A/N: So this story is mostly mapped out already, the outline has been on my laptop for maybe a year cause I'm a geek like that. Anyways, most of the plotlines come from bedtime stories, fairy tales, or Arthurian legend (try and guess! You can make a game out of it!), and I'll just lay out the general disclaimer that if you recognize ANYTHING it isn't mine.
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A FAIRY TALE
1
Katie dipped the frayed scrub brush into the pail of harsh, soapy water, a movement in a series of mindless repetition, then returned it once again to the brown slab stone of her lady's solar, moving the rough pig's hair bristles back and forth over the floor in well-practised execution. A cold light was painted across the open sky, colours having changed from jet to grey an hour passed, cloudless, with a heartless sun breaking over the mountains on the horizon, a wasteland of tangled forest between the town and those haunted peaks. She hadn't always been wont to describe her world in such bleak terms. Mistress Bell had seen Catchpole as a haven after escaping from the Creevey Holdings in the east with her aged grandfather and several other fearful wanderers ten years ago. The Weasley Kings were kind and gracious, appreciative of the natural magics someone like Katie could offer their household—unlike the Dukes Creevey, suspicious and distrustful of any power that didn't come from their own hands or mirrors, whom would have slaughtered a young Katie if her Papa hadn't the fortitude to escape the horrors of the war torn lands. She had been midwife to the Princess of Clearwater; the princes' had mourned with her at Papa's death. She was one of them—one of them despite the fact that the Weasley Kings ruled Catchpole now in name alone.
The reason for her despair was currently standing in the archway behind her—Katie had survived these last three years on instinct and spite and a bitter thread of hope—but she'd be damned to show one inkling of unease in his presence and instead continued to scrub. He had commented enough on her ass already, her breasts, her hair, and if more was to come then he could do so without disturbing her work.
"Och, Miss Bell. Such diligence at this early hour." His voice was like rancid lard rolling down her spine. Katie pushed her wash bucket further into the room, the sound of scraping metal keeping her grounded. Early? Only for a household under siege, too afraid to leave their rooms and uncertain of what was still considered duty and what was grounds for imprisonment.
"Work needs must be done, milord." Her tone was one of boredom, near dismissive. After…after…Once she had spat Bastard at him and found herself with a bloody lip and a week in the dungeon. She had cursed obscenities and swore revenge but in the end had learned it was better to remain silent and knowledgeable than be stuck in the dark. There were too many real fears to contemplate so far away from those she considered close enough to family: had her Ladies been…violated? Had her little Prince Arthur been put to the blade just like—Well. Katie knew all the answers now. There was a truce of sorts and for the most part she kept her mouth shut. For the most part.
"Aye, that's the truth." He walked slowly into the solar, boots clicking on the just-washed stone and unbearably too close for comfort. Katie had to rear back to sit on her legs or risk having a hand crushed under his heel. Lord Wood seated himself in the Princesses great padded chair with a fictitious lazy grace, the violet velvet clashing terribly with his gold and red doublet; a long dirk rested near his hip but she knew he could also swing a sword, she'd seen it. His legs extended, crossing at the ankles: Oliver looked down on Katie from his current throne with a cool smugness, a condescension mixed with what he would see as suave. Katie kept her blue eyes downcast, her jaw tight. "I missed ya last night Miss Bell. Where were ya?"
Katie didn't flinch, didn't give him the satisfaction. He wouldn't be asking if he didn't already know. "Why do ya insist on disobedience?" His fine-boned hands, long grasping fingers, rested comfortably over his stomach. "You left without an escort. We've been over this before." Katie inhaled a steadying breath; she would not rant and rave; she would not show herself to this monster.
"Your guards would not know fennel from dragon moss." Bored. Indifferent. "My Princess needed herbs quickly and I would not fail her."
"And yet ya would fail me." Her pail was kicked aside, shiny soapy water surging onto the stone and splashing the woven wall tapestries. He was deadly quick and Katie found her chin captured within those traitorous fingers. Eyes down, don't look. He matters nothing in the grand scheme. She would probably have bruises. "Your Lady made terms three years ago Miss Bell. Would ya break them after all this time and bring the wrath of my fool guards down upon Catchpole and this castle?"
The terms. Yes. Princess Penelope had shown more spine that night than any would have thought her capable, swearing to surrender the castle, to keep the lie that all was well, bow to Lord Wood and his vile blood brothers—all with a screaming child and wounded husband in eyesight. She swore to bend the knee if and only if her people were promised complete and utter safety; the smallfolk would continue to work the land and feed Wood's small but cutthroat band of soldiers, the brothel and the tavern remain, the status quo would be maintained without one hand raised to argue but not one woman highborn or low was to be taken against her will and no one was to be put to the sword. No one else. An easy occupation was most agreeable to Lord Wood and so the terms were met, both sides knowing that in the end little Prince Arthur was the trump card and that his life was supported on increasingly impatient wings.
"No, milord," Katie ground out. He tilted her head painfully up, forcing her to stand on her knees or else lean in to the bastard. Her knees could take the strain. She wasn't expecting him to lean down and lick a trail from jaw to temple though, her instinct to pull away overridden by his cruel grip.
"Fools and brutes, aye," he whispered. "But I am neither Mistress Bell." Oliver's thumb moved up and Katie had to close her throat to the rising bile while she fought the urge to bite the appendage off as it brushed over her lips. "Things could be so much easier if ya just listened to me." He released her and moved back, staring down with earth brown eyes that held no promise of warmth or future. Katie met them—foolishly—with all the hate she could muster.
"No."
She watched his jaw lock, body tense.
"No?"
"No…Milord."
Lord Wood stalked passed without another glance.
"Clean up this mess, wench."
2
Wine, warmth, and women. All three were plentiful in the Arrah-Dor, where grapes grew heavy on acres of lush vine—whites, reds, and greens forming a spotted rainbow on the foliage—a vividly golden sun hung like a mother's smiling face from the center of a cerulean sky, shining down on the robust populace that copulated like rabbits as far as King William and his northern army had laughingly observed. Wine, warmth, and women. Yes, even in the massive ivory and marble palace all three were plentiful, but, unlike in the open fields, clustered white-walled domiciles, and scorching desert spaces, inside the impressive home of the Sultan only the first two were offered willingly.
The Sultan Severus came from an ancient family line that once ruled boldly in lands further east than even those of the Creevey Holdings, his people plundered and destroyed by those selfsame evil Dukes and their soul rendering mirrors of misery. But what the man lacked in ancestral land he possessed in abundance his ancestral knowledge. Described often as bats, blood drinkers, spiders, and shadow dancers: they were poisoners and potion makers, cataloguers and collectors of vast libraries; their memories were solid like iron and steel but so were their oaths and loyalties. Severus had escaped to the south and married the late Sultan's incorrigibly intelligent daughter Princess Vectorla—not for love on either end but for money and power and possibility—and thus Severus of the Spinner Lords became Sultan of the Southern Lands of Arrah-Dor, a widower, and a father all in the same year. A father with a harem of female tutors for his beyond incorrigibly intelligent daughter all guarded by deadly female warriors trained since their first steps to hold a spear or bow: Crown Princess Hermione was not to be exposed to the unbridled lust of any man and if King William wanted the Sultan's wisdom and support in the Great War against the Malfoy's and Earl Greengrass then he would keep his northern men in line.
William did so William would. It wasn't as if he feared his soldiers would break troth with the glowering, sullen, seemingly humourless Sultan. No, they were all good men—proud and red-blooded yes, but with enough sense to find their pleasures elsewhere.
His brothers on the other hand…
If George and Frederick didn't exert some self-control over those overactive tongues Severus may very well demand them cut out—and the way things were going William might just let him. In shady corners, down gleaming midnight halls, and even between drills: the twins flirted with and beguiled almost every female to cross their path. It was an embarrassment verging on dangerous which William had set consequences for many times in the last four years; nothing of a dishonourable nature had reached either his or the Sultan's ears so far but it was only a matter of time; they weren't perfect and it would only take the wrong woman, the wrong corner, and William would be battling his chief supporter for the lives of his brothers…as annoying as they were.
He missed Charlie often. It was hard to be King, General, and Brother to so many men, even harder with three younger siblings depending on him to keep them alive through sword, sweat, and diplomacy. It would have eased William's burdens greatly to have Charlie—the so called Bear Prince—by his side; their stories were their own and not just words to entertain bored soldiers, bright-eyed brothers or a sickly sister; they remembered Old King Arthur and Queen Mollina perfectly and not just the sleeping malady that had claimed both their lives, left Ginevra a frail child-woman. The responsibility would not have felt so great with Charles' self-depreciating humour and booming voice, but William could not regret appointing his brother as Keeper of the Realm. There was a war to fight but Weasley must be kept as well and one could not find a better man to hold one's throne than Prince Charles. Perceval had the intellect to be sure, knew all the laws and accountability belonging to a ruler, but the younger man was more suited to his library than battle and, while appreciated, did not have the people's love quite like Charlie.
William grinned to himself while sipping a strong cup of black cocoa—a warm bitter drink of the Sultans making—watching the flickering embers in the low bronze brazier flash sprites and shadows along the white walls as he sat and waited for his evenings companion. Lack of prowess with a long sword had not hampered Percy where it really mattered, the prince the only one wed and titled Father out of six brothers. All had been convinced the fine-looking Princess of Clearwater had to come to Weasley to seek William's hand but instead she had asked to meet straightway the gentleman who had written to offer such moving condolences on the death of her adored father. The engagement had been indecently short and William had a nephew to prove Percy's other strengths.
A son or daughter: would he ever claim that privilege? William had had offers of marriage in the past, but, unlike everything else he was willing to sacrifice for his kingdom, his heart was not one of them and the King of Weasley refused to share half his self with a woman he did not love. Closing in on forty with a war near finished but only ravaged territories left in its wake, William doubted he could hold on to that ideal for much longer.
He cocked his red head at a noise from behind then smiled softly and stood to welcome his guest.
The Lady Fleur was Sultan Severus' honoured guest in Arrah-Dor, a refugee from the fantastically named and little-visited Angel Islands; a masterpiece of any sailor's story, the fabled ocean grouping was inhabited by winged beings twelve feet tall who sang songs fit to make a lion weep and sustained themselves on fairy violets, their breath perfumed with spun sugar and sunshine. Their homes were hive-like, made of gold and amethyst created through alchemical means gleaned from the Gods themselves. The Lady had found it hard to laugh at such nonsense when William had first tried his hand at conversation—no easy task when faced with such supposed grandeur. Covered completely within layered sheets of emerald silk and a hood of heavy satin, a gauzy veil concealing her countenance from even the sharpest eyes, The Lady spoke sweetly yet sadly of her Isles, the last of her kind in a strange land thanks to the greed and barbarism of a fleet of Greengrass warships.
Gold and amethyst and other precious gems they had—calmly mined by a peaceful, charming race and dutifully sacrificed to the Islands only deity, a feathered round-bellied girl who brought warm rains and the joys of love to al her worshippers—and fairy violets as well, though the Islanders were not fool enough to eat pretty poison when rich farmland supplied maize, wheat, rice, and the sweetest pear trees to ever touch the lips of mortals.
Severus had been tight lipped and humourless on hinted questions of fabled beauty, coldly informing William of his rules on lasciviousness for the one millionth time before suggesting he ask The Lady herself. The King of Weasley was not such a clod and enjoyed her conversation for years before cocoa was shared, thus giving William his first glimpse of naked flesh. Her hands were rough and red, joints swollen with skin akin to beaten leather, nails haggard, lips and chin cracked: William accepted his cup without a sound and The Lady made no mention of his too-wide stare. He could not believe she was an ancient relic, a bent and twisted crone on last legs withered by some crippling disease; her movements were graceful, elegant, her walk fluid, letting her slip in and out of shadow like a fluttering breeze. Were all her race afflicted so? Or had she been cursed by Greengrass sorcerers, burned horribly by plundering pirates as she fled? William had never been able to ask and The Lady never offered.
"I trust you spent the day well, my lady?" The Lady inclined her covered head and accepted a gilded cup of steaming cocoa.
"The weather was very nice and it was not too warm in my parlour. And you?"
They exchanged their regular pleasantries, comfortable silences, and William listened contentedly to The Lady's latest remembered anecdote about her people, her family, her younger sister—all gone. Her voice was calming, soothing, and at complete odds to her apparent appearance. William watched her racked lips slide over the cup's rim, leathered cheeks twitch and swallow; her smile was not a pretty one but the King felt neither revulsion nor suspicion as a superstitious man would. The Lady Fleur was a gently bred, intelligent, kind woman who had been subject to one cruel twist of fate after another. He laughed at her jape and put down his cup.
"My brothers would do well to hear your wit, my lady. Perhaps then they would stop doubting mine." He cleared his throat and laughed kind-heartedly. "They sometimes think you are a figment of my imagination, so seldom do they count your presence at meals or in the yard; they are rather sceptical of any real lady spending time in my company out of her own free will."
She was silent for a moment and even after so many years William thought perhaps he had overstepped himself or that his words would be misunderstood. When next she spoke her words surprised him, holding as it did such tentative curiosity.
"You speak of me to your brothers often?" The king swallowed but did not lie.
"Of course, my lady." She bit her bottom lip and for some reason he found this endearing. It somehow gave him the courage to ask again the favour. "They are good lads, protective, and would like to meet such an honoured guest of our gracious host, The Lady who occupies the majority of my evenings." They had always flirted easily with one another, a gentleman and a lady, but even William felt something about these words, could feel the intense look that came through her veils of silk.
"Those lads would truly doubt your wits once they saw what occupied your time." He furrowed his eyebrows, not liking her tone. He had brought them into dangerous territory.
"Would you judge all men so harshly, my lady? I have seen and I—"
"You have seen nothing!" She was up and away before he could blink, her harsh moments unnatural to his eyes, her fury displaying an arm of flesh to match her hands: burned, cracked, leathered. She spoke disgustedly in a language foreign to his ears—most assuredly a curse or ten—before taking a deep breath and turning once more to the bewildered king. "I have little cause to trust any man, Your Grace, but I had thought you…Do you ask this of me for your brothers or for yourself?"
William didn't know what to say and felt like an untutored boy than the seasoned warrior he was, mind as blank as what he oftentimes suspected Ronald's of being. How could this woman unman him so? Make him believe himself lower than the ants that congregated in the thousands in Arrah-Dor's deserts?
"My lady I meant no offence."
"No? Be sure to tell your brothers that."