"The Keepers of the Void" –A Fable III fanfiction
By Kelly Sedai
Chapter One
"A queen is a creature of beauty and aristocracy. Elegant and refined at all times, her every action sings of grace and sophistication. A queen is a figure to be looked up to, to be admired. She is to be in touch with the proletariat, of course, but always above them, out of reach and idolised. A queen," spat Hobson slamming a pasty hand onto the lacquered table. "Should not be found cavorting in a back alley tavern with inbred commoners and later emptying her stomach in the throne room!"
"Please Hobson, quiet down. My head is pounding enough as it is; it doesn't need a lecture as well." The young queen buried her head in her hand, praying that the divine forces above would strike her down already. As fond as she was of life, living to a ripe old age just wasn't worth the reprimands from a stuck-up butler and the hangover that was currently threatening to split her head clean in two.
"With all due respect, your Highness, I will not 'quiet down'! Do you know how many guardsmen were sent in search of you after you left the castle- with no warning I might add! Not even a note left behind!"
"More than was necessary, I'd imagine," she muttered under her breath.
Hobson glared at her and continued as if she'd said nothing. "For all our knowledge, your Majesty could have been lying in an Old Quarter gutter with her throat slit!"
She lifted her head to regard him blearily. There had to be some way to shut him up. She could always set fire to his breeches. Yes, that could work. "I just felt like a drink, Hobson. And I wasn't under the impression that the reigning Monarch needed her subordinate's permission before stepping out."
"She does when there is a risk of danger to her life. You are a noble woman- a queen- who could fetch a pretty price if abducted. The Darkness may be gone, but there are other dangers and threats in abundance out there. Royalty bleed and die like everyone else, your Majesty." He sniffed disdainfully. "Besides, if my Lady had wanted a drink, there are plenty of inns more reputable than that new tavern in the Old Quarter. It's been open only a fortnight and has already garnered such a reputation! Honestly, the very thought of our dear queen drinking ale with stall vendors and house husbands!" He shuddered delicately. It was astounding how he could make the simplest of words such as 'ale' and 'house husbands' sound like the most grave of insults towards her entire ancestry.
"I'm in no mood to discuss this further, Hobson. You have proposals that need to be reviewed, do you not?" The balding man's expression soured at the abrupt interruption of his rant and he handed her the creamy sheafs of paper. She quickly glanced through the contents, absorbing as much information as her aching brain would allow. Settle a common extra-marital affair dispute; an insulting letter from Arthur that somehow managed to slip through; another plea for more guards; a proposal to build a stadium and professional training grounds for Albion's fastest chickens- the sport has become surprisingly popular amongst Albion's citizens for reasons the ex-revolutionist couldn't possibly fathom.
She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. All of this seemed so… insignificant now. The Crawler had been defeated six months ago. Bowerstone had been rebuilt and was back to its rather pungent self, the villagers had slipped back into their routines and were more at ease, and those blasted gnomes were finally gone. Life had gone on. But now her task as queen felt so dreary and mundane. The time of difficult decisions and painful choices was gone. There was no longer the need to fortify Albion against a monstrous enemy, nor was there the urgency to recruit and train troops for an upcoming war. Her role as queen now consisted of signing paper work and debating whether her country was ready for arena dedicated to the deadly sport of chicken racing. She missed the adventure, the thrill of leading a rebellion, of leaving the only home she'd ever known for some vague notion of justice and what was right. She missed wading through the fetid sludge in sewers in search of wedding rings and crashing undead parties which, ironically, were rather lively. She even missed the feeling of sheer terror that can only be experienced when a balvarine's screaming face is inches away from one's own, and the foul smelling blood spray that follows when one's blade finds the way to its throat.
"…Highness? Are you with us, your Majesty?" The Hero was broken out of her reverie by Hobson's small face peering into her own.
"I apologise, my mind was elsewhere," she replied with a grimace. "Was there anything else?"
"Yes my Liege. Reaver has returned and is requesting an audience with you at your earliest convenience. Not that I mean to step above my station, your Highness, but I suggest that your earliest convenience be now. If I'm not mistaken, I heard gunshot downstairs not five minutes ago."
Reaver. Just what her poor, ailing head needed. "Send him up now, Hobson. I'd best deal with him before he gets out of hand." She winced as the unmistakable sound of a pistol punctuated the end of her sentence. "And do it quickly." She downed a glass of water as her butler scurried out of her quarters, hoping that the refreshing drink would leave her better able to deal with Reaver. Where had Reaver been? The man had simply abandoned them when the Crawler invaded, claiming an important annual meeting as his reason. She has been furious at the time- his skill with arms would have been most useful- but now she was rather curious as to what and where this meeting was. But still rather annoyed.
She could only guess as to why he was requesting an audience with her- she rather hoped he didn't intend to push the topic of building a brothel again. It never ceased to amaze her how Reaver could make something as corrupt as a brothel sound like the solution to hunger, poverty, and any other affliction the world may suffer from. He spun words as deftly as the most talented of spinsters spun wool. 'Silver-tongued' didn't quite seem an adequate description- the young monarch was far more convinced that his entire mouth was made of gold.
Hobson returned rather red in the face and gasping for breath, clearly having had to run in order to meet Reaver before he further terrorised the Castle. She remembered his first visit to the castle, when Logan was still in power. Reaver had managed to shoot a member of the Royal Guard in the foot, make the cook- a solid man tougher than any mercenary- burst into tears, and caused a rather large brawl between four of the serving girls, each believing that they had slept with him first.
Hobson cleared his throat loudly. "Sir, the Queen permits your entrance," he announced breathily, still not quite recovered from his dash to the lower floors. "May I present to you: Her Majesty, the Queen of Albion and First Sovereign of Aurora!" A white clad figure strolled through the ornate door, twirling a pistol in a jovial manner.
"Ah, my Dearest Queen," Reaver grinned wolfishly. "How delightful it is to see you again!" This was going to be a long day, she could feel it.
So how am I doing so far? This is going to be one hell of a ride I tells ya, though I am completely petrified as I've never written a multi-chaptered fic before. Also, I've never attempted to write anyone like Reaver before, so any help offered with writing his character is especially appreciated.
I'd imagine a few of you are wondering why Hobson's still around. Turns out the Crawler's invasion had him bricking it, so he did what seemed natural- he hid in the kitchens and pilfered food (confusing many members of staff) until he was discovered a month after the attack finished.
Also I made up the Auroran title. I just can't see a country wanting to be that integrated into another culture.
Reviews are very much appreciated, and I swear I'll start responding to them. Until next time, friends!