The sky is grey, rain falling gently to the blood-soaked earth. The air is heavy and still. She feels…empty, as though all feeling has drained into the earth with her blood. The blood of Albion's Necromancer Queen. And the blood of her only heir.
She wonders idly if the child inside of her is gone, if their life has faded already. A sudden crack of thunder and the rain falls harder.
The water is cold and chilling. I am going to die here, surrounded by slain enemies and my fallen soldiers.
She manages a light chuckle. It's not a bad way to die. She has killed many and now she will go to the halls of Avo. She is curious what the feasting hall will look like…will there be other children for her little one to play with?
Albion will be without a ruler, at least until her advisors choose a replacement. Lord Marcus Aventus from Oakfield would be a good fit… She smiles at the thought of his kind brown eyes and mischievous smirk.
Such a shame she had not bedded him. He would have made a fine consort, she is sure.
Her limbs feel so heavy and she hardly hears the sound of hoofs dashing through mud. She closes her eyes, and breathes out.
Thunder rumbles overhead as the patrol scrambles through the woods soaked by the rain and slipping in mud. Marcus hisses curses under his breath as the patrol skirts the edge of a swollen stream. The reports of creatures coming from the forests had not been good. The skirmishes had been growing more and more frequent, and Albion cannot afford to lose its Queen.
Not now, when she is six months gone with child. She had insisted on overseeing the placement of new ward lines at the edges of what was once Oakvale.
"Unless you can raise the dead as I can, you cannot place the wards, Aventus. I can and I am going. Unless you'd like to try and stop me?"
Flashing red eyes glare down at him from where she sits on her favorite mare, Lamae.
"At least take guards, Your Grace, please."
She sighs, fingers tightening on her staff. The gem seems to flicker with an eerie light.
"I am not an idiot, Aventus. I will have more guards if you think it is necessary, although I am perfectly capable of raising my own."
"I was not saying that you were incapable, Your Grace."
"I would hope not. I will see you when I return. Tell Walter not to run the country into the ground while I'm gone."
"I will, Your Grace. Be safe."
A soft, tantalizing laugh. "You worry too much, Marcus. At this rate, you'll go grey before you're thirty."
He flushes.
"Much better," the Queen says grinning, turning her horse towards the gates. The weak spring sunlight makes her hair shimmer like ebony. Her guards flank her.
"To Oakvale!" the monarch calls and spurs Lamae onwards.
The patrol reaches the edge of Oakvale. Blue ward lines shimmer on the ground. The Queen has been here. The wards have been reset, keeping the undead from shambling forth from their watery graves to terrorize Albion.
Marcus lets out a sharp breath. An Albion soldier lies across the glowing lines of Will. His throat has been ripped out, blood splattering the ground.
Another is nearby, clawed nearly in half. Bile rises in Marcus' throat even as his blood chills in his veins.
Where is the Queen?
Thunder crashes again, the rain intensifying. "Fan out, weapons at the ready!" Marcus orders. "Find the Queen!"
Twenty minutes past the wards, after finding only blood and the bodies of the Albion guards, a guard calls for him. "Lord Marcus!"
"Have you found her?!" he calls back, fear and worry coursing through him as he dismounts.
"No sir, it's her horse. Looks like a werewolf got it."
Marcus growls in frustration. "Any sign of the Queen?!"
"None, sir!" the soldier replies. "We'll keep looking!"
Ten more minutes in. Still nothing but blood and rain and dirt, corpses around every bend. Oakvale has been sinking into the bog for years now, only death and rot exist here.
Marcus pauses, squinting through the fog. He had seen something; he was sure of it. A glimmer of gold…
He rushes forwards.
She is as stone, unmoving. Her staff is still in her hand. Sweet Avo, there is so much blood—
"OVER HERE!" he screams, uncaring if he sounds like a bloody banshee. Is she even alive? What of her child?
"Your Grace? My Queen?" he gasps, trying to find a heartbeat. He almost cries, feeling a faint flutter against his fingers. Marcus rests a palm on her swollen stomach, and chokes as the weakest of kicks reassures him that the child still lives.
For now.
"Great Avo!" a soldier swears behind him. "Is she…?"
"Is all of the patrol here?" Marcus asks, pulling the travel token from his pocket. Emergencies only, was what Walter had said, giving him a cool look. Well, this definitely qualified.
"Yes, sir!"
"Everyone crowd around, we're taking a short-cut back and I don't want to leave anyone behind," Marcus says, carefully maneuvering his arms around the Queen.
The soldiers comply and Marcus sends the coin spinning upwards, focusing on one thing and one thing only. Bowerstone Castle.
Warmth, someone was holding her hand. A sharp snap inside her, and she hisses in pain.
"Your Grace?" She knows that voice. Marcus.
"The child?" she gasps, not opening her eyes.
"They yet live, Your Grace. As do you."
"Obviously," she drawls and opens her eyes just a hair. Marcus is indeed holding her hand. His brown eyes are worried, lips pursed in a frown.
"…The guards," he says softly.
"Dead, I know," she says, opening her eyes fully. "The werewolves came from the forest as we were finishing the wards.
"They got two before I raised the wards and ordered a retreat." She sighs. "We weren't expecting them to follow. I had thought them scouts. Not the first wave. I was wrong."
"It is an honest mistake," Marcus says, squeezing her hand.
"Men died because of it!" she growls. "Because I ordered them to! A Queen cannot put herself before her people!"
"They knew what they signed up for," Marcus argues. "They died protecting their Queen and her heir. They did their duty."
She slumps back against her pillows, wincing.
"I'll send for the doctor," Marcus says, rising and releasing her hand. He turns towards the door.
"Marcus?"
"Yes, Your Grace?" he says, not moving, eyes fixed on the door.
"Who found me?"
"I did, Your Grace," Marcus answers, his voice hoarse as the scene flashes through his mind—how pale she was, soaked in blood and rain, surrounded by corpses. Her bright eyes closed and at first glance he had thought her dead as well and a great despair had welled up inside him.
"Ah," his Queen says softly. "It was bad then?"
"I thought you dead," he replies.
She gives a soft hum. "Come here, Marcus."
"Your Grace?" he asks, confused. As he turns around, she smiles at him, red eyes luminous in the flickering lights of the many candles that are around her room.
"Come here."
She gestures him closer and he resumes his seat.
"You care for me, yes?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
She laughs, the sound weaker for her current state.
"More than you'd like to admit?" she questions.
"…Yes, Your Grace," Marcus says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
She extends a slim, calloused hand out and he grasps it.
"My Queen?" he asks.
"Stay?" she requests. "Please."
"As you wish," he says, pressing his lips to her knuckles.
A small smile curves her lips, and she slips away.
A week later and the castle descends into utter chaos.
The Queen rises at last from her bed and helped by Marcus, makes her way to the throne room.
Apparently, Walter has had a hard time dealing with some of the more irritating nobles. The Queen's magic erupts, manifesting as purple flames that summon spirits and undead to her command.
When the flames clear, moments later, twenty skeletons stand ready at the edges of the room.
"ENOUGH!" the Queen roars, and in the sudden silence, her voice echoes. "If I have to deal with one more puffed-up, idiotic, simpering, moron, I will not hesitate to start murdering people!"
Marcus pales.
"Your Grace," he begins then shuts up as she whirls on him. Her staff glows with eerie red light.
The same color, Marcus notes, as her eyes. She turns back to the nobles.
"As I am currently somewhat indisposed, Sir Walter is regent in my stead. You will obey him as you obey me, is that understood?! Instead of acting like children!"
Her summons rattle threateningly, weapons shining. The Queen growls.
"Am I clear?"
There is a bobbing of heads. Walter turns to the Queen.
"I am sorry to disturb your rest, Your Majesty. Thank you."
The Queen waves a hand. "Don't let it happen again."
"Of course."
The child is born the night a storm hits the castle, wind lashed branches scrabbling at the stained glass as maidservants run to and fro, gathering all the necessary things for a birth.
Marcus is awake, if only because Walter had woken him when the Queen went into labor. The advisors are gathered in the round room where the Queen often planned war strategies.
A scream can be heard even from down the hall.
"That does not sound good," Walter says, the soldier's brown eyes dark with concern as he leans against the wall.
Marcus hides a yawn behind one hand. "I'm sure the midwives know what they are doing."
"I hope so," Walter says, wincing when a shriek echoes through the walls.
Marcus nods.
Lady Irene smiles serenely from where she is sitting, reading the newest report on the werewolf threat, dark fingers brushing her even darker hair back over her ears.
"The Lady Queen will be fine. She is strong," the advisor says as another shriek of pain echoes through the castle's halls.
Marcus is nearly asleep by the time a maid knocks on the door, eyes bright and joyful.
"Tis' a son, Milords, Milady!" she babbles excitedly. "The Lady Queen has a son!"
"Wonderful!" Irene says, blue eyes alight with happiness. "Has she a name in mind?"
"Logan, Milady. She said his name is to be Logan," the maid hesitates then. "Milord Marcus, she is asking to see you."
"Me?" Marcus asks, rising from his chair.
"Yes, Milord, right away."
Frowning, Marcus follows her.
"Your Grace?"
"Marcus," she says. A maid bustles past Marcus, carrying a huge bundle of bloody sheets. He steps closer as the door shuts behind him.
"You called for me?" he asks.
"I did."
The Queen looks exhausted, dark hair tangled and face pale. Marcus crosses quickly to her side, noting the small bundle she cradles to her chest.
"Meet my son, Logan."
The babe is asleep, a dark tuft of hair gracing his head.
"Crown Prince of Albion," Marcus murmurs.
"Yes."
"Why am I here, my Queen?" Marcus asks, kneeling beside her.
"Because I wanted you here," the Queen answers, shifting her child in her arms and reaching out a hand towards him. Marcus carefully entwines their fingers together.
The Queen is a rather tactile person, favoring touch more than most. Marcus had discovered that she often would rest her hands with those of her closest friends and confidants. And only recently has Marcus been included into the group.
He kisses her knuckles, catching her smile out of the corner of his eye.
"Long may you reign, My Queen."
"My Queen?" Marcus asks from the door.
It is nearly midnight. The Queen is quiet, standing by her window and the moonlight makes her hair glimmer like an obsidian jewel, turning her eyes to crimson flames.
"Close the door, Marcus," she says at last, pale fingers beckoning him in.
He complies and follows her to the window.
"You called for me, Your Grace. Is something wrong?"
She smiles, pressing one hand to his cheek. He draws in a sharp, hissing breath at how cold she is, covering the hand with one of his.
"You're freezing," he says.
"You worry too much," she says and kisses him.
"My Queen," he gasps against her lips, hands curling into her hair, pulling her closer. He has dreamed of this but thought it impossible.
The Queen sighs, tongue brushing the edge of Marcus's mouth before she pulls away. Her eyes are bright and a smile dances on her well-kissed lips.
"Come with me, Marcus," she says, "Would you be mine?"
"Yes," he answers.
Forever.