand for Jack, who was clambering down from the bed in his eagerness to be part of the activity. “Ligne came in overconfident, and they fell badly. The ships that are left are barely limping northwards again. We’ve had messengers riding in from the coast all morning.”

“Wait, wait wait-” Tim closed his eyes, shaking his head. “You mean the western front is safe again? We can reopen the trade routes?”

“Yes! Tim, yes!” Angela let go of him and picked Jack up, swinging the delighted child around in a wide circle. “We had no loss of life on land, and very little at sea. Obviously we’ll be on guard, but we have the upper hand, and we can concentrate our forces back on the eastern troops!” 

She wheeled Jack onto the ground with a flourish and pressed the back of her hand against her forehead. Tim blinked, then chuckled, watching as Jack ran over to Thorsen to ‘help’ him with Tim’s wardrobe.

“But wait,” he said, a sudden thought occurring to him, and he looked back at Angela gravely. “If they worked together to ambush the armada, then who sank more ships? Harper? Or Chen?”

“Ugh! You’re insufferable!” Angela whacked him with the end of her embroidered sleeve, and turned to collect her son and head out of the room.

“No, Angela! Wait!” Tim hurried after her, followed by an agitated Thorsen, beseechingly holding out a modest dressing gown. “Angela - this is a matter of social propriety! Which of us has to go to that god awful wedding ceremony? Me or Chen?”

Angela turned in the arch of the doorway, glaring at him in disgust. She leaned in close to his face, resting her hand on the door handle for balance.

“You both have to go. They each destroyed exactly the same amount of ships.”

Tim’s jaw fell open. “That’s impossible.”

“I said it, so it’s true. Now get dressed and grow up.” And she slammed the door closed behind her, leaving him suspended somewhere between exhilaration and anticipation, while Thorsen muttered darkly about the sheer impertinence of certain people at such an unsociable hour.

~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~

The following week was a blur of restrained celebration, both within the palace and without. Although they were still technically at war, Tim couldn’t begrudge the citizens their revelry after spending so long under the threat of attack from every side. Now, they could reopen  their coastline, allowing the fisherfolk to return to the sea, and the merchants back to routes of safe passage in and out of the kingdom. Small parades were held with increasing regularity as militias from villages and towns around the kingdom arrived in the city for award ceremonies, and Harper’s navy took turns sending fleets of sailors for shore-leave, where they never had to pay for a single meal or beverage upon landing in the city.

It was a great relief, and Tim could have properly taken a moment to catch his breath, if not for one thing: Lord Nolan’s wedding.

Somehow, the man had ended up timing his ceremony with absolute serendipity for the first weekend after the sinking of Rosalind’s armada, and the excitement amongst the nobility, the merchantry and even the commoners was almost at fever pitch.

Both Nolan and Lady Bailey had ascended through the ranks at court with hard work and determination, and the ordinary folk felt as if this wedding symbolised a certain coup d'état for the common people. It was far from it - Nolan’s family had a thriving construction trade, and Lady Bailey had inherited enough money from her parents to spend her life pursuing any hobby that took her fancy.

Still, it took some of the focus off Tim’s love life and for this, he supposed, he was somewhat grateful. That was, until Thorsen showed him the elaborate regalia that he was supposed to don for the entire ceremony. It looked good - a navy velvet coat with fine golden brocade along the lapels and cuffs, and a deep blue waistcoat to wear below that, over some stiff dark gold pants. Tim, however, still felt distinctly trussed up when Thorsen insisted that he try it on for size, and the palace tailors fussed about like a swarm of gnats and measuring his every inch and prodding him with pointy little pins.

The day of the wedding dawned warm and bright, a mild breeze blowing in from the ocean and setting the bunting that cascaded from every parapet and turret in the palace dancing in the sea air. The servants were up earlier than ever, busily stoking the fires in the kitchen and dusting and polishing every surface to a high shine, eager to have the castle looking its best for the pivotal event

Tim let Thorsen dress him with minimal grumbling, even putting up with some extra pomade in his hair ‘to draw the look together’. The ceremony was being held in the palace chapel, which was smaller than the city cathedral by some degrees, but it meant that Tim didn’t even have to leave the building to arrive on time. When the scheduled hour chimed out on church bells across the city, he funnelled himself into the chapel with a small army of footmen on either side so he didn’t have to pause and make small talk with the nobility. There’d be enough of that later.

His seat was an understated wooden throne to one side of the altar, elbow to elbow with the archbishop and once Tim took his place, everyone else was quick to follow suit. The pews filled with the rustle and swish of fine fabrics, long dresses and frock coats, and Tim caught Angela’s eye as she hurried to the front, dragging a reluctant Jack behind her. The Marquess followed, carrying their baby girl, and soon the little family was in place one row behind Nolan’s relatives, just the other side of the aisle from Tim.

A small flurry of motion at the door drew his attention, and Tim watched as Lady Bailey’s bridesmaids shuffled to one side to make way for a group of late arrivals. Amongst the crowd, Tim saw Major McGrady, leaning heavily on his cane with one hand, the other wrapped around the arm of his daughter. Lady Ashley looked up at Tim and beamed, helping her father settle into a pew just behind Angela.

Tim gave her a brief nod, but looked away quickly. It was bad enough that everyone at court already had their noses stuck in the middle of his affairs, without adding fuel to the fire. At a wedding, of all things.

Back at the door, a small troop of officers was entering the chapel, some of them wearing their dress uniforms, while others opted for gowns and suits. At the back of this group came Commander Harper, luminous in a dramatic pink dress, fringed with fine lace and patterned with ivory embroidery. She was arm in arm with another woman and, at first, Tim only saw the back of her head as the two women conferred in whispers and followed a footman who directed them to a pew in the aisle opposite Tim.

They squeezed into the row, nodding to the other occupants who shuffled aside to make room for them, and it was only when she sat, gracefully settling her skirts about her, that Tim recognised her face.

It was Captain Chen.

Almost unrecognisable in - for the first time since he’d known her - something that wasn’t her usual utilitarian military fatigues.

She wore an elegant navy gown, the bodice embroidered in a rich tapestry of golden flowers and twirling vines. Her skirts flowed sinuously from the pleats at her waist and opened at the centre to show a pale saffron kirtle patterned with fine lace stitching. A woven gold necklace nestled at her collarbone, the smooth skin of her decolletage dipping enticingly under the low neckline of her bodice, and the two simple, golden earrings dangling at either side of her jawline only drew his attention down to where the trim of her corset met the skin of her breast.

He swallowed, lifting his eyes to her face hastily, at precisely the moment when she caught his gaze on her.

Her face was bright and clear - perhaps a hint of rouge to bring out the rosiness of her lips and cheeks; and she quirked those lips in a smile when she realised she had his attention. Her hair was pinned up beneath an elegant caul into a neat chignon, all the more appealing for its simplicity, and a few small curls were artfully drifting around the edges of her face, framing her expression in soft mahogany strands.

It took a startling screech from baby Evers to draw his attention back to the rest of the congregation in the chapel, and Tim realised he’d been inanely returning Chen’s smile, his chin resting in one hand as he leaned on the arm of his throne. He chanced a subtle glance at Angela, unsurprised to find her eyes narrowed in his direction as she bounced the baby in her arms, and Tim cleared his throat and restlessly straightened himself in his throne. Thankfully, the first low notes of the organ soon sounded out, signalling the start of the ceremony and drawing Angela’s scrutiny away from him.

As king, it was Tim’s prerogative to remain seated throughout the ceremony, but he decided to take his cues from the archbishop; standing, sitting and kneeling when the other man did, and using each moment of transit to cast his gaze around the crowd.

Or, at least, that’s what he told himself.

He made a few discreet faces at young Jack, garnering a giggle that was quickly stifled by his vigilant mother. He could see Lady Ashley’s eyes upon him more often than not, her wide, blue irises standing out against her pale skin. He saw Nolan’s grown son, Lord Henry, kneeling in his pew and piously murmuring along with the reverend’s grandiloquent prayers.

But mostly he saw her. 

Captain Chen.

Lucy.

The way her neck arched long and graceful as she bowed her head in reverence, or the way the dimples in her cheeks danced when Harper muttered a surreptitious word in her ear. The curve of her gown around the roll of her hips when she rose to stand, and the soft rise and fall of her chest as she quietly watched the ceremony. The bright flash of her smile when Nolan tripped over his words, and the soft look in her eyes when Bailey held out her hand for her wedding ring.

He found himself wondering if she always styled her own hair, or whether she had a lady’s maid stationed at her barracks. He’d begun to think her wardrobe consisted solely of leather gambesons and practical armour, but clearly she had access to fine fabrics and an excellent tailor. And how on earth had she ended up arriving so recently from the most remote coasts of the kingdom wearing almost the same colours as Tim himself?

He had to make persistent and conscious efforts not to keep allowing his eyes to drift to her, and he almost missed the moment when the reverend announced Nolan and Bailey as husband and wife, he was so distracted by Lucy dreamily curling a strand of hair round and around on her finger.

The archbishop jostled his shoulder with his elaborate robes, alerting Tim to the end of the ceremony, and he rose to his feet and applauded along with the rest of the congregation while Nolan led Bailey down the aisle, hand in hand. As king, Tim was supposed to follow, but he graciously allowed the archbishop to go first, following in his footsteps as the pews emptied out behind them.

Their cheery entourage made their way to the banquet hall, where a lavish feast was in the process of being served up, supplied by the deep pockets and far-reaching networks of the Nolan and Nune families.

Tim’s seat was, again, on a raised dais at the head of the crowd, beside the archbishop, but also, to his relief, with Angela at his other elbow, and he nudged her discreetly, sharing a smirk as the bishop fussed and pulled at the dangling cuffs of his frilly robes. For once, Tim was grateful that Thorsen had kept the royal wardrobe relatively refined, hinting at luxury through needlework and fabric rather than folds and frills.

Nolan and Bailey arrived soon after the last guests were seated, and they took their places at a table at the front of the hall, just below the royal dais. Perhaps in an effort to appeal to Tim, Bailey had seated Major McGrady and his daughter near her, on the opposite side of the wedding table, and Tim, to his chagrin, had to nod in polite acknowledgement of Lady Ashley’s beseeching smile.

Chen, meanwhile, was far away, seated at a table perpendicular to Tim’s, beside Commander Harper and opposite the Marquess Evers and Harper’s husband, Sir James. She almost had her back to Tim and, several times throughout their meal, Angela had to poke him in the arm with the blunt end of her knife when his gaze dwelt too long on the pale sweep of Chen’s neck as she tossed her head back to laugh with her dining companions.

The meal went on for hours and Angela frequently reminded Tim to make conversation with the archbishop and the other members of the clergy at his side, and not simply spend the entire evening complaining to her about the ostentatiousness of each subsequent dish presented to them by the servants. Nolan had spared no expense, and each course was both refined and enticing - a vast array of meats and vegetables, herbs and spices from every corner of the known world. A huge hog was mounted on a spit in the fireplace, and two young pages were turning the handles, sweating profusely, while the servants sliced and plated the succulent chops and crisp skin onto heaped platters.

Eventually they finished the meal with a richly liquored pudding and an almost never-ending series of toasts to the newlyweds, and Tim was quite light-headed by the time he rose to follow the departing clergy to their various carriages. He took a few minutes to rest in his quarters, Thorsen carefully rearranging his coiffed hair and offering to swap his knee-high dress boots for a pair of soft leather ankle boots - “Much more suited to dancing, my lord.”

Slightly too full, and more tipsy than he’d expected to be, Tim acquiesced to the substitution and, after applying a cool compress to his face for a few minutes, he made his way back to the banquet hall, now transformed by Nolan’s imported staff into an open and inviting ballroom. There was seating around the fringes of the dancefloor and tables laden with sweets and seemingly bottomless decanters of wine and ale, and a troupe of musicians were arranged in a semicircle on a platform at one end of the room, filling the air with the rich melodies of popular dance tunes.

Tim strode through the crowd, nodding now and again at familiar faces, but longing for the small semblance of peace that came from wedging himself into his throne and assembling a dissuasive ring of footmen at a short distance around him.

Angela, however, was not dissuaded.

Having deposited her tired children with their governess for the night, she’d hauled her husband back into the banquet-hall-come-ballroom and was now marching towards Tim, fire in her eyes and determination in the set of her jaw.

“You!” she spat, passing effortlessly by his fleet of footmen and pointing her finger dangerously close to his face, “You need to get out there and socialise. We’ve just barely fought back a full blockade of our sea ports, and the merchants and nobles are still antsy. They need to see their king being jovial and gregarious!”

Tim reeled back, blinking at this sudden onslaught. “‘Jovial’? ‘Gregarious’?” he asked, befuddled.

“You know what I mean,” Angela snapped, waving away his questions. “Ashley McGrady has been making eyes at you all day, and you haven’t spoken so much as one word to her. Her father is wilting on the spot. Society is all aflutter now that the threat of the armada has gone away, and all they can think of is the fact that you haven’t secured the royal line of succession. Don’t make me drag you out of that chair.”

“It’s a throne,” Tim corrected her, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. “And they’re lucky I’m here at all. I don’t do weddings, Angela. You know that. There’s nothing in this world or the next that could entice me to get out on that dance floor. Not even Major McGrady’s devoted daughter.”

The musicians came to a flourishing crescendo, finishing a selection of gavottes to the enthusiastic applause of the crowd, and Angela stepped back, folding her arms and tapping one finger against her elbow.

“Fine,” she growled eventually. “Have it your way. Leave that poor woman out there batting her eyelashes at you all night. But if you refuse to get out of that throne,” she put a nasally emphasis on the word, “Then I’m going to send the visiting nobility up here for an audience with the king. It’s the very least you could do.”

And before he had time to argue, she’d spun around in a flurry of skirts and lace and was flouncing away from his guarded refuge and into the thick of the gathered aristocrats.

Over an hour and a half later, Tim had had the dubious joy of conversing with the heads of no more than seven noble households, although to him it felt like dozens. The queue of guests awaiting the pleasure of the king’s company was expanding rapidly as Angela worked her way around the room, patting backs and marking cards and directing everyone towards the meandering line of visitors on one side of the throne, and piercing Tim with a sharp glare any time he caught her eyes.

Finally, fed up, Tim dismissed the bumbling lordling in front of him and stood, pointedly ignoring the line of waiting courtiers. He was getting out of here, and damn Angela and Nolan and all of the assorted sycophantic gentry to hell!

He marched down off his dais, through the centre of the dancing couples, and had almost made it to the freedom of the entrance doors when Ashley McGrady appeared from the crowd, her eyes raised hopefully to his and her weak smile imploring his attention.

Tim wheeled around on his heel before she could reach him, remembering the concealed servant’s entrance at the other side of the room, and shuffling through the startled dancers to the back of the dancefloor. He was nearly there when Angela materialised out of nowhere, her hands in tight fists and her eyebrows drawn together in a dark frown.

He spun around again, only this time to see the wavering line of courtiers still waiting at the throne staring after him in confusion, pointing and whispering together as their king faltered in the centre of the ballroom.

He was trapped. A triangle of captive misery with no way out! This was exactly why he didn’t do weddings! His entire night would be ruined, given over to the vapid whims and petulant demands of clingy aristocrats.

But then, he heard it: a laugh.

Lilting and bright, and carrying over the low arpeggios of the fiddles and flutes like a beacon in the dark.

Lucy.

Chen, he amended internally, drawn to her voice as if he were a compass and she the true north.

“Captain,” he grunted, arriving at her side before he even realised he’d moved his feet.

She turned to him in surprise, her eyes widening and her cheeks growing pink. The others seated at her table fell silent, and Doctor Grey, who she’d been laughing with, buried her nose in her champagne flute.

“My lord,” Chen replied after a moment’s consideration, and she dipped her head in a belated bow. Tim raised the open palm of his hand towards her, imagining Angela and Ashley and all the aristocracy converging at his back like a pack of rabid wolves, and he prayed that Chen wouldn’t leave him at their mercy.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, his strangled voice wavering somewhere between desperate and hopeful, even to his own ears.

Luna Grey gave a startled hiccup, clattering her champagne flute onto the table and reaching for a napkin to press against her mouth. Chen’s eyebrows sailed up, her jaw dropping open in surprise. There was a pause, and Tim swallowed nervously, feeling beads of sweat begin to form in the folds of his palms and wondering how in the world he’d get out of this situation with his reputation intact if she declined him.

He needn’t have worried.

Chen lifted her hand to his, resting her fingers lightly in his grasp and rising daintily to her feet. Almost holding his breath, Tim closed his fingers around hers and turned to lead her onto the dancefloor. The guests moved out of his way - he saw hemlines and boots clearing a path - but he couldn’t focus on much more than the sensation of her fingers resting delicately in his own, the swirl of her skirts against his ankles, and the scent of jasmine and pear drifting faintly towards him from her uncovered skin.

They reached a clear spot in the midst of the dancers and, by some unspoken agreement, turned towards one another. Chen gathered her skirts in her free hand, dipping her head in a brief curtsey, before straightening and raising her hand to rest on his shoulder. Tim let out a shaky breath, sinking into her grasp, and then, without any further ado, they were dancing, swirling gracefully across the ballroom in a gentle waltz.

His heart beat loudly in his ears, and he found it hard to hear anything beyond the rush of his own blood and the muted strains of the orchestra. But when Chen spoke, her voice was clear and musical, and he could even detect a note of wry amusement in the lilt of her words.

“So… Did the Marchioness lure you here with her unlikely statistics too?” she asked, one eyebrow raised cynically.

Tim let out a low chuckle of laughter, relief and surprise mingling in his chest. Their wager. He’d nearly forgotten. “You mean to tell me that Commander Harper actually won the bet?”

“Pssh, not a chance,” Chen scoffed, tossing her head. “I definitely won, but it’s hard to define a cannon strike when the planks have been thoroughly run over by a fleet of warships.”

Tim laughed again, imagining a steely-eyed Harper gleefully rampaging over the tattered remains of Rosalind’s armada. “In hindsight, maybe we shouldn’t have included Nyla in our wager.”

“Hmm, a fatal error,” Chen agreed. “Next time we’ll get Grey to mediate.”

Tim rolled his eyes, raised their joined hands and spun her away from him, her skirts billowing in a navy blossom at her feet, before tugging her back in and looping his hand more securely around her waist.

“Look, all jokes aside, I appreciate what you did out there,” he said, feeling his jaw twitching nervously. “Without you, I don’t think we’d be standing here today.” He paused, tipping his head to one side as he recalled her feats at the first battle at Aughrim. “Again. Technically.”

Chen gave a quick snort of laughter. “I mean, there’s no ‘technically’ about it. A debt is owed.”

Tim narrowed his eyes, pulling her closer and turning them in a sharp pirouette. The sound of her bubbling laughter was a balm for his soul.

“So is the privilege of this dance a mark of gratitude for my insightful leadership on the battlefield? Or are you simply using me to get away from that queue of loitering nobles?” she asked, tapping her hand playfully on his shoulder.

“It’s for your demure company and refined courtly etiquette, obviously,” he grumbled, but he couldn’t keep the smile from his lips. She slapped her hand against his lapel again, the white stone on her ring winking at him under the reflected light from the chandelier, and Tim grinned wide, sending her off into another wheeling twirl as the music picked up pace.

He could have danced with her for hours. All night, if he’d had the chance. As it was he had no idea how long they spent twirling and swaying to the music in the candlelight, talking about nothing and about everything, and it occurred to him more than once that he owed Thorsen sincere gratitude for the comfortable boots he’d insisted Tim wear.

Chen sparkled before him, her dark eyes illuminated in amber beside the firelight. Everything about her was beyond compare. The way her hand fit so perfectly in his own; how her hips settled so comfortably against his side; the way the curve of her waist aligned just right for the crook of his arm - he’d never felt so at ease and so content.

Of course, he should have known better. He should have been prepared.

The king couldn’t spend all night dancing with a lowly captain, no matter her accomplishments, without setting tongues wagging.

Just as he was spinning her away from him again, basking in the wash of her laughter, a sharp elbow caught his ribs and Angela went gliding past, glaring at him from the arms of her husband. Lucy spiralled back into Tim’s grasp and the smile slid from her lips as she caught the look in his eyes. She turned, seeing Angela too, and Tim could feel her stiffen beneath his hands as she noticed - as he just had - the staring faces of the crowd around them.

She turned back to him, dropping her gaze from his eyes to his lips, and then averting them completely, staring insensibly at her hand upon his shoulder. Tim’s step faltered, and he almost caught his foot on the hem of her dress, nearly tripping the pair of them over and only righting himself in time by sheer luck.

The waltz seemed endless, the musicians ploughing through the melody like a dirge.

Tim desperately wanted to look at her again; to meet her eyes and see the suggestive glint of amused defiance dancing in their depths. To take her out onto the balcony and waltz with her beneath the stars, where no one else could watch them.

He wanted to kiss her.

To taste those soft lips and inhale the scent of her skin as he tugged her hair free from its caul. To press her back against the cool stone walls and feel the heat rise in her chest as he stole her breath from the tip of her tongue. To run his fingers along the soft skin of her arms and into the silken folds of her gown, unlacing her from its hold like a precious gift.

He wanted to do all those things but, instead, he let the waltz drone to its sombre conclusion, the palms of his hands grown clammy and uncertain, and when the last note faded into silence he took a step back, releasing her from his grasp and bowing stiffly.

Duty before desire.

The king had to put his kingdom first.

Not his own personal wants. Not his heart, no matter how painfully it beat. If there was one thing his selfish father had ever taught him, however inadvertently, it was that.

Chen hesitated, her hands still raised as if he were holding her. She blinked, her breath leaving her in a quick gasp, and she dropped into a low curtsey, her skirts pooling on the floor around her.

And then - then she was gone. Scurrying through the hall and away from him like a flame snuffed out on a sudden breeze.

And Tim was alone.

The orchestra began a new rondeau, but the notes sounded clangorous and discordant to Tim, and it was all he could do to move his feet in the direction of a blissfully oblivious Lord Nolan and his new wife, offering them his congratulations and thanks for such a remarkable celebration.

Angela caught up with him soon after, and he must have made small talk with several Lords and Ladies at her behest, before pleading exhaustion and calling for Thorsen to prepare his bedchamber. His throat ached and his head pounded, and the light and heat of the banquet hall seemed to be suffocating him.

That night, lying wide awake in the quiet solitude of his room, he pictured swirling skirts and dancing eyes and bubbling laughter, floating away into the gloam of shadows on his darkened ceiling.

And - he swore - he felt his heart clench tightly for a painful moment, before shattering into a million little pieces.

~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

7

She left the palace that very night.

She took her sword and her armour and disappeared into the winding streets of the city, spiriting herself away to the battlefront before Tim had even blinked his eyes open the next morning. He was met with a pounding headache while Thorsen, in what felt like pointed silence, drew back the curtains to let in the blinding sunlight. It was the first thing Angela briefed him on when the chamberlain opened the dining room doors. She didn’t notice - or, more likely, chose not to notice - the waver in Tim’s step on his way to the breakfast table and, instead, she rattled off his day’s agenda with seasoned ease.

“Colonel Grey has made his recommendations known, but not all of the generals will be on board until….” 

She kept up a steady stream of commentary, strolling in a slow loop around the table and reading from a small sheaf of notes. Tim tuned in and out of her monologue as he tapped morosely at the shells of his boiled eggs. He had no appetite for anything beyond a strong cup of tea and some lightly buttered toast, and he watched the eggshells fall in hollow little crisps against his china plate with mute despondency.

“...from Captain Chen.”

He jerked upright at her name, sending one egg spinning out of its cup and onto a sudden and wobbly trajectory towards the edge of the table. A footman stepped out from the wall, neatly rescuing the egg in mid-air just as it tipped over the edge and restoring it to Tim’s eggcup, before fading discreetly back into the wallpaper.

“Hmm. Thought that might get your attention,” Angela mused.

Tim dropped his eggspoon onto the plate, giving up on his breakfast as a lost cause, and he raised a hand to squeeze at the bridge of his nose.

“It was a long day, Angela. A long night. I’m tired.”

Angela pursed her lips thoughtfully, tapping her fingers against the rough edges of her notepaper. Tim waited for her to repeat her last statement, knowing full well that she was aware he’d almost completely ignored her lecture.

Instead, she simply regarded him for a moment, a calculated look crossing her face, and then she turned away, refusing to indulge in his game.

“See you at the war council. Your Majesty.” She tossed him a curtsey that was more a kick of her heels, and marched out of the dining room.

Tim sighed and shoved his chair away from the table.

At least Thorsen wasn’t talking to him.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

The war council was slow to assemble, despite having postponed the meeting in anticipation of the wedding festivities, and many of the more senior officers looked worse for wear after a long night drinking and carousing on Nolan’s bottomless barrels of mead. Tim put off his entrance for as long as possible, enlisting the assistance of a young page to keep an eye on the room until almost everyone had gathered, before rousing himself from the gloom of his study.

Angela - one of the few attendees who looked like she’d gotten a solid night’s sleep - had stationed herself at the top half of the round table, her fists perched in a barricade over the map of Ligne, tapping one finger impatiently against the imprint of the city of Duvlinn.

When Tim arrived, most of the officers at least made the pretence of rising to bow, but Angela just tipped her head at him, that calculating look from earlier still hardened into her expression. Tim ignored her, resting his hands on the carved ears of a nearby chair and nodding circumspectly at the map.

“Good afternoon,” he started, to which there was a generalised muttering of greetings. “Marchioness Evers has already apprised me of the state of affairs as they stand today, but perhaps it’s best if we go over it once more, now that everyone is present. Counsel?” He looked up at Angela, giving her an ingratiating smile.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but then swiped her little pile of papers from the table, clearly having predicted his ploy before he’d even arrived. She began reading through the commentary, reciting accounts of the rotation of troops and the stalemate at the battlefront. It was all familiar, the same situation they’d been dealing with before and during the coastal blockade, and Tim could see some of the older men’s heads drooping, falling asleep, their whiskers trembling gently in the current of a soft snore.

“Colonel Grey’s news is more distressing, and I believe we should follow his recommendations and bolster the troops on the eastern front with some of the town militias that have been freed up from the coastline.”

“What news?” Tim asked, confused, his eyes darting to a sombre-looking Colonel Grey.

Grey lowered his chin, taking a slow step forward.

“There have been abductions, my lord, all along the frontline,” the Colonel reported.

The room broke out into a sudden flurry of whispers and the snoring officers were shaken rudely awake with the jab of an elbow or a stout cane to the calves.

“Abductions?” Tim repeated, perplexed.

“It wasn’t reported at first. The individual troop commanders each thought it was an isolated incident. They were giving their recruits the benefit of the doubt - assuming that with the siege at sea, perhaps they’d absconded to help their families. It wouldn’t have been good, but it would have been better than the alternative.” Grey worked his jaw from side to side, shaking his head.

Tim was stunned. Soldiers disappearing from the front line of battle, and nobody had thought to report it?

“What’s ‘the alternative’?” he asked, when Grey didn’t continue.

“As I was telling you earlier,” Angela took over, gesturing to someone over her shoulder, “That’s probably best explained by the delegate from Captain Chen.”

Tim looked up sharply, following Angela’s gaze to a small woman emerging from the shadows at the back of the room. Her dark hair was drawn into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and she had a keen, intelligent face, her eyes guardedly meeting Tim’s before she bowed respectfully.

“This is Private Juarez. Captain Chen has assigned her as her spokesperson while she sees to affairs on the front lines.”

Angela yielded to the Private, and Tim felt his heart sink even lower in his chest. If Lucy had assigned an adjutant, then it meant she had no intention of returning to the palace - not even for the war council. With the conflict at a stalemate, she’d be perpetually busy with troops and training camps and military drills, and he’d have no reason to demand her presence in the city.

He’d never get the chance to see her.

And then these disappearances…

He swallowed, nodding and waving a hand to Private Juarez, signalling for her to say her piece.

“Your Majesty; my lords and ladies. It’s an honour to be here. Thank you for having me,” Juarez began. Tim did his best not to whirl his hand in the air for her to get to the point. 

“Captain Chen has been concerned by reports of these vanishings for some days now,” she continued, “But with all our focus on the armada at sea, we’ve been preoccupied and assumed there was nothing to suggest a pattern. It was just a Private here, or a Corporal there. Nobody of significance, if you don’t mind me saying so; or at least people that we could speculate had gone MIA to assist on the homefront. That was - until this morning.”

Juarez reached for a croupier rod and slapped it onto the map near a small battalion marker stationed along the bogs at the eastern edge of the kingdom.

“Here, last night, is where we found Private Rios.”

Another round of muttering and grumbling broke out amongst the officers, and Tim raised a hand to silence them.

“What did the private have to say for themselves?” Tim asked, his eyes narrowed at Juarez.

“Nothing, my lord,” Juarez said, dropping the croupier rod with a clatter on the table. “He was dead.”

Tim heard the other officers gasp and saw Angela fold her arms stiffly, the mirror image of Colonel Grey, as this information sank in.

Juarez wasn’t finished however, and she tugged at a pocket below her tarnished breastplate. Her fingers latched onto what she was looking for, and she pulled out a crumpled piece of rough paper, opening up the wrinkled corners and smoothing it flat with the palms of her hands as she laid it on the table.

“This is a copy of the symbol we found,” she said, pointing at the page and stepping back, “Carved onto his ribcage.”

There was a tracery of ink scrawlings on the paper, and Tim had to cock his head to one side to make sense of it. Angela, Grey and the other officers also moved closer, peering over one another’s shoulders to get a better view.

“What is it?” Grey asked, squinting down at the markings. Juarez reached out and ran her fingers around the edge of the drawing and, like magic, the image suddenly snapped into focus.

“A skull…” Tim breathed.

“The mark of death,” Angela murmured.

“Rosalind is sending interlopers over the border,” Juarez confirmed. “And she’s killing our people.”

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

Tim had ordered an immediate removal of the war council to the front lines. Angela was dumbfounded. Smitty was aghast.

“But there’s a war my lord, and murders!” he’d argued as Tim swept around the map room, gathering his notes and personal playbooks.

“And we’re not going to let them get away with it, Lieutenant Smitty,” he grunted, dropping a bundle of books into the arms of an unsuspecting footman. “We’re going out there and we’re taking the fight to them.”

Angela veered into his path, her head lowered and her hands raised. “Do you think you might be acting a little rash, Your Highness?” she asked, her eyebrows knitting together.

He stepped around her, beckoning for the footman with his accoutrements to follow. The man wobbled, looking nervously at the astonished officers, then scurried after Tim, almost colliding with Colonel Grey in his haste.

“I’ve made my decision, Counsel. We leave by the end of the week.” Tim waved a dismissive hand, directing the footman to start packing his books into a travel trunk, and then he marched out of the room.

“Tim!” Angela called, dropping any pretence of decorum and jogging after him with her skirts bunched in her fists. Tim continued his course through the corridors and into the grand hallway, scattering officers and servants in his wake. “Tim! Are you sure this is the right move? After all this time? We’re still in diplomatic talks with Múin and the chieftains in the north. There’s a possibility of settling this without any more bloodshed.”

“There’s already been too much blood shed,” he growled, his feet echoing off the stone paving on the hallway floors. “And now they’re kidnapping our soldiers and carving them up, before dumping them to rot in the weeds. Well - I'm done with letting them have the upper hand. I’m done with playing defence.”

“Tim this is more than just defending our borders,” she said, her voice tight with worry as she hurried to keep up. “If we go out there - if we change the situation on the front lines - it’s an act of hostility. We’re declaring open war with Ligne.”

“Like they’ve done with us, for months?” he spat, arriving at the staircase and taking the steps up two at a time. He could hear Angela panting as she raced after him, but he didn’t slow down. He came to the landing, turning sharply along the bannister and barging past half a dozen surprised chamberlains and servants who were airing out the bedrooms. Thorsen poked his head through a doorway and let out a startled squeak upon seeing Tim’s face, then bowed quickly and fell into step behind him, just about keeping pace with Angela.

“Tim- Tim!” Angela was blatantly calling his name now, but he’d reached his quarters and he yanked the door open, striding in and through the archway that led to his dressing rooms. He stopped at the first wooden trunk that contained his garments and whipped up the lid, rooting around in search of his chain mail

“Sire, I must insist-” Thorsen raced forward, spreading his hands in front of Tim. His eyes were wide, begging Tim not to upset the meticulous arrangement of the royal wardrobe. “Allow me, my liege!” 

Tim backed off with his hands full of fabric, and he tossed aside a few pairs of linen breeches. “My armour, Thorsen. We’re taking the fight to Ligne.”

Thorsen gulped, his eyes flicking nervously towards Angela, then back to Tim, before he bowed and dived into the silent army of royal outfits and vestments.

Tim took another step back, rubbing a hand across his forehead. He felt a little light headed - and he couldn’t tell if it was the impending likelihood of violence and danger, the lack of a proper breakfast and a good night’s sleep, or if the day before - dancing and twirling and sparkling eyes and jasmine and pear-

No!

No.

No time for that.

He whipped his hand away from his face, slapping his palm restlessly against the outside of his thigh, and he strode over to one of the large windows overlooking the peaceful palace parterre. Gardeners and labourers were working amongst the flowerbeds and shrubbery, and water burbled cheerily from a wide stone fountain, mixing with the tranquil sounds of birdsong and a soft breeze rustling the leaves in the trees - all of it entirely at odds with Tim’s inner turmoil.

“Tim…” Angela crept up beside him, her face drawn with worry and lit starkly on one side with diffused sunlight from the overcast sky. “Are you sure this is the right time? The right move? That body… those scars-”

“It’s enough, Angela,” he said, firmly. “I’ve had enough. They can’t get away with threatening and killing us any more.”

He stared straight ahead at the gardens, seeing the beginnings of a commotion beyond the far end of the hedgerows. Horses to be saddled, food to be packed, weaponry to be assembled - one week’s forewarning wasn’t much. Angela studied him in silence for a minute, eventually turning to look out the window, where the gardeners were beginning to notice the flurry of activity, their shears and trimmers slowing to a stop as they craned their necks, calling out and pointing to one another.

Some time later, she melted away into the maze of palace corridors to deal with her own affairs before she packed up and left her children and husband behind. He could feel bad about it - and he did, somewhere in the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach where the little boy within him still second-guessed the impact of every decision he made - but there’d be time enough for that later. When she was safe. When they were safe.

When the kingdom was safe.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

The week seemed to drag by, chaotic and demanding though it was, but their day of departure finally arrived. Tim chose to ride his horse - a beautiful Connemara stallion; dappled grey, with a wild white mane - and Angela rode beside him, her face grim and her jaw set. The boundary of the kingdom was a full day’s ride away, at a brisk trot, and travelling by carriage in the convoy from the palace would take too long. Tim had no patience left for anything slow.

They rested for lunch in the lush, rambling gardens of a noblewoman’s country estate, and Tim stood in the shade under a stately oak tree. He stared at a quiet lake in the distance as he chewed his bread and cheese mechanically, tasting nothing.

After a while, Angela stepped up beside him, breaching the unspoken wards he’d set around himself earlier in the week. No one else would dare as much as breathe in his direction while his mood was this dark, and he could tell that even Angela was wary, picking uneasily at her bread and scattering crumbs to the hungry sparrows at her feet.

“Tim.”

He didn’t respond, but he shifted his hips, leaning against the tree and leaving space for her at his side. She seemed to take this as a positive sign and moved closer, nibbling on her crust. She was dressed in neat army uniform, her riding boots polished to a high shine and the tassels denoting her Major’s insignia quivering at her shoulders. She’d been a good soldier - a great soldier - before she’d married the Marquess Evers and accepted Tim’s request to be his Royal Counsel. Although she no longer commanded any troops, she was still held in high regard by all of the officers in Mid Wilshire’s military.

And she was eternally loyal to Tim - even when he was charging them headlong into certain conflict. Things had been so frantic in the aftermath of his explosive declaration, that the two of them had barely had a minute alone since Nolan’s wedding. He owed her a listening ear, at the very least.

“Tell me you’re not doing this - launching the entire kingdom into battle - because of her.”

Tim narrowed his eyes, following the flight of a lone heron across the still surface of the lake.

“‘Her’?” he repeated, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

As if.

Angela wrung the dry crust of bread in her hands, snapping it in two before dumping it into the midst of the delighted sparrows.

“Chen. Lucy,” she clarified, knowing full well he understood her. “Tell me again why you couldn’t dance with a perfectly eligible noblewoman - who you’ve been publicly courting! - at the wedding you refused to go to; then spent half the night gazing into this Captain’s eyes while you waltzed with her all around the dancefloor?”

Tim could feel the blood begin to rush to his cheeks, and he lowered his jaw into the depths of his high collar to try to hide it.

“You saddled me with the alternative of an endless discourse in monotony with the nobility!” he argued belligerently.

“Lady McGrady was right there!” Angela fired back.

“And she’s perfectly nice, and utterly boring, Angela. I have no interest in marrying her,” he said flatly, drawing a line in the air with his hand. Angela took in a sharp breath, her chest rising until she looked nearly as ruffled as the fat sparrow chicks squawking for food on the ground below them.

“But you are interested in Captain Chen?” she jibed, putting an emphasis on Chen’s rank.

“It was just a dance, Angela. Not that big of a deal,” Tim said, willing his voice to stay level and his cheeks to cool down.

“Mm-hm,” Angela replied, letting out the breath and stuffing her hands into her pockets. “And marching the entire kingdom out to meet her on the frontlines has nothing to do with this ‘not that big of a deal’?”

Tim scowled, finally turning to look at her over the fringed ridge of the epaulettes on his shoulder. “What are you implying?”

“What do you think?” Angela retorted, settling back onto her heels. Tim held her gaze for a few tense seconds, then looked away guiltily, turning to rest his back against the gnarled bark of the oak tree and wedging his thumbs into his sword belt.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he said, hearing the dull falsity of his own words. “She was just nearby. And you can’t say no to the king.”

Angela watched him for a moment, then sighed, looking down at her feet and dragging the toe of one boot though the carpet of twigs and leaves caught in the bare grass. She looked back at him, her eyes dark and serious and she seemed just about to say something more when a sharp whistle sounded out in the air, scattering the flock of sparrows in alarm. 

The horses were ready and it was time to move on.

Tim pushed himself off the tree, rolling his shoulders back to stretch out his tired muscles and, with one last loaded look at Angela, he strode away to the waiting convoy.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

It was early evening by the time the first convoy from the palace arrived at base camp. The soldiers and servants were still trying to erect the royal tent, harried under the conflicting instructions from the camp commandant, who was also profusely apologising to Tim for the delay.

Despite the long day’s ride, Tim felt antsy and rather than standing around making small talk with the slow trickle of incoming diplomats, he sent a page to find someone who would take him north to visit the troops along the battle front. Angela, who’d kept pace with him all day, seemed less than pleased with this additional impromptu sortie. Nevertheless, once they’d donned their protective armour and the tracker had arrived and received instructions, she followed determinedly in the footsteps of Tim’s small entourage. 

There was no way to visit the entire length of the combat zone in a day, let alone the few short hours of brightness left to them that evening. It stretched almost the entire length of the kingdom along their border with Ligne - north to Ullah and south to Múin - and much of the area was covered in thick, swampy wetlands. It was beautiful countryside - peaceful and full of thriving flora and fauna - but besides the hardy turfcutters who worked all summer to cut and dry peat to sell for fuel, most people preferred to live in places where their homes and land weren’t likely to fill with ankle-height water on a rainy day.

Their tracker rode a surefooted young pony, and Tim and the others followed in single file, keeping to the thicker tufts of tangled grass roots and lumpy clay and avoiding the wet patches of marsh, where a horse’s hoof could sink in a flash and send their rider careening off, head over heels.

They passed the first few garrisons quickly. Soldiers emerged from their tents or watchposts, all utterly surprised to see the king himself arrive at their encampment, and after a few brief and encouraging words from Tim, they cheered and raised their swords and bows in the air, gratified and invigorated by his acknowledgement.

One young private had looked so earnestly hopeful at Tim’s speech, that Tim paused to ask him if he trusted in their army’s ability to defeat the opposition. The boy nodded furiously, then shook his head in the other direction, almost giving Tim second-hand whiplash.

“Well, which is it, Private? Yes or no?” Tim demanded, to the amused titters of the boy’s comrades.

“It’s not that, Your Majesty,” the boy replied, his voice high and his eyes wide. “I have total faith in our commanders. It’s… Well, you see…” he trailed off, fiddling nervously with the hilt of his sword. Tim’s horse snorted with impatience.

“Out with it, Private!”

“It’s the will-o’-the-wisps, my liege!” the boy said, running his words together in fright, and Tim had to take a second to unravel his meaning. The private had already started speaking again before Tim could respond. “My father always warned me: ‘beware the will-o’-the-wisp, and never follow them into the bog, unless you want to meet your doom.’”

Tim blinked, rocking in his saddle as his horse pulled at the reins. “You’re saying you’ve seen the ghost lights in the bog?” he asked, curious.

“Yes, my lord,” the boy confirmed, pointing off into the distance beyond Tim. “A blue glow, dancing in the marshes after dark, to lure us into the grave.”

There was silence around them, the only sounds to break it the crackle of a cookfire and the soft snuffing of the horses. Tim could see the soldiers were concerned, and it wouldn’t do to dismiss the boy’s visions out of hand, however unlikely they were. He pulled on his horse’s reins, righting himself along the path, then nodded firmly at the young Private.

“Your father’s words were wise. Lights along the enemy lines may well be a warning sign, and you’d do well to inform your commander and steer clear. Thank you, Private.” Tim nodded somberly at the boy, then gave a firm salute to the rest of his squad. They all stood to attention and bowed as Tim started to ride forward, seeming more resolute at his acknowledgement of their misgivings. Tim didn’t believe in the ghost lights himself, but it wasn’t worth dismissing their fears and setting an entire platoon against him.

Angela rode up beside him as they carried on to where the brush thickened beyond the edge of the encampment, and she squinted up at the darkening sky.

“We need to head back soon. It’s nearly sunset and we don’t want to be caught in no-man’s-land after dark,” she advised.

Tim nodded, pressing his heels into his horse’s ribs to move him forward. “Fine. Just one more stop then.” And he cantered off ahead of her.

If Angela had any inkling of his ulterior motives - and he was quite sure she did - she didn’t say anything out loud; she simply fell silently into place behind him as the company rode forward. But that silence was deafening.

A few miles further along the line, just at the fringes of the final encampment, they encountered a group of soldiers returning from a scouting excursion in the bog, merrily taunting one of their number. Tim slowed his horse to a stop, pulling on the reins as recognition dawned on the soldier's faces, and they hurried to bow to their king without toppling over into the muck.

The man they were ribbing had been less fortunate, and he was covered from head to toe in thick brown mud, his eyes and teeth about the only recognisable features in his face.

“What on earth happened to you, soldier?” Tim asked, unable to see the man’s rank through the clay slathered all over his uniform, and just about holding back an amused chuckle of his own.

The man threw his hands up in the air, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Poor situational awareness, Your Majesty.”

The other soldiers laughed again, the nearest few wading through the marshy ground and around their begrimed comrade. Tim saw them look longingly at the fluttering canvas tents of their campsite, where the smell of roast pork drifted over enticingly. He hopped off his horse, handing the reins to a young page, and squelched his way over to the muddy man.

“What’s your name, soldier?” Tim asked, holding out a hand in greeting. The man stared at him, looking between Tim’s face and his unblemished palm, before warily reaching out to shake it.

“Ensign Wrigley, Your Majesty,” the man said, and Tim could feel the mud ooze from the man’s hand into the grooves of his own fingers. “I’m afraid I’ve got mud on you, my lord.”

Tim laughed, and clapped the man on the shoulder. The soldiers around him were nodding and whispering to one another appreciatively, clearly pleased with the king’s informality, and more troops were appearing from the tents at the campsite, curious to see what all the fuss was about.

“A little camouflage may go a long way. You might be ahead of the game, Ensign Wrigley,” Tim grinned, giving the man’s hand one more firm shake and noticing, with some satisfaction, the other recruits jostling and shoving to get a closer look at him. The last few stragglers from the bog were coming up behind Wrigley, and Tim nodded brusquely at them as they passed, stepping to one side so they had space to climb out of the marsh.

And then… then he saw her.

At the back of the line, her plaited hair pulling free of its leather strap and swirling wildly about her temples in the cool evening breeze.

Chen.

She kept her eyes on him, her lips drawn in a narrow stripe across her face, and she shoved her hair out of the way with one hand, leaving a small streak of mud across the curve of one cheek.

Tim dropped Wrigley’s hand in surprise, then, realising that everyone was still watching him, refocused his attention on the pressing issue. A few rousing words. Platitudes to keep them on side and enthused. The same thing he’d called out with forced confidence at every other camp.

“...and the time to move forward will soon be upon us!” The crowd cheered, pumping their fists in the air, and Tim tried to remember what else he ought to say to send them off to their dinners and to give him a moment alone with her. “It will be hard. The kingdom asks much of you. And some of you - I hate to even say it - but some of you may end up… camouflaged as well as Ensign Wrigley here.”

The crowd burst into raucous laughter, and Tim waited for their chuckling to subside before he finished.

“I have complete faith in you. I know you will make your kingdom proud. Now - enjoy your meal and get some rest while you still can. I’ll see you again when we have victory in our hands.”

There was another rousing cheer, and Wrigley was hauled out of the mire and launched onto the shoulders of his comrades as they paraded him back into the centre of the campgrounds. Tim’s convoy was nearly finished watering the horses, and Angela caught his eye, pointedly glancing at the sky again. Well - she could wait a few more minutes.

Chen had slipped away, merging into the back of the retreating crowd, and he hurried after her, reaching out to grab her arm before she disappeared entirely into the throng of people.

She turned stiffly, pulling her elbow out of his grasp and rounding on him with a cool curtsey, only meeting his eyes once - quickly - before focusing her attention on the tips of her boots.

“Your Majesty.”

Tim swallowed, suddenly unsure how to proceed.

“Captain,” he acknowledged, then kicked himself internally for following through with her formalities. Now that he was here, he wasn’t even sure of what he wanted to ask her anymore - or what would even be appropriate.

Why did you leave so suddenly?

Why go so far away?

Why didn’t you let me talk to you?

What did it all mean?

Was it all just pretend? Acquiescing to the throne? Following a command from the king?

Surely…surely she’d felt it too?

She met his eyes again, her eyebrows low and drawn together in a quizzical frown, and Tim cleared his throat, feeling the need to avert his own gaze. He stared down at a squashed lump of sundew below his boot and kicked at it dolefully.

“You should make contact with the next battalion over,” he murmured eventually, settling on something safe and work-related. “You’re pretty isolated out here.”

Chen tipped her chin up, regarding him as if he was utterly stupid.

How was it possible to be so insolent without a single word?

“There’s a forest between us and the next encampment,” she said, with a distinct measure of recalcitrance. “It's not safe for anyone at night, and we’ve sent trackers through daily. But there’s no reason to assume imminent enemy activity or infiltration.”

Tim bit his lip, feeling his jaw tighten belligerently. He gazed at the tall, dark branches of the pine trees at the far side of her camp, and dug his heel hard into the lump of sundew. If she was going to act like nothing had happened, then he could do the same.

“Better safe than sorry,” he grunted, gripping his hands on his belt. “Make sure you check it out.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she replied, her voice terse, and then she dropped swiftly into a curtsey, her sword clattering against the buckles on her armour, before rising and looking away from him. She turned on her heel and marched off into the clamour and commotion of her camp without a backward glance.

And Tim was left alone, staring after her, and feeling the lump in his chest grow tighter and denser than it had been before he’d launched half the army into the midlands after her.

“Your Majesty!” Angela called from beside the horses. She waved a finger in the air at the last rays of sun peeking out above the clouds on the horizon. “It’s time to go, my lord. We need-”

She was distracted from her command by a ruckus further back along the track, and Tim was surprised to see a small caravan of wagons appear across the marshes, led by none other than Lord Nolan. He was waving at them, a guileless grin on his face, and his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline. Tim narrowed his eyes and walked over to join Angela, mutely following Nolan’s over-exuberant greeting.

“Lord Nolan,” Angela drawled when the man had reached them. “What on earth brings you away from your new wife and out here onto the field of battle?”

Nolan seemed entirely unaware of Angela’s disdain, and he hopped down off his horse, drawing in a deep breath and looking around him as if he’d just scaled some treacherous mountain peak.

“My wife actually insisted that we come out here, Marchioness,” Nolan said, smiling beatifically at Angela. “That we couldn’t possibly have a relaxing honeymoon when most of the kingdom was on the verge of war. Bailey is assisting Doctor Grey in the field hospital back at base camp, and I’m trying to be of as much use as I can be too.” 

Nolan grinned and stepped back to allow the wagons that were following him to plod their way along the trampled path and into the camp. Tim saw thick logs and planks of wood weighing down the carts, and he frowned at Nolan.

“Are you planning on building something out here, Nolan?” he asked, in no mood for the man’s genial sense of humour.

“No, my lord,” Nolan said, somewhat unexpectedly. “The lumber is for floating platforms. The land out here is … loamy.” He grimaced down at Tim’s muddy fingers where Wrigley had shaken his hand, the smudged clay already drying into soft black flakes on his skin. “I’ve sent labourers around to every outpost. We’ll build a path for our people where we can, and plinths for the archers and cannons to fire from.” He clapped his hands together firmly, bowing his head quickly at both Tim and Angela. “We’ll rout these Ligne invaders out of here in no time. My lord; My lady.”

And with that, Nolan was off, striding after his wagons into the noise and commotion of the campsite. Angela huffed out at frustrated breath, possibly - like Tim - a little miffed that Nolan , of all people, had thought of a better idea than she had; then she turned and stamped away to her horse, swinging herself lithely up into the saddle and rattling the reins briskly in her hands.

The sun was setting, his horse was ready, his convoy refreshed and faced for their camp, and Tim was left with little choice but to return to his station, leaving his confused feelings and muddled heart behind him at the edge of the pines.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

Chapter Text

8

Tim woke in his tent with a kink in his neck from lying crooked on the thin military mattress, and a pain in his head from a long night of tossing and turning restlessly, in search of sleep that almost refused to come. 

He still had it better than most - his tent was furnished, supplied and maintained by a bevy of royal attendants - but it didn’t change the fact that camping in the marshlands while on the brink of war was bound to be an uncomfortable undertaking no matter how one looked at it. Even if he hadn’t also found himself in the middle of some inexplicable semi-romantic quarrell with one of his captains.

He couldn’t figure out how to fix the mess he'd made.

He’d been so happy that night at the wedding, spinning around the ballroom with her in his arms, so smitten by her wit and beauty that he hadn’t even noticed the hours that passed while they were on the dancefloor. Angela’s warning was the only thing that had alerted him to the scrutiny of his courtiers, and he’d let it get to him. Let their ogling fester in his mind like bindweed, strangling the blooming joy in his heart. 

She’d seen the change in his face. She’d realised the attention they were drawing, and she’d removed herself from the situation. Out of his way and out of his life. Away from potential rumours and gossip and scorn.

But she was still a captain in his army. She still fell within his chain of command and bar her leaving the kingdom entirely - dread thought! - she would still have to face him from time to time, especially when they were so close to outright war.

He’d thought to bring it up with her directly; to ask her why she’d run away rather than let him explain himself. But when he saw her windswept face - her cheeks pink from exertion and striped with that one small smudge of clay; her hair floating freely about her like a halo; her lips, pinched in the sharp white vice of her teeth; and her eyes, finding his and fixing him to the ground with a traction as steady as the stone walls of Losan - he’d lost his chain of thought and had bumbled about inarticulately in the face of her reserve.

And now - now they were ready to advance upon the enemy, and he had neither the time nor the space to involve himself in romantic entanglements, no matter how much it weighed on his heart.

“Rise and shine, beautiful!” Angela called, pulling aside the canvas door of his tent. Tim swung his legs out over the edge of the camp bed and glared at her miserably.

“You are far too exuberant for someone who just spent a night camping in the bog,” he grumbled, rubbing a hand over the stubble growing on his jaw. Angela grinned and passed him a squat clay mug.

“Drink this. It’ll put hair on your chest.” She dropped the mug into his grip and started rooting about in one of his trunks, flinging garments on top of every available surface, while Tim sniffed doubtfully at the rim of her cup.

“My chest is just fine the way it is, I’ll have you know,” he grouched, realising the drink was just tea, and he swallowed a hearty mouthful. It was hot and bitter, stewed in some camp cauldron for far too long, but it sent a shot of energy through him and he shivered, taking another gulp before his brain could intervene.

Angela seemed to have completed her total destruction of Thorsens’s finely folded packing, and she swiped the mug out of Tim’s hand, replacing it with a dull green pants and undershirt and shoving him roughly in the shoulder.

“Get dressed. Council meeting is about to begin and you barely have time for breakfast.”

Tim grimaced at her, and she gave a satisfied nod and turned, marching herself briskly back out of his tent. He’d let Thorsen stay at the palace to supervise the remaining staff and to ensure the castle was maintained; despite his many faults, the man had an eye for presentation and decorum.

But if Angela was his replacement valet, then Tim was already sorely regretting leaving Thorsen behind.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

He emerged from his tent not long after Angela had left him, and she was waiting for him outside, deep in conference with Colonel Grey, a mug of tea in both hands. She handed Tim’s back to him without comment when he came to her side, and he drank another acrid mouthful while trying to tune in part-way through Grey’s report from the night watch. Enemy troops still gathered at a distance, campfires lit into the night, one or two mentions of will-o’-the-wisps out over the moors, and the regular smattering of complaints about snoring bunkmates and aggrieved requests for dormitory transfers.

Tim was mid eyeroll, just about to suggest they take this vital piece of information to the council briefing, when a commotion amongst the tents just beyond their little pavilion distracted him. A lean brown pony, its nostrils flared and lips speckled with spittle came tearing through the campsite, scattering startled soldiers in its wake. At first he didn't recognise the rider - her hood was stuck to her brow with sweat, and she was dodging and ducking beneath the fluttering banners and sigils threading the camp from tentpole to tentpole.

Angela moved protectively in front of Tim, reaching for the dagger at her belt and keeping it low, and Grey did the same on his other side, raising one hand to slow down the panicked horse. The rider pulled on the reins, hauling the animal to a skittering stop and she leaped off, shoving her hood back roughly.

It was then that Tim finally recognised the face: Private Juarez. Lucy’s adjutant.

“Private!” Angela yelled, tucking her dagger back into her belt, but lancing the young woman with a sharp glare instead. “What is the meaning of this?!”

“Marchioness, I’m sorry,” Juarez gasped, one hand held to her abdomen as if she was having trouble breathing. “Your Majesty, I came as quickly as I could.”

Tim stepped around Angela, Juarez’s frantic energy setting off alarm bells in his head. “What is it, Private?”

“It’s Captain Chen, sire,” she said, swallowing harshly. “We can’t find her.”

Tim felt his blood run cold and he stared at her, all his other concerns vanishing under the stark magnitude of her words.

“What do you mean, Private?” Grey asked, his voice low and serious.

“I mean - she’s gone, sir,” Juarez replied, shaking her head. “Her bed was still rolled up. She never slept in it last night. She’s usually the first one setting out the day’s schedule, but we couldn’t find her this morning.”

“Was she on night duty?” Grey asked, clearly reaching for a plausible explanation. “Maybe she just dozed off at her guard post.”

Tim already knew this was highly unlikely, even before Juarez shook her head firmly.

“No sir. She’s the Captain - she wasn’t on night duty, and she’d never ‘doze off’. But I met her last night before I went to bed. She said she was going to check the forest, just to be sure. We think she went in and never came out.”

Tim dropped his hand to his side, his mug sloshing and spilling its contents all over his boots and the breath in his lungs left him in one painful gasp.

The forest? The dark and looming pine trees in the no-man’s-land between Chen’s camp and the next garrison over?

He let his mug fall to the ground, turning in an unsteady circle towards where his horse was paddocked and started to run. A page sitting on a bale of hay and idly spinning a stalk of grass between his fingers leapt to attention, hurrying to ready Tim’s horse, and a calling to a second girl who came running over with Tim’s sword and armour. Tim grabbed the sword, jamming it into the scabbard strap on his saddle, even as the page was still hurriedly securing the stirrup leathers, but he shoved the armour away, his only driving thought the need for absolute and urgent speed. Every moment he wasted on pointless decorum was another second she could be in danger.

“Tim! Tim!” Angela’s voice pierced through his panic, and he looked to his side, having almost forgotten she was there. “Tim, what the hell are you doing?” she gasped, grabbing his arm with both of her hands.

He reached for the bridle, tightening the buckle and swallowing a hard lump in his throat.

“She went into that forest because I told her to, Angela,” he choked out, dropping the leather strap with more force than was necessary. “She told me she had it under control, that they were sending trackers in every day, but I said she needed to check it out herself.”

Angela’s eyes were wide and startled, but her grip on his arm turned soft. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have, I’m the king!” he argued, waving his free hand in the air for emphasis. “I’d just heard from some guy who’d seen lights floating in the bog at night and I still sent her in! I should have realised it had something to do with the disappearances, and I never thought of it!” He stifled an unexpected sob, licking his dry lips to wet them. “She did though. Some part of her didn’t feel right about it and she argued with me. She hesitated and I… I pushed her right at it.”

Angela’s hands fell away from his, the silence between them almost as loud as the bellowing orders ringing out in the campsite around them. Tim looked away and, taking a forced breath, leaped into the saddle of his mount, yanking on the reins and calling for Juarez to be given a new horse. The Private, to her credit, didn’t dally, gripping the reins of her fresh horse and trotting out to lead the harried group of cavalry that had launched themselves into action in Tim’s wake.

He couldn’t waste time wallowing in his own self-reproach.

It was time Lucy might not have to spare.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

There wasn’t enough solid ground between the garrisoned battalions for the horses to run at an all-out gallop, but Juarez kept them at a steady canter as often as she could. Tim’s mind drifted time and again to the drawing of the carved skull she’d shown them at the war council; Private Rios’s ribs eternally marked with the emblem of his unknown killer. He flicked his head to try to dismiss the thought, as pestilential as the midges swarming above the stagnant pools of bogwater at their feet, and he urged his horse forward, intently keeping pace with Juarez.

They’d found Rios half-sunken in the mud. His legs and abdomen had been slowly submerging in the quagmire, while one white hand lay propped against his reclined head. Not waving, but drowning. The bog had already discoloured his skin, tanning his lower half a pale red-gold and deepening the vivid red gashes of the skull carved into his flesh. 

This was known about the bogs. The turfcutters would bury their milk and cheese for the day in a small wooden container, just under a thin layer of murky soil. It kept the food cool and free from pests, and many used it as a way to hide the dairy provisions of their small holdings from thieves. Leather-makers and cloth merchants would also use the dark marl to tan their wares, saturating hides and fabrics in baths of bogwater for days or weeks to attain a rich, deep auburn hue.

But the bogs themselves remained an enigma.

Tim had heard tales of mysterious lights in the dark; of shapes that lured and lunged at unsuspecting travellers in the night. Of the palace of a dark king buried beneath the mire, who sucked his subjects down into eternal night and bled them almost dry, leaving them with just enough life within to do his bidding - shrivelled husks of humans clawing their way through the afterlife in the loam and fens. It had given Tim a thrill of horror, as a child, to hear these tales, and he used to tease Genny endlessly that the Marsh King had touched her as a baby and granted her her bright red hair to mark her out as his future wife.

It didn’t seem so funny now.

The bogs could swallow a person whole and keep them hidden forever, and the spongy moss and ferns on the surface would never offer a shred of evidence to a grieving family. Getting lost out here was a death sentence for an unsuspecting soldier, and it was more than partly the cause of the current stalemate on the battlefront between Mid Wilshire and Ligne.

But Lucy would know better.

Lucy wouldn’t get lost.

She would know to take a candle with her and have a companion guard her back. Why - why had she gone off on her own?

A distant booming tore through his morbid thoughts, and Tim looked up to see the telltale plumes of smoke that signalled cannon fire coming from the campsite on the horizon. A clamour was growing beyond them, and as they raced forward he began to hear the yells and cries of warfare.

Chen’s camp was launching an assault across the frontline.

Juarez broke into a gallop, sending her horse hurdling over clumps of reeds and small streams, and Tim bolted after her, his horse puffing and snorting with exertion.

They raced into the melee of the campsite and Tim dismounted, barely stopping to loop the reins around a hitching post before running after Juarez. She was calling out to someone, dashing through the throng in a zigzagging path, and Tim almost lost her at one point, trapped behind a squad of archers racing to their staging post.

“Lord Nolan! Lord Nolan!” Tim could hear the Private yelling Nolan’s name somewhere just beyond the tented boundary, and he rounded a canvas corner to see her come to a sudden halt before a small group of people, her armour clattering loudly.

Nolan was bent double, dragging something out of the bog with the help of a few soldiers and, for one horrified moment, all Tim could see was limp arms and legs flopping about uselessly in Nolan’s grip.

Angela - who he hadn’t even realised had followed him so closely - hissed something foul at his shoulder and darted away, only to reappear a second later with a bucket of water from the horse trough. She ran up to Nolan, elbowing one of the soldiers out of the way and sloshed the water all over the muddy heap they’d dragged from the bog. Lumpy rivulets of dark sod ran clear over the shape, and Tim let out a shaky breath when he saw the face was masculine. A bubble of dark blood trickled from its mouth and past the lifeless grey eyes that stared up at the overcast sky.

Nolan tripped backwards, falling onto the ground at Angela’s feet, and Tim moved closer to get a better look at the dead man’s face. It looked - he looked familiar.

“It’s Baron Wright,” Angela said flatly, dropping the bucket onto the ground. “Rosalind’s son.”

“What the hell was he doing out here?” Tim heard himself ask, the implications of the dowager Queen’s son dying on Mid Wilshire soil jostling for priority in the turmoil of his mind.

“He was running,” Nolan gasped, heaving himself off the ground with the help of another soldier. “We found him at the far end of the forest. One of the archers caught him with a bolt. He died before we could get him back. He was carrying this.” From his belt, he unlatched a cracked iron lantern and Tim took it from him, holding it up to the light. The flame was quenched and most of the glass smashed, but what remained wedged into the metal corners was stained a deep azure on all four sides.

“Blue lights over the moors…” Tim murmured, almost to himself. “He was watching us.”

“Rosalind’s son has been abducting and murdering our soldiers,” Angela said, her voice tight. “We can’t let this slide.”

Tim tossed the lantern into the hands of a nearby page and gritted his teeth. “We won’t.”

The sudden blast of a horn sounded out above the cacophony of the campground, and everyone whirled around to look at a small knot of soldiers waving a flag from the treeline.

“What does that mean?” Nolan asked, wiping his hands off on his breeches. Tim shoved him out of the way, breaking into a run and signalling for his horse.

“They’ve found a trail! Move!”

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

Tim joined the band of soldiers racing towards the forest, some on horseback but most on foot, and he charged through the syphoning mud as fast as his horse could take him. Once within the forest, the trees were thick and clustered closely together and there was almost no way to move rapidly through them, but he followed the direction the trackers had taken as quickly as he could.

They were moving east as well as north, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he realised they were most definitely crossing the unseen lines of the battlefront in their haste. Well; Rosalind and her son had brought this on themselves, and they - or at least she - would have to live with the consequences.

He could finally see the front of the group of trackers just ahead of him as they darted around fallen branches and paused to examine near-invisible tracks in the pine needles strewn on the ground. The deep roots of the old trees held the land together more firmly here, and even Tim could soon spot the signs of a struggle.

A freshly cracked weave of branches at chest height in a young sapling. A dark line of scuffs in the clay where a boot had dragged heavily through the fallen needles. A patch of ground pummelled smooth with the weight of something heavy. A small scrap of red fabric on a sharp twig.

Tim slid out of his saddle and led his horse forward by the reins, reaching to tug the red cloth loose of the bark. He held it between his fingers, rubbing off the dried mud to see the colour bleed through, bright against his skin.

She wore red chausses with her armour…

There was a shout, and then a flurry of movement as the rest of the troops started to catch up to him. Tim slipped the scrap of fabric into his pocket and flicked his horse’s reins again, leading him around fallen tree trunks and scattered branches and towards the trackers at the front of the group. There was more light breaking through the canopy here and he had to squint while his eyes readjusted from the gloom of the forest. The trees grew thinner, shorter; rough stumps that had been hewn for lumber interspersed with the bright green needles of young saplings. And then…

Then they were out.

On the other side of the forest, and back into the dull beige roll of bogs and moors.

Tim raised a hand to shield his eyes, looking enquiringly at the group of trackers who were standing in a line at the edge of the forest. The oldest one turned to him, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders dejectedly.

“The trail ends here, my lord. The land is too wet to retain any tracks.”

Tim stared at her, not willing to believe that this was all they could do. His throat constricted suddenly and he looked away, shaking out his horse’s reins to loop around a low branch.

“Then try harder!” he yelled, his voice cracking on the last word. “Spread out and comb through the rushes! There has to be something!”

The trackers bowed quickly, throwing one another foreboding looks, but they started to move out across the barren landscape, picking their steps carefully through the wet pools and sucking mud with their eyes scanning every inch of the ground. Tim followed, barely restrained panic clawing at his ribcage and threatening to draw a scream of utter desolation out of his throat.

This was it.

A dead end.

A death note signed and delivered by Rosalind’s own son against the woman who had come to mean so much to him.

Lost in the wilderness between their two warring kingdoms.

He couldn’t see a way forward.

He’d sent his troops into battle at the behest of the war council before - it was brutal, but it was the way of the world. But her…

Lucy?

He’d sent her into the hands of a murderer all by himself.

Because he was too proud to admit his feelings for her.

He’d seen the looks on his courtiers faces when he was dancing with her, and he’d let it sway his reaction. He’d seen Angela’s warning glare and he’d responded with his head instead of his heart. He’d seen…

He’d seen…

He saw…

A glimmer.

A small spark of light, catching the morning sun and reflecting it back at him. For a second. One split second.

He tilted his head to the side, looking for the gleam again and - there. There.

A silver band.

A white stone.

He raced forward, dropping to his knees and clutching the gem in his fingers, wiping a smear of mud off the face of the jewel. 

It was hers. Her ring. He recognised it from the hand she’d rested against his chest while they danced. Bright and clear and beautiful as the moonlight. He tucked it into his pocket beside the scrap of red fabric and looked through the waving grasses, scanning the ground frantically for something - anything - that would lead him to her.

Grass and sedge and rushes and moss and mud and water and-

Bubbles.

Bubbles where bubbles had no right to be.

He crawled through the muck, dragging his hands through the wet soil, half afraid of encountering the brush of a set of stiff fingers descending through the mire to the Marsh King’s court, and half afraid of not finding anything at all - and not knowing which outcome would be worse.

And he felt something.

Not soft and pliable like the touch of cooling skin, but hard and curved; rough and metallic; just below the loamy surface. He traced his hands around the edge - a circle. Metal and wood. He dug his arms into the depths of the soil. Coarse planks and iron bands holding something just out of his grasp. A… a barrel? 

A barrel.

Another bubble floated to the surface and burst beside Tim’s face and he jumped back, suddenly startled into action.

“I’ve got her!” he yelled, his voice breaking across the seared stretches of moor. “I’ve got her!”

And he fell to his knees and started to dig.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

Chapter Text

9

Pulling.

Hauling.

Grunting.

too heavy, too heavy … sharp metal … wooden splinters … 

… a fingernail broken on a rusted rivet …

“Dig! Dig!”

Sword hilts and scabbards passed around as shovels, scooping the relentless torrent of mud to one side, only for the pit to ooze and bubble and refill with the unyielding earth. Helmets upturned as buckets, sloughing out dark water.

“Get the horse! Tie the rope!” 

Angela, beside him, her voice tight and panicked, waving one hand at the infantry racing up behind them, while the other kept dredging the muck from the stained oak lid emerging from the soil.

                              his lungs, burning, face spattered in slime…

          is she in there? … please let her be in there …

buried in the earth for god knows how long?…

please don’t let her be in there…

“Loop it!”

               “Tie it!”

                             “PULL!”

The whinny of his horse, startled by a strike to the flank, and the rope springing taut, latching itself under the submerged top hoop of the barrel.

“PULL!”

Heaving.

Digging. 

Pushing.

Gasping and toppling at the sudden release of the bulk of the barrel, the mud sucking and squelching around it as it came loose under their grip. It wobbled on the uneven ground, and tipped over drunkenly, rolling onto its side and coming to a stop between two hummocks of reeds.

The lid below his fingers, stubbornly refusing to budge.

“Daggers … the rivets … the hoop …”

Hands everywhere, hammering and banging at the rusted metal. Digging into the oak and sending splinters flying. His fingers raw and riddled with slivers of wood.

A crack … a defiant creak of metal …

“That’s it … help him … push ...”

The top ring snapped and split in two and the lid burst off into his hands, sending a wet torrent of muck spilling out of the casket and over their knees. He flung the disc aside and scrambled into the mouth of the barrel, shovelling through the mud and scrabbling to find her - an arm, a leg, anything he could grab onto.

soft, wet, cold…

                       something in there. someone.

He wrapped his hands under the figure, hauling it out with all his might and tumbling backwards onto the sedge with its limp form draped across him.

“Get me that flask!”

Angela, yelling and dragging the body from him and turning it face-up. He scrambled to his knees, his hands already scraping the mud off the features. 

A splash of water - the flask from his saddle - and the muck ran clear…

…oh god…

…

                            “ It’s her…”

“Is she breathing?...”

Frantic.

Rolling her head to one side and pressing his fingers to the skin of her neck, desperate for the soft pulse of her heart to respond to his touch.

…nothing, his own heartbeat too elevated to feel anything outside the stinging cuts in his fingertips…

          Breathe!

Please breathe!

                  you can’t breathe with mud in your lungs…

He tipped her chin down, a dribble of mud at the corner of her lips turning into a small stream when they parted, and he skimmed a finger along her teeth, swiping the remains away.

“She’s not breathing…”

Her chest, terrifyingly still, and her skin pale and splotched with dirt.

…he’d give her his own breath, if he could…

“She’s swallowed too much mud.”

Hushed murmurs from the legs surrounding him like a grim barrow.

“she’s gone … she’s gone … ”

…

no.

          No.

                                    No!

Frantically, unthinkingly, he bent towards her lips, pressing his own against them and pouring his breath into her. Her chest rose below the palm of his hand, and he tasted the acidic tang of bogwater on his tongue, foul and clammy and decaying; and when he raised his head to catch his wind, another small stream of mud bubbled out of her mouth, running down her cheek and into the tangled mass of her hair.

“Wait - what are you doing?!”

Angela, a third time, her voice rising with alarm, grabbing his elbow to pull him back.

“Stop!”

But he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Her lungs were full of ditchwater and he’d swallow the entire marsh himself before he’d give up on her.

Again.

He closed his mouth around hers, breathing into her and desperately wishing that the soft resistance of her skin was a sign that she hadn’t succumbed to the lure of the Marsh King.

Again.

Breathe, clear, repeat.

Pressing down on her ribs to drive the rot out of her.

Again.

A twitch.

A flicker.

A shiver.

He felt the bile rushing up her throat just as he raised his head, and her body convulsed, spewing out a deluge of slime across his knees. He gasped, overcome, then reacted without thinking, reaching beneath her to lift her head from the ground to let her lungs expel the sludge that was drowning her.

She coughed and choked, spluttering out the mud, before taking a terrified, wheezing gasp -

                 and her eyes opened.

         Met his in the hallowed space between one breath and the next.

“You’re okay… You’re okay...”

Her hand, trembling like a leaf, reaching up to trail along his jaw.

are you real? … is this real?

She sobbed, her whole body folding in on itself in his arms, one hand clutched tight at the neck of his shirt. 

He sank into her, cradling her against him and pressing his lips into her hair.

you’re okay … you’re okay … i’ve got you …

There was nothing beyond the circle of his arms and the shuddering sobs that wracked her body, and he felt his own lungs strained with barely throttled horror, his eyes wet and salty with more than just moor water.

“Tim … we’ve got to go.”

An explosion, loud and jarring, followed in quick succession by several more, and a hand on his shoulder, gentle but insistent. Angela.

“The battle. It’s started. We’ve got to go.”

He rose shakily to his feet, the dead weight of her body threatening to suck him back into the muck, but Angela had one of his elbows, and Nolan the other, and they hauled him upright and dragged him, stumbling, across the heather and over to his horse.

He let her go, for a second - passed over to Nolan in thin-lipped silence while he mounted his steed - and then she was back in his arms and they were off, charging through the forest as fast as he could ride.

“War! War! WAR! ”

“To arms! To arms!”

Horns blared and cannons roared, heralds sounded the alarm from every camp, and more than once he heard the sharp zip of an arrow as it narrowly missed his head. He rode as if the Marsh King himself were on his very heels, and Tim was determined to keep Lucy safe with him and outpace those ghoulish clutches.

He’d claimed back a life that the old ghost had thought for certain was his, and if he wanted reparations, then Tim would pay him back in blood.

The blood of Rosalind’s army.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

Chapter Text

10

Mid Wilshire beat back the invaders.

It hadn’t been certain, and it hadn’t been easy.

They lost a lot of good people.

The battle raged, intense and gruesome; a tempest that refused to break for three days and nights straight. The marshes were swollen with blood and bodies, and the bogs sucked greedily at the fallen, eager to swallow each victim into the darkness below before their comrades could retrieve them.

Later, the kingdom held a week of mourning.

The city streets rang with the harsh rattle of funeral carts, sombre church bells and the wailing of mourners, and even the priests - their pockets growing fat with donations from the bereaved - began to look harried and exhausted.

Doctor Luna and Lady Bailey oversaw the institution of multiple temporary hospitals, delegating medical staff around the city and the kingdom to look after the injured.

Múin and Ullah were outraged. 

It had been one thing to invade at Aughrim while Tim had been abroad - hotly contested land between Mid Wilshire and Ligne in the past; and another to send an armada around the coast by sea. One might even have been able to overlook the garrisons facing off in the midlands, if one was feeling particularly obtuse.

But an outright attack - the second to be initiated by Rosalind’s own sons - along the entire kingdom border, spoke to the dowager Queen’s true intentions.

She wanted to take their land for herself.

And if she succeeded with Mid Wilshire, then there was nothing left to stop her continuing on to Ullah, and even Múin, until she had the entire island bound completely within her grip.

The warring chieftains in the north had called a temporary truce amongst themselves and elected a High King as their ambassador. Múin sent diplomats to Losan with the full backing of their Queen. Mid Wilshire’s War Council was not dissolved, but reduced to twice-weekly meetings, since almost all of the officials now found themselves occupied with negotiations, judgements and peacekeeping duties. 

Colonel Grey and - unexpectedly - Lord Nolan became particularly adept at managing the liaisons between military and politics, and usually kept everyone on time and on a strict schedule.

The Marquess Evers all but moved into the palace. He set up an office where he spent his days referencing records and protocols and every manner of legal document dating back as far as the royal library could supply, all to secure the kingdom’s right to victory.

Angela assisted her husband before every negotiation, and, along with Commander Harper, continued to ensure that their borders remained secure while also allowing for the safe passage of civilians, merchants and goods.

And Tim abided.

He attended meetings. Hosted delegations. Mourned at mass funerals.

He took some days to travel north to their allies in Ullah, old and new, and another trip south to meet with the Queen of Múin.

He read petitions and signed judiciary forms; he granted allowances to villages and towns robbed so viciously of their youth and deployed forces to assist with their harvests; he endorsed committee agreements and added the royal seal to diplomacy documents arranged between politicians and legal scholars.

And in any of the precious few free hours that he had left, he climbed the grand staircase to the west wing guest quarters and passed the guard stationed round-the-clock at one door, to enter a particular bed chamber.

Captain Chen.

Lucy.

She’d been barely clinging to life in the saddle in front of him as he’d pounded his way back to base camp.

She’d coughed and coughed and coughed when they’d arrived and dismounted, until he was sure she might actually cough up a vital organ. He’d run with her in his arms to the field hospital where Luna and Bailey thumped her back and supported her head, and eventually plied her with a sleeping draught and left her in the care of a young nurse. 

There had been too much else to attend to.

He’d wavered miserably in the doorway of the tent, getting in the way of an already increasing number of injured and howling patients, until he’d made up his mind to leave and, with one last look at her pale and dirt-streaked face, he turned and fled. Angela met him just outside, grimly handing over the reins of a fresh horse and directing him to a young groom carrying Tim’s sword and armour. Within minutes, the two of them were clad in chainmail and charging out onto the battlefield together, their swords sweeping through the hail of arrows overhead and their horses dodging pitfalls and whinnying fretfully at the roar of oncoming cannon fire.

There were certain risks he couldn’t take as king, and dying on the frontlines was one of them. He knew Angela and his retinue were steering him towards safer skirmishes and, logically, he knew why. But it didn’t decrease the rage within him. And each evening, before collapsing into exhausted unconsciousness, he’d visit the patients in the hospital tents, gripping clammy fists and patting weary shoulders. Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat at the sight of horrendous injuries, and leaving Lucy and her quiet nurse as his last port of call, her pale face barely blotting out the images of the day’s horrors that plagued his every waking moment.

She slept through it all.

When Luna finally found a spare minute to talk to him, she’d expressed deep concerns about the Captain’s ability to breathe unaided and that, even in sleep, she was struggling to take a full and unhindered breath. For now, she said, she was keeping her unconscious, regularly dosing her with a sleeping draught until her injuries could be properly assessed.

And, when it was all over, Tim had her brought home to the palace still slumbering and - at his request - still under the direct supervision of Luna and Bailey.

As he entered her room now, almost an entire month since he’d dug her out of the ground, he heard the tinny whirr and click of a clockwork contraption set upon a dresser, and he caught the eye of a young lady sitting in one corner, quietly picking at her needlework. Angela had assigned her as Chen’s lady-in-waiting, essentially, and she was reserved but astute. Though the girl always bowed and addressed Tim politely, he found he was amused by the quick bite of wit lacing her words whenever he took the time to talk to her. She was a good match for Lucy.

“Miss Colins,” he said, nodding in her direction. He tapped the roll of paperwork he’d brought to pass the time against his thigh restlessly.

“Your Majesty,” she replied, rising from her chair and curtseying. She gave him a demure smile before gathering her needlework and gliding away to the far corner of the room.

Tim stepped aside to let her pass, then moved quietly towards Chen’s bedside.

She lay there, in the centre of the mattress, surrounded by the dark crimson curtains of the bed frame and covered with a heavy blanket to keep her warm. Her hair fell in loose waves across the pillow, soft and free of mud thanks to Miss Colins’s dedicated attention, and he reached out to gently brush one curl away from the curve of her neck.

Her skin was still too pale, and cuts and bruises stood out in stark contrast along the line of her cheekbone and the edge of her lips. Her mouth was slightly open, and he watched for a moment as she drew a breath, her chest rising beneath the blankets and her cheeks hollowing softly as the air filled them.

How very close she’d come to never filling them again.

He couldn’t bear to think about it.

He sank onto a worn ottoman at her side, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing one hand over his tired eyes to fight off the sleep that was always threatening to claim him these days.

He couldn’t explain what had come over him in the bog - how he’d willed the air from his own lungs to fill hers and marvelled when she’d jolted into gasping, grasping life beneath his lips. Apparently Nolan had apprised Bailey, who’d subsequently informed Luna, about how they’d found her, limp and seemingly lifeless and buried in the bog. They’d been surrounded by soldiers and trackers too, and Tim was well aware that the story of the King who’d kissed his Captain back to life was spreading like wildfire throughout the land, but he also found he just didn’t care anymore. It raised some curious eyebrows if it came up at diplomacy negotiations, but Angela usually found a way to talk around it, and Tim was content to let the narrative settle into legend.

A soft sound caught his attention; a quiet hum stifled before it reached the air. He looked out from between his fingers, his eyes latching onto Lucy, and he noticed that her lips were closed now, her lower jaw ticking slightly as she gritted her teeth. He shifted closer, dropping his hand to the blanket and bumping his knees against the edge of the mattress as he watched her.

“Mmm…”

A sigh? A dream?

She murmured quietly again, rolling her lips together, and he froze, even his breath stilling as he focused intently on her face.

And then - she blinked.

Her eyelids fluttered open, squinting against the bright daylight streaming in through the windows, and she tilted her head to the side, her eyes finding and locking onto his.

And she smiled.

“What are you reading?” she asked, her voice cracking hoarsely. “The latest trends in royal pantaloons?” She smirked down at the still-rolled up papers in his hand.

“It’s actually some very important political articles,” he quipped, idly marvelling at his own ability to speak while he was still in complete shock. He tapped the papers in his palm once, before dropping them onto the nightstand and standing to pull the long velvet bell-rope that hung beside her pillow. She tipped her head back, following his movements, and she frowned.

“What’s that for?”

“It’s a bell-rope,” he replied, sitting back on the ottoman and shuffling closer to the bed. “It calls the servants.”

“I know what it does,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I mean - why are you calling the servants?”

Her own question seemed to sidetrack her, and before he had time to answer she’d held out a hand to stall him, looking at the room around her in confusion.

“Wait - where am I?” she asked, shuffling up against the pillows.

“You’re in the palace.” He was about to reach out to assist her, but he hesitated just before making contact, his hand lingering helplessly in mid-air. “Doctor Grey wouldn’t let them send you back to that hovel you were staying in.” He retracted his arm and gripped his own fingers tightly.

Lucy’s eyes flashed and her jaw dropped open, but he was thrilled to see the corners of her lips rise in amusement.

“Excuse me - a hovel?” she drawled, glaring at him. “And what about all my stuff?”

“It’s all here. There wasn’t much of it,” Tim grimaced. “Thorsen insisted on having it all washed and fumigated before putting it away.”

Her jaw dropped even lower and she raised her eyebrows at him.

“Your personal valet organised my belongings?”

“I think he was worried that I might catch something.”

“That’s… sweet…”

“And pass it on to him.”

She laughed, her eyes closed and her nose scrunched up, and he could have listened to that enthralling sound all day. She had one hand pressed against her ribs and, after a few seconds, she began to cough, her forehead wrinkling in pain. He twitched in mute sympathy, this time allowing himself to place a steadying hand against her shoulder, not knowing what else to do. Just then, Miss Colins appeared from behind him, clambering hurriedly across the mattress and lifting Lucy up bodily to rest against her knees.

The coughing fit eased off, but before Tim had time to say anything else, the doors to the room flew open and Luna and Bailey paraded in, Bailey coming to a sudden halt and clasping her hands together in delight when she saw that Lucy was awake and conscious. Luna’s face was more stern, but Tim saw her shoulders sink with relief when she realised her charge was back in the land of the living. 

Then, in a flurry of whooshing hands and swirling skirts, Tim was shooed away from her bedside so the physicians could see to their patient. 

This had happened before - when he’d been in the room while they needed to administer to her. It simply wouldn’t do to have the king dawdling redundantly in the corridor outside a guest room door for all to see, however, so Thorsen had set up a small armchair and desk in the corner of the guest dressing room where Tim could, ostensibly, tackle his demanding paperwork while he waited.

This was where he went now, shutting himself in behind the latched wooden door and realising - too late - that he’d left his actual paperwork out on the nightstand. There wasn’t much else to do in the sparse room. Her belongings barely took up one corner, most of her clothes now clean and folded in her trunk, interspersed with astringent herbs to keep the moths at bay. Only one article remained outside the trunk, pinned against the wall until Thorsen was satisfied that it was wrinkle free and repaired to his exacting standards.

Her navy ball gown.

Tim paced in a slow circuit around the room while he waited, and if his feet slipped once or twice into the memory of a drifting waltz, his fingers brushing against the deep blue folds of the skirt as he passed, there was no one there to judge him.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

A soft knock on the door drew his attention from the thin strip of courtyard visible through the narrow dressing room window. Tim looked up, just as Bailey unlatched the hasp and poked her head around the doorframe.“We’re ready now,” she said, smiling at him. “And they’ve brought breakfast.”

Tim took a second to compose himself, then followed Bailey through the doorway and back into the bedchamber. She was always so kind to him, he’d noticed. More gentle than Luna, even though he’d known Luna his whole life. Less critical than Angela. And she didn’t seem to be at all in possession of the shrewd eyebrows of young Miss Colins.

“...and - I’m warning you - take it easy! Do not overexert yourself, you hear me?” 

Luna was already admonishing Chen, helping her to stand and pulling the lapels of an embroidered dressing gown firmly over her shoulders before tying the belt securely. Chen nodded meekly, her cheeks puckering into dimples when Luna turned to give Tim a pointed glare.

“Just a little light food. Nothing elaborate. Her stomach won’t be able to take it,” she advised him and, with one more significant look at the pair of them, she dusted off her skirts, picked up her medical bag, and turned to Bailey - who was loudly hushing a giggling Miss Colins - and all three woman swept out of the room.

And it was just the two of them.

Alone, while both were awake and conscious for the first time since she’d ruffled his hair in that porch after their undercover excursion into the city.

Tim felt his breath catch, unsure, exactly, of what he ought to say. But, he realised, Lucy wasn’t even looking at him, instead rubbing uncomfortably at her ribs and eyeing her own reflection in the gilt-edged mirror that stood on the floor near the foot of her bed.

“I fought back, you know,” she said abruptly, her voice small and uneasy. “But he shot me with something - a dart, I think - and I hit my head. I couldn’t… I-I couldn’t-”

“Hey, it’s okay.” He was beside her in an instant, one hand below her elbow to settle her nervous movements. “I know you fought back. You gave him hell.”

“It was Caleb,” she blurted, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Baron Wright, I mean. He had this blue lantern and-”

“I know, I know,” he said, cupping both her elbows in his palms gently. “You got him. We got him. He was too injured to get far and an archer took him out. He’s dead. He’s gone. He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

“He… he…” she swallowed her wavering voice and pulled her arms from his grip, backing away from him towards the unmade bed. “He etched that thing into my skin, didn’t he? The skull? The mark of death?”

Tim took a sharp breath through his teeth, clenching his empty hands into fists.

He’d seen it of course, back then, through her torn garments while she lay motionless in his arms. The water Angela had thrown from his flask splashed Lucy's ribs too, and the crude red lines stood out in stark contrast to her frighteningly pale skin.

“...Yes. He did,” he admitted finally, and he took a step towards her, raising his eyebrows in entreaty. “But you didn’t die, okay? You lived. And now he’s the one in the ground.”

She swallowed again, losing the battle against her tears as a few glistening drops rolled swiftly down her cheeks.

“Doctor Grey wouldn’t let me see it. She said there’d be time for that when her poultices are finished doing their work.” She rubbed at her side again, sniffing miserably. “It itches like crazy.”

He bit his lip, nodding stiffly.

“I need to see it.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Please, Ti-” she caught herself, shutting her eyes and taking a deep breath. Despite the awfulness of their situation, despite the horrors they’d endured, he realised he’d never heard her say his name before. And with just that first suppressed syllable, he knew it was something he desperately wanted to hear again.

“Please…” she repeated, letting the air beyond the supplication fill the gap where his name ought to have been. “I need to see it.”

She was already untying the belt at her waist, flinching as the weight of the robe fell against her sore shoulders. He took a hesitant step towards her, his hands extending to help her remove it, then pulling away as he worried that it might seem improper.

But his help was exactly what she wanted and she turned for him, sloping her shoulders down and letting him lift the heavy gown off her. He slid it carefully from her arms and gathered it into a ball in his fists, taking a step away as she winced and pushed her hair back off her neck.

…jasmine and pear…

He caught his breath, the scent taking him by surprise, and he wondered how she could still smell like a summer’s day in a blossoming garden, even with everything she’d suffered through.

She started walking towards the mirror, fiddling with the hem of her loose linen blouse as she went. Her pants were also linen, two neat bows in the cuffs at her ankles seeming frivolous in contrast with the seriousness of her face. The material was starched white, almost luminescent in the early morning sunshine, but - for the first time in a long time - it made her skin seem more radiant, healthier, and the flush of pink in the apples of her cheeks spoke of recovery rather than fever.

Her eyes met his in the mirror and he swallowed, nodding in what he hoped appeared to be reassurance. She mimicked him, taking a deep breath and lifting the hem of her shirt to see the layers of bandages Luna had wrapped and secured around her waist. She pursed her lips, meeting his eyes again and shifting restlessly on her feet.

“I’m going to need your help.”

“Uh…” He looked around, half-expecting to see someone else in the room, then realised how foolish he was being. “Of course, yes.” He dropped the bundled dressing gown onto the bed and hurried over to her, reaching out to undo the knot Luna had tied on one side. He glanced at her in the mirror, his hands coming to a faltering stop.

“Tell me if anything hurts.”

She nodded mutely, and he did the same, looking back at the knot and starting to pick at the tight threads with his fingernails. It gave way after a moment or two of attention, and he unwrapped it from her ribs carefully, reaching his hands around her waist to remove the folds, and it wasn’t long before he was down to the last layer and Luna’s carefully applied poultice.

The smell of herbs was strong, pungent and crisp in his nose, and he scooped the cloth off her skin gingerly, trying to remove as much of the salve with his hands as he could without letting it scatter all over the floor. He was so focused on corralling the medication, shaking the loose lumps safely into the well of one hand, that he almost missed her gasp of shock when she finally saw her scar. 

He looked up, just in time to catch the colour draining from her face, and his eyes went immediately to the reflection of her ribs in the mirror.

Red and raw. Streaked with the dull greys of Luna’s poultice and his finger marks, but still inflamed and angry-looking against her skin. Sharp lines torn into her flesh and stained almost ochre by the waters of the bog.

The skull.

The mark of death.

The silence stretched between them, filling with the phantom presence of Caleb’s cold ghost and Tim could see her beginning to shrink in on herself. He had to say something.

“You know, I’ve got half a dozen scars,” he started, addressing her face in the mirror. “Sword wounds, knife wounds. A broken bottle.” She turned to look up at him, and he swallowed thickly. “Then there’s the ones you can’t see. A fiancée with an addiction. My father… who wasn’t a kind man. And whether I like it or not, they’re a part of me.”

Why was he doing this? Why was he saying this? Didn’t she have enough to deal with?

“I-I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it…” she sniffed, dropping her head and letting her shirt fall back into place while she rubbed her knuckles across her nose.

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do with it,” he interrupted, waving the bandages in his hands in the air between them. “Burn it off, keep it - whatever gives you peace. All I’m trying to do is give you some hard-won perspective. You can choose to see that scar as your greatest failure.” He shook his head, pointing at her covered ribs as her eyes filled with tears again. “But I see it as proof that you’re a survivor. It wasn’t your day of death, Captain Chen. It was the first day of the rest of your life. And no-one can take that away from you.”

The tears fell freely from her eyes, and she nodded stiffly at him, her hair falling over her shoulder and covering her face from view.

“Thanks.”

Her voice was quiet and strangled with emotion, but he straightened his back and inhaled deeply, pleased to see the colour returning to her face. He tipped his head to one side while she scrubbed a hand across her cheeks, and he held out the mess of bandages to her with a lopsided smile.

“What do you say we put these back on before Luna finds out, and then we’ll have some of that breakfast while it’s still… lukewarm?”

She gave a watery laugh, brushing her hair out of her face and she met his eyes again.

“Yes, sire.”

Huh.

No.

He couldn’t have that anymore.

“It’s ‘Tim’ here, okay?”

She laughed again, her cheeks glistening under the drying sheen of tears, and she fiddled absently with the hem of her blouse. 

“Okay, Tim,” she said, stretching the last consonant in his name into a melodic hum. “Then I’m ‘Lucy’. Deal?”

She held her hand out to him, just as she had back when they’d made their wager in the map room, and he grinned, tipping the bandages into one palm and grasping her warm fingers firmly with the other.

“Deal. Lucy.”

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

They ate breakfast together while Tim updated her on the political situation. She’d smirked at his weary recollections of the endless diplomatic meetings and gritted her teeth when he told her that, in agreement with Ullah and Múin, Rosalind was to be deposed and jailed for her crimes. The throne of Ligne would be given to the dead king’s only surviving relative - his youngest half-sister, Duchess Monica Stevens.

Lucy only nibbled at a slice of toast and picked at a chopped apple, but he was pleased at least to see her refill her cup of tea twice while they sat. He wasn’t fully sure how Miss Colins had been feeding her while she slept - broth and weak tea dribbled into her mouth between doses of sleeping draught, he imagined - and it was going to take her some time to recover her appetite.

She grew tired soon, her cheek resting in the palm of one hand, supported by her elbow on the table. Selfishly, he let her nod drowsily once or twice while he talked, before giving in and ordering her back to bed. She didn’t argue, and she let him steer her back to the mattress and under the covers with one hand on her back and the other guiding her elbow. She was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, one arm thrown comfortably back against the headboard. He took a moment to stroke her cheek, smoothing her hair away from her face, and then he left, feeling more revived and optimistic than he had in weeks.

They continued that way for a while. Angela would brief Tim on the day’s affairs while Thorsen saw to his wardrobe, and then the king was completely inaccessible to anyone for at least an hour while he breakfasted with Lucy.

It was by far his favourite part of the day.

She mentioned a craving for her mother’s lotus root soup one morning, and he had it shipped in from the continent within the month. She suggested he try the tea from a Chinese vendor in the city - fresh and sweet and herbal, rather than dry and bitter and stewed - and he had the palace kitchens immediately stocked with every variety the shop supplied. She ran out of egg yolk to dip her toast in one morning and she scooped some off his plate while he was refilling his mug, chuckling as she chewed it behind her cupped hands, and he narrowed his eyes but left the rest of the egg on the edge of his plate for her.

She grew restless, trapped in her room.

Miss Colins - Tamara - was a very successful hire, and Lucy took her under her wing almost immediately. The two were often to be found curled up on a rug, reading beside their well-stocked bookshelf, or huddled at the windows giggling and making up backstories for the labourers, visitors and courtiers that passed below in the palace grounds. 

But it wasn’t quite enough, and one morning Tim found her, just outside her bedroom door, fully dressed and arguing with both her guard and the maid with the breakfast trolley. She threw up her hands when she spotted him, letting out an agitated puff of air.

“Will you tell them I can manage it, please?” she asked, folding her arms irately.

Tim slowed to a stop, catching the guard’s exasperated look.

“Manage what? What’s going on?”

“My lady wishes to have breakfast in the gardens, sire, but my orders are to set it up in the bedroom and nowhere else,” said the maid, her face worried.

“And Doctor Grey insisted - in no uncertain terms - that Captain Chen be confined to her quarters,” added the guard, studiously ignoring Lucy’s vicious glare.

Tim almost laughed, but the apprehension of his two servants under Lucy’s fierce determination helped him reign it in.

“That’s alright,” he said, nodding to the guard. “I’ll take responsibility with Doctor Grey. Would you please see that a table is set up for us in the rose garden? We’ll go for a walk in the parterre in the meantime.” He addressed the first request to the kitchen maid, and the latter to Lucy, holding out his elbow for her to take.

For a moment she stared, almost as if she couldn’t believe she was actually getting her wish, and then she smiled, flowing out of the doorway and latching herself onto his elbow.

“We could have just brought a blanket from my room and the basket of toast,” she said, tugging on his elbow. “No need for a whole song and dance in the rose garden and the parterre!” She adopted a haughty tone when repeating his words, and he laughed out loud, turning them around the corner of the landing and heading for the main staircase.

“The chamberlains would be horrified,” he argued. “Getting crumbs and insects all over their precious blankets? Thorsen spends half his life trying to find the perfect herbal concoction to keep the moths out of the palace fabrics, and you want to bring the cloth to them?”

She snorted, leaning against him for support as they descended the stairs.

“I guess when you put it that way…”

By the time they reached the rose garden, she’d come fully round to his way of thinking and - in fact - he found it difficult to coax her to sit and eat at all, she was so taken by the extensive variety of scents and colours that bloomed around them. He followed her from rosebush to rosebush, letting her chatter on about the exquisite colours and the fine perfume, and dutifully sniffing at every flower she exclaimed he simply had to sample.

“Oh! The colours! Look!” She ran to another bush, sticking her nose into a bunch of ruffled petals, then turning the head of the flower side to side in her palms to look at it. “It’s so beautiful.”

It was a pale lilac rose, almost mauve, and some of the older blossoms on the bush were already fading to an unusual grey tint. Tim stepped closer, reaching below her hands and, avoiding the sharp thorns, he snapped the stem of the bloom free. Lucy let out a little gasp, looking momentarily horrified, but he shook his head quickly.

“There are plenty more still growing. This one’s for you.” He brushed it against his nose once - a sweet, almost lemony scent - and then he held it out to her. Her face lit up, and she accepted it with a shy smile. She buried her nose in the centre of the petals again, but he could still see how her cheeks grew pink and radiant at his offering. His own face felt flushed, and he scuffed one foot along the gravel path involuntarily, wondering how he - a full grown man; a king, no less! - could suddenly feel like a youth all over again, presenting a flower to a pretty girl.

“Does it have a name?” she asked, rolling the stem between her fingers and admiring the bloom from every angle.

“Uh, I-” he stumbled, not really all that familiar with his own gardens. “Let me check.”

Sometimes they had labels in the formal gardens - small slates carved with the name or origin of a particular plant, especially if it was gifted by a visiting delegation of politicians or nobility. To his surprise, at the base of the flower, half buried in the soil and covered by dense foliage, he found the corner of a flat, grey stone poking out of the ground.

“It does, just give me a second…” He pulled away the leaves, swiping the clay to one side and tugging the slate free, before standing up and dusting it off with his fingers. “It’s called… ‘Love Song’.”

He felt his stomach swoop with the thrill of the words and he looked up, meeting her eyes at the same instant she looked at him.

The moment seemed to stretch between them - lilting birdsong and chirping insects suspended in the golden light of morning sunshine - and he watched as she dipped her eyes to his lips, his fingers, her rose; before closing them and inhaling the perfume deeply again. She sighed, her shoulders sinking in satisfaction, and she tipped her face up to the sun, letting it warm her skin.

He waited, reluctant to even twitch a boot against the gravel lest it break the spell, and he wondered - not for the first time - how he’d ever let her run away from him in the ballroom on that fateful night, so many moons ago.

“I think,” she began, tilting her head to one side, her voice as rich as honey, “That may be serendipity.”

His breath caught, his heart flipping sideways in his chest, he was sure.

And when it was steady again, he let the air out - almost a chuckle - and he felt a pleasant warmth spread from the back of his neck all the way to the tips of his ears. He bent down to return the slate to the soil, planting it prominently in front of the buried roots. When he stood, she was watching him intently, and she nodded silently in the direction of their breakfast table.

“It just may be,” he murmured, letting her link his elbow, and they headed for the shaded pergola at the corner of the garden, to dine together under the twining fronds of honeysuckle and rambling roses.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

Chapter Text

11

Politics was gruelling.

Politics were gruelling?

Tim couldn’t decide which way seemed correct, and by the time Angela brought him back to the present by kicking his ankle under the table, he realised he’d missed out on an entire impassioned soliloquy from the High King of Ullah. There was no way for him to recover without admitting to his inattention. He cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the edge of the table, as if deep in consideration.

“I think, noble counsellors, that it is time we had some lunch,” he said gravely and, to his relief, the assembly - including the High King - nodded and murmured in agreement.

There was a shuffle of chairs and tables, the susurration of scribes and notaries stacking up their parchment into neat piles, and Tim waited while the many officials filling the room bowed and filed out past him. Angela, still seated by his side and idly brushing the feathered tip of her quill across one hand, leaned closer to him.

“Are you withholding your profound considerations on the cheese tariffs between Ullah and Ligne until after lunch?” She grinned wickedly. “Or were you just not listening?”

Tim rolled his eyes, shoving his chair away from the table and standing. “Can I look at your notes?” he asked, only half joking.

Angela smirked, placing a sheet of blotting paper on top of the aforementioned notes and dropping a paperweight over them with a satisfactory thud.

“Do you trust me to represent your best interests?” she asked, rising and dusting off her hands, before catching up to him and walking out of the room together.

“You know I do. Always.” He threw her a dour look from the side of his eye, just to ruffle the soft edge of the sentiment. Angela gave a low chuckle, dipping her head and rubbing at a spot of ink on her index finger.

“I got your back, boo.” She punched him lightly on the arm for emphasis.

He snorted, almost wishing he had a little sign he could hold up every time she made him roll his eyes, but then he noticed her slowing her stride, and she gazed contemplatively at a worn tapestry on the opposite wall. They were in a quiet corridor that led to the meeting room and now that everyone had gone to the banquet hall, there was no one else around. Tim looked between Angela and the tapestry, trying to figure out what was distracting her.

“What?” he asked, turning to face her. “What is it?”

She pursed her lips, her focus slipping from the wall to Tim, her eyes dark and serious. He raised his shoulders, shaking his head in confusion, and Angela took in a sharp breath. 

“I know you trust me,” she said evenly. “And I’m usually right, so it’s a good thing.”

This was one of those moments where he’d hold up that little eye-rolling sign.

“But I have been… wrong, before.” She raised a hand to stave off his questions and continued to speak. “Not often, and not usually when it counts. But I was wrong to judge you.”

Now Tim was thoroughly bemused. “Judge me?”

She nodded, closing her eyes.

“I judged you for … how you interacted. With Captain Chen.” She blinked and looked at him again, her face serious. “And I wanted to say: I’m sorry. I’m sorry for any pain I caused either of you, and I’m sorry if I ever made it seem like what you felt wasn’t important. I’m just… I’m sorry, Tim.”

She dropped her hands to her sides, looking thoroughly repentant. Tim felt as stunned as if she’d just announced that she and Wesley were packing up their manor and moving to a thatched cabin at the edge of the ocean.

Judged him?

She’d thrown him sharp looks and she’d given him verbal warnings. All fair game in her position as his royal adviser. But he’d never felt judged . Not by her.

“Angela, I-” he began, but she hurried to interrupt him.

“Look - I don’t need you to make me feel better. I just wanted you to know. You deserve to be happy. And…” She tipped her head from side to side, sucking in her cheeks contemplatively. “When the wedding bells start ringing, I expect to be up there as your right-hand woman.”

Tim’s jaw fell open and a strangled sound came out. Angela sniffed, puffing her chest out and settling her hands on her hips.

“I’ve decided she’s the perfect match for you. She certainly won’t let you away with your bullshit. And she’s passed Harper’s clandestine evaluation too. A keen intellect and no skeletons in her closet.” She tapped her fingers against her hip, raising her eyebrows at him. “In fact, I happen to know that Harper is bringing the good Captain out to meet her troops this afternoon. For the first time since her convalescence. And, entirely coincidentally, I’ve ordered a cheese platter for the banquet hall that will keep the politicians occupied for - oh, at least an hour longer than usual?” 

She grinned at him, her eyes sparkling, and Tim was overcome with the sudden urge to seize her in a bear hug. He took a moment, just about managing to restrain himself to a broad smile instead. She nodded once, likely reading his mind, and she tapped a finger to her temple, tossing him a quick salute.

As they went their separate ways at the end of the corridor, he felt a lightness expand within him, knowing that one of his closest friends was still - always - in his corner. And, as if manifested by Angela’s very words, he heard the bells of the city ring out the hour, their melodic peal echoing resonantly in the distance.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

The soldiers were gathered in one of the stable courtyards. There was noise and clamour, horses hooves clattering on the cobblestones and smoke from the blacksmith’s fire rolling out of her thatched shelter and into the thick of the crowd. Tim hovered at the back of the yard, half-hidden in a quiet passageway that led to the castle gardens. Angela had sent a footman after him with a thickly buttered slice of bread and a wedge of controversial cheese, and he ate hungrily while he watched the action.

A small troupe soon arrived from inside a scullery door and, as they did, the waiting soldiers turned towards them, craning their necks and leaning on each other’s shoulders for a better view. There were raised voices, but Tim could hear the ripple of excitement in their tone, and when Harper’s face finally appeared outside, the crowd burst into cheers and whistles, applauding loudly and stamping their boots on the ground.

Lucy was at Harper’s side, dressed in her old gambeson and chausses, and smiling self-consciously. She followed Nyla to a low wooden platform, usually used to keep hay for the stables raised off the wet cobbles, and the crowd’s enthusiasm swelled into a thunderous roar.

Harper let them continue for a minute before she held her hand up for silence, her expression brokering no argument, and the cheering soon subsided meekly. Harper closed her fingers, throwing a sharp eye at one group who had almost missed her signal, before dropping her hand to her side and raising her chin.

“I know that our losses in the battle with Ligne were painful. Too many good people died out there, and we will always mourn their deaths. But in the same moment that so much was taken from us - our friends, our neighbours, our partners - we know that the promise of peace and safety was our goal. We fought for our families. We fought for our towns. We fought for this kingdom! We fought for our right to live in peace and prosperity - and we were victorious!”

She was good.

Really good.

Even Tim had goosebumps, and the crowd were all riled up again, yelling in agreement and pumping their fists in the air. Harper bowed her head and closed her eyes and, after a few seconds, the cheering quelled to a soft murmur.

“In a time when so much was asked of us, so much taken from us, it gives me infinite joy to know that there was one of us they couldn’t take. Someone they knew we all relied on and cared for. Someone they tried to bury without a trace - and they failed.” She turned to look over her shoulder as a buzz of excitement grew among the soldiers, and Harper smirked at her companion. “I am speaking, of course, of my friend; your comrade; Captain Lucy Chen!”

Lucy stepped forward to wild applause. Tankards and flasks were thrown, spilling their contents in prisms of glittering rainbows, and the workers at the blacksmiths hammered their tools together in a raucous cacophony of sound. Lucy was surrounded, hiked up onto the shoulders of those closest to her and paraded in a victory circuit around the yard. She laughed joyfully, bouncing above them and gripping the hands that were raised for her to shake one after another like ripe ears of wheat.

Tim ducked deeper into the shadows as she sailed closer to him, not wanting to distract from her hard-earned celebration. Something must have given him away though - a glint of sunlight on his cloak pin, or the suspiciously alert guard at one side of the archway. Either way, she caught his eye, her smile ebbing into a silent breath as she ascended on the crest of a wave of supporters. Her loose hair soared behind her, floating in the air as she rose, and it seemed to him for a moment that she was flying, her body gliding in an elegant arc above the raised hands beneath her.

She winked at him, beaming radiantly, and then she fell back to earth, swooping by him in the arms of her troops. He grinned at her receding back, shaking his head at her outright cheekiness. He wouldn’t have it any other way. She’d been buried - now she deserved to fly.

“Lopez tell you she passed my test?”

Tim startled at the unexpected voice beside him and he looked up to see Commander Harper strolling in the wake of the crowd, raising one eyebrow to dismiss the guard at the far pillar of the archway. The man looked nervously at Tim for permission, then shuffled further down the wall, out of earshot, when Tim nodded in the affirmative. 

“‘Lopez’? I haven’t heard that name in years,” he chuckled, folding his arms and leaning against the stonework.

“She’s Marchioness Evers in title, but she’ll always be Major Lopez to me.” Harper flashed him a smile and settled back against the wall. “So - the test?”

“Yeah. The ‘clandestine Harper evaluation’? It’s got a nice ring to it. Do you take requests?”

Harper snorted.

“No. I’m much too busy to waste my time on policy matters. Don’t get me wrong; if you abdicated and left the kingdom in my hands, I’d have it purring like a well-oiled machine inside of a year.” She tipped her chin haughtily, but - somehow - Tim had no doubts about the truth of her words. “I didn’t look into her for you. I like her. I think she’s got incredible potential. I wanted to prove to myself that my instincts were right.”

They lapsed into silence, watching as Lucy was deposited back onto the wooden palettes and a small flock of young children were ushered towards her, shyly offering bouquets of wildflowers and wooden trinkets. Lucy crouched down low and spoke to each of them in turn, graciously accepting every small gift with a smile and her undivided attention.

“Hmm. Good with kids too,” Harper noted.

It was Tim’s turn to snort. The Commander wasn’t known for her subtlety. 

Harper smirked, pushing herself off the wall and turning to face him fully.

“Look, I’m not here to tell you what to do with your personal life. But you are the king. And it might not be what people are focused on right now, but once the dust settles and the troops are withdrawn, they’re going to remember that the line of succession is still unsecured. The date is looming, and if you don’t fulfil the requirements of the law, then you’re leaving the kingdom open to annexation or subjugation at the hands of whoever has the cojones to follow in Rosalind’s footsteps.”

Her words fell over him like a cold shadow and he felt his lungs tighten as if in the grip of the blacksmith’s tongs.

“I know that,” he ground out through gritted teeth. “But I’m not going to force anything on her before she’s ready. This life - this responsibility? It’s a burden. I made the mistake before of committing too quickly, and I’m not going to do that again.”

He stubbed his toe against the gutter at the base of the wall and, peripherally, saw Harper purse her lips thoughtfully.

“Learning from the past. That’s wise.” She ducked her head, forcing him to look at her, and he was surprised to see a sly smile spread across her face. “But that woman up there? She’s got what it takes. Your people already love her, and she’s more than capable of handling herself in the spotlight. And, for what it’s worth, she is just as enamoured with you as you are with her.”

He wasn’t going to say anything - he didn’t think he could have even formulated words if he’d tried - but Harper held out a hand to intercept him regardless.

“She never talks about you. Never says anything about whatever this is going on between you two. I know people have tried to cajole it out of her, both openly and on the sly. But she’s a closed book. Hasn’t given them an inch. Everything I know - and it’s more than anyone bar Lopez - I’ve had to learn from continued, close observation and highly skilled questioning.”

Then, to his utter surprise, she punched him lightly on the elbow.

“So go for it. Follow your heart. Make her your queen. I’m telling you, it’s the right decision. Your Majesty.”

And with a nod that substituted for a bow, she grinned, whirled around and marched back into the crowd.

Tim was really going to have to get Wesley to pass some sort of law that forbade the women who controlled his kingdom from punching their king.

But that was for work for another day. For now, he had to get back to the drudgery of diplomacy, and the council's afternoon session. And if his daydreams were occupied with schemes that involved finding a way to organise a secret rendezvous in the city with his irresistible Captain?

Well; at least Angela was the only one there who could read his mind.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

“This is ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous. It’s deceptive.”

“‘Deceptive’? It’s unbearable!”

Tim pulled at the overlapping collars on his cloak and gown, straining his neck against the stiff material. Thorsen shot him a look of forbearance, waiting until Tim was finished squirming to continue pinning and tucking the material to his satisfaction.

“I would never wear something like this. I look like a pompous buffoon. I’d have me sent to the stocks.”

“Wesley outlawed the stocks, and don’t sell yourself short! You’ll be fantastic at playing a pompous buffoon.” Angela cackled out loud, and he heard her plucking and chewing at the plate of grapes on his dresser.

Maybe he’d buy her a vineyard someday. Or recommend that Marquess Evers invest his significantly more substantial wealth into one as a gift to his wife - for which Tim could then also claim credit.

They were in the royal quarters, Angela comfortably ensconced in her chaise longue, while Tim was in the alcove behind the folding screen, putting up with Thorsen trussing him up like a roast goose. This whole upcoming illicit tryst had been Angela’s idea - or maybe Harper’s; he couldn’t be sure, and it was getting more and more difficult to tell each woman’s handiwork apart - and Tim had tentatively agreed.

In a stupor after a week of monotonous diplomatic negotiations, he’d mentioned an idle desire for a life that would allow any semblance of normality in his romantic engagements: strolling through the winding streets of Losan, browsing the panoply of wares in the markets, dining at one of the many fine epicurean establishments... Angela and Nyla had taken this vague notion and run with it, roping in Thorsen and plonking a fully formed plan into Tim’s lap within the fortnight.

And that was how he found himself going back undercover with Lucy, this time with no more pressing mission than spending time together. The freedom to be away from the prying eyes of his inquisitive courtiers, and to let her take him to her favourite spots in the city, all while disguised as visiting foreign dignitaries.

And this time, at least, there was no fish hat.

Unfortunately, while the material of his outfit was a lot more comfortable against his skin than that of their previous foray, there was also a lot more of it. Layers and layers of cotton and silk, wrapped and folded and belted just so and, as far as Tim was concerned, Thorsen was enjoying himself far too much. And to top it all off…

There was a wig.

“Sire, you simply must cover either your hair or your face and if you don’t wear this, then it will have to be the Dou Mou.” Thorsen glanced pointedly at an ornate helmet balanced on top of one of Tim’s storage trunks, and the visored face peered back at him with doleful, empty eye slits and an open, slightly shocked, mouth hole.

Tim had grudgingly accepted Thorsen’s alternative, eyeing the helmet mistrustfully. That was how he found himself - for the first time in his life - with long blonde hair, streaming well below his shoulders, with only the strands at the crown of his head pinned back from his temples in a simple leather thong. It kept floating across his face, tickling his nose, and after his fifth time spitting and plucking at it, Thorsen had raised a warning finger, glaring at him in silence. Tim stopped fussing.

“I think… Yes, I think that’s it.” Thorsen stood back, one arm folded across his waist while he tapped his cheek thoughtfully, and he made a slow circle around Tim, looking him up and down thoroughly. “Yes, my lord. We’re ready.”

There was a clatter from the main bedroom - Angela dropping the tray of grapes - and he heard the couch squeak as she got to her feet.

“You’re ready? Get out here, I need to see it!”

Tim sighed, gritting his teeth and glaring at Thorsen and his satisfied smugness. Shoving his sleeves down, and rolling his shoulders back, he steeled himself to go out and let Angela see him. He stepped out around the screen, his jaw tight and his cheeks hot.

The second she saw him, Angela froze.

She was standing with the bunch of grapes in one hand, the silver platter still on the floor at her feet, and her mouth was wide open in a silent scream.

Tim shuffled his feet uncomfortably while Thorsen went to stand beside Angela, nodding appreciatively at his own handiwork.

“Well?” Tim shrugged, tugging on his belt peevishly. “Say something!”

“Oh. My. God.” Angela slapped the grapes into Thorsen’s chest, her eyes never leaving Tim. She made her way in a slow circuit around him, plucking at his robes and running her fingers through the long wig. “This… This is extraordinary.”

Somewhat surprised, Tim frowned.

“You think it’s enough to disguise who I am?”

Angela scoffed.

“Trust me - no one would EVER expect to see mister straight-laced King Timothy Bradford wandering through the city looking this pretty.”

He was about to shoot back a retort - he went to great lengths to look pretty every day, thank you very much! - but there was a knock on the door and Angela squealed and clapped her hands, hurrying over to answer it. Tim clasped his hands nervously over his belt, while Thorsen took a step back, his eyes already narrowed and ready to judge the visitors.

Harper stepped through first, clad in her usual off-duty trousers and buttoned jacket, and looking every inch the distinguished commander of the royal navy. She smirked when she saw Tim, but said nothing, opening the door wider and moving over to Angela’s side.

And Tim saw nothing else of what they did because, following Harper, her head bent low and a shy smile playing on her lips, was Lucy.

Beautiful Lucy.

Wonderful Lucy.

Her hair was half-pinned in an ornately decorated bun, while the rest flowed freely down her back and over her shoulders in rich brown waves. Her robes were, like his, many-layered and belted at the waist, and decorated in finely stitched embroidery, and he could hear the silk swish softly as she stepped into the room.

She raised her head, looking at him at last, and her eyes went wide, one hand flying to her mouth, too late to disguise her gasp of amused surprise.

“Oh my god…” she murmured, taking a step closer to him. “What is… how did…” She reached up, lifting a strand of the long hair off his shoulder, and Tim shut his eyes, shaking his head in resignation.

…jasmine and pear…

“That was my idea,” Thorsen interrupted, bowing slightly to her. “I had it imported from Scandinavia. The same couturier that supplied your ball gown for Lord Nolan’s wedding.” He winked at Lucy and Tim blinked, his mouth falling open in disbelief.

“You orchestrated our outfits for the wedding?”

“Chen didn’t have anything suitable to wear,” Nyla remarked. “I asked Lopez and she looped in Thorsen. You gotta admit, the man’s got style.” The three conspirators shared a sly grin while Tim tried to wrap his head around the fact that his staff could so deftly manipulate him without his even realising.

Lucy smirked, letting go of Tim’s hair and resting her hand on his arm.

“It’s incredible. It looks good.” She bit her lip, her face tipped up to his, her eyes bright and warm and Tim felt his heart soar.

“You look incredible,” he said softly, feeling the pull of her presence like a magnet, eternally drawing him towards her.

Her cheeks flushed, and her grip on his arm tightened almost imperceptibly.

God, he could look at her forever.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough of that. You can be starry-eyed lovers in your own time.” Nyla marched forward, shooing them briskly apart with her hands, and Tim tossed Lucy an amused grin. “The carriage Wesley ordered is waiting, and Lopez said something about a secret passage?”

Tim gave Angela a suspicious look, but there was no malice in it. Everyone knew there were at least three exits from the royal chambers besides the main door, and if there was anyone in the world he trusted, it was this small group of people gathered with him. Angela raised a hand, pointing at one of the hanging tapestries and she led them to the side of the room, pulling back a corner woven with a startled-looking duck to reveal a narrow wooden door. Thorsen unlatched it and the three women filed out past him, making their way down a dark stairway that led to a storeroom near the palace kitchens. Tim followed, pausing to give Thorsen a belated nod of gratitude, and the valet inclined his head, closing and locking the door after Tim.

Below stairs, it was quiet, most of the staff already occupied with clearing up after lunch and getting ready to prepare dinner. It was easy for Tim and the women to slip through the corridors unnoticed, hurrying along until they came to the foyer that led to a small courtyard. There was a carriage parked outside, just as Nyla had promised, and it was lavish enough to hint at nobility, but not so ornate that it gave away Tim’s royal status.

“Hurry, hurry before someone sees us.” Angela was shuffling them out of the foyer, pushing insistently on Tim’s back, and the footman leapt from the back of the carriage to open the door for them as they drew near. Tim offered his hand to Lucy, supporting her as she clambered up the iron steps and into the coach, and her fingers were soft and warm in his, his skin tingling at even that brief contact.

He went to follow her, one foot already on the folding steps, but he paused, turning back to Angela and Nyla. Angela shook her head, waving her hand to hurry him up.

“Thank you.” He nodded at both of them, hoping the heartfelt sincerity of his appreciation could be conveyed in two short syllables.

Harper smiled - a real smile this time, without her usual sharp cynicism - and Angela did the same, tipping her chin in acknowledgement.

And then he was in, his knees bumping against Lucy’s in the close confines of the carriage. He heard the crack of a whip, the whole vehicle jostling into motion, and they were off, on their way together, back into the heart of the city.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

Chapter Text

12

Despite his fears, Tim was surprised to discover that the city folk paid them hardly any attention. Besides a few curious - or appreciative - glances, people just got along with their own business. He walked through the market, arm in arm with Lucy, admiring the stalls and shopfronts and chatting amiably about everything and nothing.

Street vendors called out to them, trying to charm Lucy with fine filigreed jewellery or glittering stained-glass bottles of perfume. They chased Tim with rolls of the sweetest imported tobacco, or heavy earthen pots of locally brewed poitín, and he eventually had to swap a few coins with one the many small children offering him fistfuls of flowers ‘for the lady’. Lucy laughed with the little girl who’d succeeded in her sale, tapping her on the cheek and accepting her flowers with profuse thanks. The child beamed back at her, delighted when Lucy pinned the small posy onto her cloak.

Lucy had gained back most of her strength by now, training hard every day, both one-to-one with Nyla and in manoeuvres with her own troops in the drill yard of the palace. It was good to see her confidence return and her stamina increase, and she even deigned to attend the war council meetings again, although - without an imminent battle - she was much less vocal in discussions than before. 

Tim would still catch her eye when Lieutenant Smitty made a particularly miserable excuse, or when one of the older officers snored too loudly and roused themselves abruptly from a nap with a cough and a splutter. He’d have to bite his lip not to laugh at the amusement dancing in her dimples, and he was quite convinced that she’d made a game of it, doing her very best to induce him into an inappropriate fit of giggles.

Today, though, he didn’t have to hold himself back.

Today, he linked her close to him, entwining their fingers together where her hand rested on his arm as they strolled through the markets.

Today, he bent low and murmured in her ear, making her laugh when a street performer disguised as a statue terrified a small boy into thinking he’d knocked him over.

Today, he let his hands wander from her arm to her waist, turning her to see a merchant newly arrived from the continent with a herd of lanky, long-necked camels carrying her wares.

He bumped his nose against her temple when he whispered to her; brushed her hair from her shoulder with his fingers; drank in the sweet beauty of her face for as long as he desired.

And she reciprocated.

Dancing her fingertips along the palm of his hand, huddling into his side to let the convoys of animals pass, or holding his gaze until her cheeks grew pink and she averted her eyes, smiling bashfully.

It was a heady sort of delight.

He didn’t even notice how much time had passed until they had to make way for a lamplighter barging through the streets with a long sooty ladder. Tim realised the sky had faded to a pale grey, the last golden streaks of sunlight painting the clouds in dazzling pinks and purples overhead. Lucy tugged on his arm, nodding towards a narrow doorway between a smoky pub and a shuttered fishmongers, and he followed her willingly, ducking his head under the low wooden lintel.

She led him down a dark passageway and around a corner, coming to a sudden stop in front of a wrinkled old lady in a conical bamboo hat sitting on a low stool. The two women exchanged a few words, none of which Tim understood, and then the old lady stood, beckoning them after her and further along the dark corridor.

“What language was that?” Tim asked, wondering how concerned Angela would be if she knew how utterly lost he currently was.

“Vietnamese,” Lucy replied over her shoulder. “I only speak a few words, but it’s enough.”

“Enough for what?” he asked, but the question died on his lips as they reached another door and he stooped beneath it, raising his head to look around.

There was a garden here - an entire hidden garden, tree branches strung with strands of softly glowing paper lanterns, shading low, cosy tables piled high with plush cushions. The woman led them to an unoccupied table between two gnarled fruit trees, and she spread the cushions over a rug and directed them both to sit. Tim held Lucy’s hand as she bent and folded herself neatly into place, then he tried to copy her position, his long legs and unfamiliar clothes making him feel as awkward as he knew he must look. Lucy bit her lip to hide a smile, but she shuffled closer to him when he’d finally made himself comfortable, resting one elbow onto the raised flower bed behind them that served as a bench.

It was intimate and inviting, and he felt a sense of enchanted wonder steal over him at the soft look in her eyes. She seemed to glow from within, her eyes reflecting the muted lantern light - or maybe the stars - and he could almost imagine the softness of her skin from simply looking at her.

The old woman appeared again at the opposite side of the table, breaking the spell, and Tim jerked upright, belatedly realising how close he’d drifted towards Lucy’s face.

“Tea,” the woman said flatly, pouring steaming hot water out of a squat bronze teapot and into a pair of lacquered bowls. “Food comes later.” She plonked the kettle back onto a tray and, without so much as glancing at them, she disappeared back into the shadows of the trees.

Lucy hummed an amused laugh, reaching out for the bowls and offering one to Tim. He accepted, blowing on the surface of the tea to cool it a little before taking a sip. It was sweet and biting, and he felt the aroma travel up the back of his nose, clearing his head and making him blink.

“You like it?” Lucy asked, observing him over the rim of her own cup.

Tim cleared his throat, placing the bowl back on the table carefully.

“It’s good. Refreshing.” He kept his hand on the cup, tapping the side and watching as the ripples danced across the surface, sending lamplight sparkles winking at him in every direction.

“What is it?” Lucy’s face grew serious and she straightened herself against the cushions. 

Of course she’d already got him all figured out.

“I just…” Tim began, then paused, rolling his tongue as he thought about what he wanted to say. “I just want - I need - to tell you-” He looked up at her, feeling a lump form at the back of his throat. “That I’m sorry.”

He swallowed, breathing through his nose in measured breaths, but he didn’t expect to see the look of total confusion on her face. She dropped her bowl onto the table, turning on her hip to see him better,

“For what?” she asked, frowning.

“At the ball, when we were dancing,” he said, fighting against the weakness in his voice. “I let the constraints of society dictate how I acted. I realised people were staring and I froze. I let you run away from that wedding without saying a word.”

“Tim-”

“No, please let me finish, this is very hard for me to say.”

She backed up, her face tightening with worry as she waited for him to continue.

“I let you leave and then, when I finally went after you out on the battle front, you were angry with me - justifiably so. And I reacted badly. I pushed you away. I pushed you into that forest, towards Caleb, and you almost died.”

His heart felt sick with sorrow, and the horrid images of her limp and lifeless body flashed across his mind in unbidden graphic clarity. He shuddered.

“Tim…” Her voice was low, gentle, and she reached her hand out to rest it on his where they lay balled into tight fists in his lap. “What happened wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t mine either. I know the risks of this job, and I’m perfectly capable of handling myself. It was just…” She shook her head, looking down at her own knees. “It’s just a thing that happened. I’m getting through it, and I’m working on myself. And if I need it, I know you’ll help me.”

She perked up, tipping her chin at him and Tim couldn’t resist rolling his eyes.

“It’s not really in my job description, Captain.”

She grinned, reaching for her cup and taking another sip of tea, before sighing and staring up at the lanterns in the boughs above them.

“When I was in that barrel, I knew you would find me - no matter what it took.”

Tim closed his eyes, dropping his head against the weight of the memory.

“I found you because of your ring, okay? You saved yourself.” He reached up to tug at the crisp folds of his collar, searching beneath the fabric for the chain he always wore around his neck. He found it, pulling it out and hearing the small clink of metal as two glimmering pendants jingled against one another.

A medal from Genny - a protective charm she’d pressed into his hand the night she’d married her miscreant of a husband, her eyes as lonely as Tim’s heart felt on letting her go.

And Lucy’s ring - the same silver ring she’d worn and tapped over his heart so often the night they’d first danced together. He’d kept it safe while she recovered, worried it would get lost amongst the upheaval of her belongings, and then so much time had passed that he’d never found the right moment to return it.

He unclasped the hook of the chain, unlooping it from the band of the ring and setting it aside, and letting the stone settle in his upturned palm, glinting faintly in the pale moonlight.

Lucy gasped, staring; and then she smiled, reaching out to roll the ring onto the tip of her index finger. She spun it around slowly, then flipped it over and slipped it onto her ring finger, holding her hand out to admire it.

“I thought I’d lost it forever,” she breathed.

“I’m sorry. I should have returned it sooner. I just couldn’t-”

“No,” she held out a hand to stop him, tapping lightly on his arm. “You found the perfect time.”

He let out a sigh, feeling an invisible weight lift from his chest, and he chuckled softly at the absurdity of the rest of what he wanted to say. This woman had already forgiven him for almost letting her die - absolving him entirely of a debt he’d willingly have paid for with his own life, in fact; but he still had to say it.

“Listen… this - this thing between us.” He gestured awkwardly back and forth with his hand, and she raised her eyebrows in restrained amusement. “I want to see where it goes. I do. But I also have obligations to my kingdom, and it’s always going to be a part of who I am. I can’t - I can’t just leave and let my subjects fend for themselves.”

“And I wouldn’t expect you to,” she interrupted, clasping his hand in hers. She sat up straighter and, instinctively, he copied her. “Look, I didn’t just come here because of Commander West’s amazing salary incentive.” She flashed him a grin before continuing. “I did my research. I read the travel diaries and the military reports and I listened to the merchants talking. This place used to be flailing around for a direction - your father seemed to pick fights with the northern tribes and foreign outposts just for bragging rights to small, pointless victories.”

Tim felt his smile fade and he looked away, but she lifted a hand to his jaw, turning him back to face her.

“But you are nothing like him. You’re nothing like him. You are considerate and thoughtful and just. You’ve chosen well with the people who advise you, and you take their advice seriously. This kingdom has prospered and flourished under your rule, and you offer welcome and protection to all. Do you understand how rare that is?” She shook her head, looking at him with solemn wonder. “I chose to come here, just like I choose to be with you.”

She ran her thumb along his cheek, her eyes scanning over his face, and he felt his heartbeat quicken in his chest. Then she pouted, puffing out her cheeks and shrugging.

“Not that I have any intention of giving up my command either. Certainly not now that I’m Captain, anyway.”

She grinned wickedly, scrunching up her nose and Tim snorted, leaning closer to the light of her smile.

“Well, since we’re already setting new standards, who’s to say that the commander of the king’s guard can’t also be the queen?” he mused, tilting his head to one side and watching her eyes dance with merriment.

“Oh, I’m the queen now?” she laughed, her lips parting as the title fell easily from her mouth, and he could feel her breath flow warm and soft across his cheek.

She tipped her face just as he lowered his and, all of a sudden, her lips were on his, lush and sweet and even more delicious than he’d ever imagined. She hummed contentedly, low in her throat, and he felt the sound vibrate through him, sending ripples of pleasure across his skin in its wake. She softened, folding against him, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her closer, closer; wanting nothing more than to melt his body entirely into hers. Her fingers trailed little paths of fire along his neck and he gasped, opening his mouth and allowing her to steal his breath right from him.

He’d lied before.

He’d give anything for this woman.

Anything that was asked of him.

And as his love for her bloomed hot and bright and sweet under the moonlight in that enchanted garden, he felt a peace settle deep in his bones; in his soul; and he was sure, for the first time in his life, that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~

There was a proposal, of course, some time later on a royal expedition to Italy.

He’d found the perfect ring at a jeweller's in Milan, conniving with Miss Colins to evade Lucy’s attention for a few hours while he made the purchase. He’d kept it secret, tucked away in a hidden pocket of his robes while they travelled onwards to Venice.

They’d been welcomed by the Doge, their international relations made smoother by connections to both Marquess Evers’ wealthy family and Commander Harper’s fierce naval reputation. They spent some weeks as guests at the royal palace, dining on elaborate and exotic cuisines and tiring themselves out almost every night at lavish balls and parties. Angela, disappointingly, still found time to ensure that Tim spent hours in dreary political meetings, reading and signing tomes of trade agreements and making small talk with all the minor nobility of Europe.

But any chance he got, he stole away with Lucy, traipsing through the narrow streets hand in hand or sailing along the glittering canals in a private gondola, with her tucked snugly into his side. She was always armed - a short-sword swung securely over her back, or daggers secreted away in her boots and the folds of her gown and even, on more than one occasion, crossed as pins in the elaborate coil of her hair. He was eternally grateful that it was her by his side and he’d rarely, if ever, felt safer.

Or more loved.

One night, returning from a secret excursion away from the palace, she’d stopped at the centre of a narrow bridge, resting her elbows on the parapet and gazing at the moonlight reflected in shimmering ripples on the water of the canal. She’d looked so beautiful, perched like a painting between two glowing lanterns, and the coils of ivy winding around the iron posts framed her with the aura of a woodland nymph. He’d felt, as he so often did, breathtaken by her light.

When she finally sighed and turned to face him, her smile froze halfway to her lips and she gasped, springing back and covering her mouth with her hands.

He was on one knee, the ring held aloft in the palm of his hands, and he heard himself murmur the words that were bursting through his mind like fireworks. A small crowd of passers-by gathered, watching with keen interest as the scene played out before them.

It could only have been seconds, but to him it felt like an eternity, watching her face melt from complete shock into earnest curiosity and finally - thrillingly - into ecstatic joy. She yelped, lunging at him and nearly toppling the two of them down the other side of the bridge as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He managed to get his feet steady under him, rising into the vortex of kisses she was planting all over his face and letting the approving applause of their small audience wash over him like summer rain.

He laughed breathlessly, untangling her wrists from their snare around him, and she hopped on the spot with excitement as he removed the ring from its case and slid it into place on her finger.

It fit perfectly, just as he’d planned, and after a moment of stunned silence he swept her off her feet, spinning them in dizzy circles across the cobbles. She pressed her forehead into his, her eyes squeezed tight against the rushing flare of lantern light, laughing with delight. It was only when he felt her lips on his, soft and insistent, that he slowed down and let her return to earth, threading his fingers through her hair and cradling her head in the palms of his hands.

He had no idea how long they spent wandering the city that night. They’d ended up in the tiny courtyard that served as a floating garden to the palace, nestled under a pear tree beside a wall of creeping jasmine. They’d stayed wrapped in one another’s embrace, trading lingering kisses and whispering sweet nothings until the stars winked out and the sky grew pale with the fresh light of dawn.

There’d been rapturous celebrations for at least a week afterwards, the Doge insisting on inviting half of the continent for more endless parties in their honour. Tim saw Miss Colins squeal with delight, clapping her hands and bouncing in a circle around Lucy’s bejewelled finger, and when Angela finally managed to corner him by himself, he noticed tears in her eyes before she flung her arms around him in a crushing hug.

The following weeks of their trip through Europe served as their engagement. Word had been sent to the palace in Mid Wilshire to prepare for the royal wedding and Thorsen was given free reign to plan the event as he saw fit. He took to the task with gusto, raiding the royal coffers and calling in favours from every wealthy family and merchant that had ever done business with the kingdom.

When they finally returned, the city was bedecked in garlands and bunting, shining like a jewel on the fringes of the ocean. Crowds poured into the streets, cheering and throwing flowers before the rolling wheels of their open-topped carriage and, for once in his life, Tim relished the attention.

Look what he’d done.

Look where he’d landed.

Look who he’d found.

Lucy beamed and waved from the seat beside him, and he clasped her hand firmly in his, feeling a complete kinship with the people of his city.

She is perfect. I agree, I agree, I agree.

He pressed kisses into the knuckles of her hand and - once, to the crowd’s rhapsodic delight - to the soft skin of her cheek. She flushed like a fresh plucked rose and buried her embarrassment in the hollow of his shoulder. 

They’d sent word to her family by courier, and while Tim’s entourage was wrapping up their diplomatic obligations on the continent, her relatives were being ferried as quickly as possible across the thousands of miles that separated them from Mid Wilshire. 

She’d been nervous to meet her stern parents, and Tim was as polite and cordial to them as he could force himself to be. Her aunt Amy and her tiny little Nana were a different story, and Amy - forgetting herself completely - had Tim encircled in a tight squeeze before he’d even managed to greet her. Flustered, she’d hopped back, curtseying, bowing, then curtseying again, before Lucy’s Nana settled her with a firm elbow to the ribs.

Nana had taken Tim’s hand and he’d had to bend nearly double to meet her eyes - the same warm amber as Lucy’s, settled into the wrinkles and folds of age and wisdom. She’d said nothing, peering closely at him while she squeezed his fingers, and then she’d snuffed and nodded firmly, dropping his hands and reaching out to hug Lucy instead.

He’d met her approval, Lucy informed him later, and Tim had heaved a great sigh of relief, much to Lucy’s amusement.

The wedding was a spectacular affair.

Everything he’d allowed for Nolan and Bailey, multiplied across the whole palace and the entire city. The sun shone high in the summer sky, and gulls drifted on air currents beyond the spires and turrets, calling out to one another above the clamour of pealing church bells.

The cathedral was full to bursting, bedecked in so many floral arrangements that their fragrance almost overpowered the smoky incense wafting from the brazier. The army, there to support their Captain, sported armour polished to a high lustre, and the nobility were dressed in a dazzling array of fabrics and colours. Lucy had insisted on inviting the commoners too, and a whole throng of local children sat with their families, scrubbed almost to a shine and staring in unabashed wonder at the pageantry surrounding them.

Tim waited at the top of the altar, too nervous to sit in his carved throne, and Angela had to pinch his arm more than once to stop him from worrying at his nails and pacing across the marble tiles.

The deep bellow of the organ startled him when it rang out, and he stood to attention with the rest of the congregation, nodding tersely and as patiently as possible at the line of children marching and scattering petals along the aisle with rehearsed precision. When Tamara appeared, her sharp eyes finding Tim’s and winking, he felt his pulse start to race with a thrill and then…

…then…

There she was.

Lucy.

Stunning.

Beaming.

Radiant.

Swathed in gold and ivory, the pale embroidered lace on her otherwise simple gown no match for the sheer beauty of her face. She caught his eye and he saw her sigh, and he felt his entire being settle into perfect harmony with the world. She swept towards him through the candlelight and garlands, and all else faded from view as he revolved towards the magnetic lure of her.

His true north. 

His guiding star.

The light of his life.

The ceremony washed over and around him, and he moored himself to the anchor of her touch, her palm clutched warm and tight in his. He repeated the vows recited to him - as did she - and they tethered themselves together with traded bands of gold. His ears rang at the pronouncement that they were husband and wife, even before the crowd arose and thundered into cheers and applause.

But all he saw was her.

Warm honey and soft chestnut. Burnished gold and lush rose. Dazzling moonlight and darkest night.

Here and now.

Forever and always.

Crown and armour.

Happily. Ever. After.

~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~~~❖~~~~~~