Author warning: Strong language, mature situations, and Miranda flirting in ways and with people that are just wrong. Turn back, ye weak of heart and belly.
"Honour Spun Like Spider Web"
Raythor was an honourable man. Though Prince Phobos had him cast into the Abyss of Shadows, he did not blame the Prince and continued to swear his allegiance to him.
He was not a man of excess, either, and rarely indulged in vices. He allowed neither gold nor women, neither fine food nor divine drink, to distract him from his duties.
He obeyed his superiors and put in their place those fools on the rungs beneath him. He fought with the ferocity of a Laringian werebear, but he was no thoughtless brute, unlike Frost, for example.
"Where do you think you're going, girly?" he heard the brutish hunter grunt.
Raythor prided himself on another quality: he treated noblewomen with the respect due of their title, even when they did not bear the semblance of a woman.
No one among the Knights of Vengeance knew Miranda's actual age. No one had asked, and Raythor would have been quick to bark at the fool who would dare ask such a rude question. All anyone needed to know was that firstly, shape-shifters aged differently from Galhots, Humans, Lurdens, and the most other peoples. Secondly, Miranda behaved maturely despite her youthful appearance, more mature than most adults, and therefore, the lady deserved respect.
Frost had no regard for her; and once again, he was starting a row with her.
Miranda shot a nasty glare at him. The latest battle with the Guardians had left her hobbling in pain, and the last thing she needed was derision coming from someone who should have been a comrade.
"I need a moment to myself," she replied, holding up her nose haughtily.
"Yer not gonna ask your precious mommy, Nerissa, for permission?" mocked Frost.
The shape-shifter bared her teeth, and her eyes glowed. She stumbled as she lunged toward the hunter. If Raythor had not caught her, she would have fallen onto her knees.
"If I were you," he said, "I wouldn't waste the last of my energy on this ignorant brute."
Then he scowled at Frost and said, "The lady has a right to come and go as she pleases. She doesn't need to tolerate being around us gents all the time."
Frost cursed beneath his breath and marched to some dismal corner. The brute would never learn to respect anyone unless they wielded the kind of power that the Prince and Nerissa did, power to make any thickheaded animal think twice.
"You all right, m'Lady?" Raythor asked Miranda as he helped her to her feet.
She gazed languidly at the captain before replying, "Yes. Thank you." Then she hobbled to some private niche, far from camp.
Wounded though she had been, Raythor trusted that the shape-shifter would not get into trouble. She did not gallumph about the countryside, rousing the world as though she were a drunkard; not like Frost. Besides, Miranda had always kept to herself. When the Prince had ruled, the shape-shifter had crouched in the darkest corners of his gloomy halls, high in her webs where no one but the Prince could disturb her. This life as an outlaw was no life for the lady, and Raythor tried to accommodate her as much as possible.
"Where is that damned shifter?" snarled Frost.
The old devil had nursed his wounds and come out of hiding. Sad thing about that was the brute could only grouse rather than keep his thoughts to himself (and maintain some quiet at the camp).
"She'll be back," said Raythor.
"How do you know she isn't selling her comrades out?" demanded Frost.
"She would do no such thing."
Frost sneered and crossed his arms.
"That girl ain't no lady," he said. "These spider-type shifters are a back-stabbing lot. Someone shoulda followed her."
The captain glared at the hunter. The honour of others meant as much to Raythor as his honour, and this blackguard was about to lose his tongue for suggesting that she lacked it.
"Lady Miranda has gone off to heal in peace," he said. "She doesn't need to be lying around, feeling vulnerable and unsafe around us."
Frost cursed and stomped around the camp. Raythor was about to lose the last sliver of patience that he had for the brute. He would do more than bust either of his fat lips.
Seizing the reigns of the spotted rhinoceros, Frost led the beast to the edge of the camp.
"Where do you think you're going?" demanded Raythor.
"That shifter isn't the only one that needs time to herself," said Frost, and he climbed atop Crimson's back. "I'm going for a ride."
"You don't have the authority to—"
As soon as the hunter cracked the reigns, the rhinoceros charged into the forest. Raythor cursed and marched back to the fire. That audacious fool! Nerissa had stated in clear terms that in her absence, Raythor was in charge and his orders to be executed. That bull-headed thug was inviting every misfortune upon his head by charging off like some petulant boy. If the Knights were lucky, though, he would get his damned self killed one way or another.
"The sorceress shall not be pleased," said the Tracker. "We should not scatter so."
"Miranda has permission to leave," said Raythor.
"But the hunter does not," said the demon.
"I wasn't going to put myself in front of several tonnes of angry rhino."
"The hunter must return immediately. When the sorceress returns, she shall unleash her wrath upon the one given charge over her Knights."
Raythor frowned and sighed. Prince Phobos's moods had been much more predictable than Nerissa's. Even those who had not served the Prince for a week would become accustomed to what pleased or displeased His Highness. Nerissa was much harder to read. Taking prisoners in the name of vengeance could draw her wrath, if she had not received prior consultation, whereas once someone knew their position under the Prince, they knew their duties and did not always need to defer to superiors for every little thing.
How I miss those days! pined the captain.
"All right," he said, and he gazed up at the fading light in the sky. "Tracker, you're in charge until I get back. I'll drag Frost back, if I have to, and we'll worry about Miranda later."
"So be it," said the demon, and the other Knights watched as their captain disappeared into the forest.
Raythor had no trouble tracking Frost. That heavy beast he rode left deep impressions in the soft soil. The footprints led him to a region of the forest where the trees grew tightly together. He followed the path those that the rhinoceros had smashed with its might.
He held his position the moment he heard voices. Creeping between the thin seams between trees, he drew his sword and looked skyward.
Night approached swiftly, and he did not have the keen night eyes that most of his mates did. He would need to sit put, if he did not hurry, and wait for the morning, and oh! What earful he would get from the sorceress!
"... could have gotten killed?"
"... worry about me..."
Raythor tread carefully upon the detritus. He peered through the trees at the pair who conversed.
"You're about the only one I don't want to throttle," he heard Frost say, "especially that arsehole, who thinks he's the gods' gift to everyone."
His insult was followed by a harrumph and soft, feminine reply.
"You have a strange way of showing how little you hate me."
Frost harrumphed back. He fetched some linen and a small bottle from a pouch hooked to Crimson's saddle. Then he snarled, "I'm not letting that arsehole see me as soft. He gives me plenty of shit as it is. It's wonder I don't poison 'im."
Miranda burst into laughter, much to Frost's alarm.
"If he heard you talking like this," she said, "and talking like this to me, his hair would stand on end and catch fire."
"Huh! What little hair he's got," sneered Frost, eliciting a snicker.
They could not possibly be talking about him. Frost would have no problem speaking coarsely of Raythor, but Miranda? Encouraging him? Never mind that her breeding was too refined for such vulgar talk; she was too refined for that vulgar beast. Less than an hour ago, he had hurled insults, like spears, at the young woman, yet there he knelt before her as she reclined on a fallen tree, anointing her bloodied legs with healing ointment and wrapping them in linen.
"Ah!"
"Keep still!" commanded Frost. "If I don't do 'em with a certain tightness, you won't heal proper. And then what?"
"Nerissa could always—"
"Nerissa? Ha!" laughed the hunter. "That hag? You know, I've been startin' to think that she's got other things going on. She doesn't tell us shit, and yet she has us runnin' wild through Metamoor, puttin' us in situations that get us half-caught or just about killed. I mean, I gotta use my fingers and toes and somebody else's to count how many times you've gotten hurt."
He shook his head and continued, "Nah. Nah, I'm not letting her see you bad off. You'll walk funny for a while, but I'll be damned if she starts thinkin' you're... useless."
While Frost gave his treacherous speech, Raythor just about jumped from the forest to hack the blackguard. Audacious was not sufficient enough to describe the back-stabber. Huh, back-stabber—and just before, he suggested that Miranda was capable of the thought-crimes of which he had confessed at that moment. It figured to Raythor: the guilty party always blamed their crimes on other folks.
The only thing that redeemed the dishonourable bastard was his concern for Miranda's well-being. Granted, Raythor wondered why, although from where he stood, it sounded like a set-up. Frost seemed to tantalise the thought of rebelling against Nerissa. He would be a fool to try, and he would be an even more depraved devil for recruiting Miranda. That had to be it.
"There! You should stay off your feet as often as possible," said Frost. "If you can get away with it, give your ankles a week."
Miranda scoffed. "I'm not human, Frost. If Crimson doesn't mind carrying me for a day or two, the swelling will go down, and I can walk just fine."
A pause formed between them. Frost gazed up at Miranda, and while Raythor could not see his face, judging by Miranda's pout, the hunter was skeptical.
"Well, I certainly can't stride," she said as she crossed her arms.
"We'll fetch you a nice walking stick," said Frost. "You can steady yourself and club a bastard, if they get too close."
Miranda smiled and relaxed. She pulled her hair behind one of her ears as Frost rose and replaced his possessions in his pouch. She spoke softly: "Well... I let you get close without striking you."
"Probably because I'm only half a bastard," he chuckled.
Miranda frowned, fumbling with her skirts. Raythor tried to peer more closely, wondering what she was up to. Something about her and the hunter smelled very off, yet neither of them realized what the other was doing.
Frost pat Crimson on the head and turned back to Miranda.
"I should probably help you back," he said. "We don't want precious Nerissa to worry about what's happened to her dearest children."
"Why hurry?" asked Miranda. "She'll come when she comes, and who knows what hour that shall be?"
"Well, I don't want the good, ol' captain haranguing me," he said. "At least, if I bring you back unspoiled, I can redeem myself."
"Oh." Miranda's face fell again, and she averted her gaze. The hunter stood tall and scratched the back of his head before he knelt before her again and asked, "What's wrong?"
"Could you... Could you do me a favour before we return?"
"What's that?"
As the lady hiked her skirts passed her knees, she asked, "Help me get my stockings back on?"
The pause that followed felt much longer than it was.
Raythor felt as though his eyes would fall out, and his face burned so hotly, he was certain he would pass out. Maids helped ladies put on their stockings—maids, not burly hunters. Surely, her hands had not been injured during the last battle. Did she actually need Frost to put on her stockings? Raythor bit down on one of his knuckles to stifle a noisy gasp.
"Uummm... I... uhhh... The... whaaaa—"
At least Frost was also flabbergasted. Incredible! The brute actually had standards—he actually paused (which meant that pea-sized brain was thinking hard) rather than pouncing on her, like the perverted predator that Raythor always assumed he was. Incredible! The brute managed to redeem himself again, however small a redemption it was—
"Sure. Lemme see, now..."
Short-lived redemption… Raythor groaned silently. He absolutely refused to watch. Never mind that Miranda appeared so young—again, she was a shape-shifter, and her people did not age as other people's did. Nevertheless, if one could bypass that awkwardness, there was the lesser but still important fact regarding her class: she was far above this scum! It was an act of the gods that she allowed him to touch her just to heal her. Nerissa could have done that and saved the lady from being defiled by this... this... beast!
"Mmm! Thank you, Frost!"
"Yeah. Yeah, uh... my pleasure!" he replied, his voice warming up.
"Shall we return, then?"
"Yeah. Yeah, lemme help you."
The hunter grunted as he lifted her into his arms. Raythor peered at them as Frost approached Crimson.
Might as well show myself.
Rustling a few branches before he approached, Raythor slipped between the trees. Frost set down Miranda immediately and drew his sword. He stood between her and the approaching figure.
"Frost?" called the captain.
The hunter groaned and relaxed his stance. He snorted, "It's you. What the hell do you want?"
Standing with his hands on his hips, the captain nodded toward him and said, "I want you get your sorry hindquarters back to camp. You had no right to leave like that, and I'll be damned if Nerissa tans my hide for your foolishness."
Then he leaned to one side and looked at Miranda. He asked, "Are you all right, m'Lady?"
She frowned and lowered her gaze. Fumbling with her skirts again, she mumbled, "I am. Thank you."
"You sure? This brute didn't hurt you?"
"No, captain!" she snapped, her eyes glowing. "He did not."
Raythor recoiled. He had not asked a prying question, only if she were all right. He could not betray that he had seen all that had transpired, for how great would her fury be then? She might shape-shift and drain his blood to the last drop, if she found out.
"Bastard."
Raythor glared at Frost, but the hunter paid him no mind. He picked up Miranda and placed her atop Crimson. Then he took the beast's reigns and led it back to the camp. That gentlemanly façade did not fool Raythor. As far as he was concerned, that treacherous brute had a plot up his sleeve, and he would be a damned man indeed if he allowed Frost to lead Miranda astray.
By the time they arrived, only the fire and stars lit the night. To his fortune, the sorceress had not returned yet. The other Knights had barely moved a muscle (those that had muscles, that is). Frost found a rocky niche for Miranda to rest, and he helped her climb inside.
He's probably sneaking another peek, thought Raythor with a sneer.
His glare was planted firmly on his face when the hunter marched toward him. The larger Galhot growled, "The shifty brat wants a word with you."
Raythor glanced at Miranda, who played a string game with some web she had spun. He brushed against Frost as he marched toward her, eliciting only a curse (what a surprise! He thought that Frost might take a swing at him).
Kneeling before her, he asked, "What would you have of me, my Lady?"
Looping her fingers through the string, she spoke softly: "Captain, while I appreciate your concern for me, I would prefer that you not eavesdrop when I try to entertain company."
"My Lady?" Raythor's brows knitted together. Frost had been his quarry. He had not intended to spy on them. He did not know that the pair had happened upon each other.
Setting her hands in her lap, she gazed at him and continued: "You fight your battles against Frost, and I'll deal with Frost in my way."
The captain shifted.
"I swore an oath that I would always defend the honour of Prince Phobos's courtiers."
"And you've done a wonderful job," she assured him, "but I am not only a lady. I am a shape-shifter. And what seems vulgar to some of the nobility is perfectly acceptable to me. So if you're still worried about my honour, don't worry as much."
The captain flushed and bowed his head. "Understood. By your leave, m'Lady."
Miranda bowed her head, and Raythor returned to the fire.
"What'd she say?" growled Frost.
Raythor cleared his throat and replied, "She asked I'd keep it in confidence."
"Humph! If she said I got fresh with her," Frost said, "she's a bigger liar than even Lord Cedric was."
Raythor scoffed and glanced at Miranda, who cast a brief smile toward the men before resuming her game. The captain shook his head. By no measure did he think that her choice in a close companion was wise, but he would let Frost's brutish behaviour speak for him. After all, an honourable man knew when to desist, especially when commanded to do so by a lady.
Disclaimer: The fanfiction writer does not own any portion of Disney's W.I.T.C.H. and does not make any monetary gain from this fanfiction.