WARNING: This fic is a sequel. If you have not read my fic, A Marriage of Inconvenience, some things will probably not make sense. This also contains crucial spoilers to that fic. Go read that first. Secondary warning: If you have not read MoI recently, you might want to go read it as I have entirely rewritten it as of Christmas of 2016. Final warning: This fic is very close to Traitor's Keep. If you do not want spoilers for that DLC, you might want to exercise caution in proceeding. Cheers.


Disclaimer: Still don't own Fable. I should, though; we'd have a new game.


One:
Death and Taxes

Nails—talons, clawing chasms into her flesh. Rivers of scarlet drenching her limbs in warm stickiness. Long fingers clenched tightly around her throat. She could see her reflection in the gilded mirror to her right: nightgown clinging to her sweat-drenched body, heels digging into her mattress, and fingers scrabbling to claw at the hands of an invisible tormentor.

"There is nothing left for you," it crooned, grip tightening with every effort she made to struggle. "Poor lost lamb…embrace the Darkness...ours is the way of love…ours is the way of death…."

No! No, get out! Get away! You're not welcome here!

"It is you who is unwelcome, tainted, worthless…hush now…why must you try so hard? We are inside you…we have brought you peace. Death is so easy and soon there will be nothing left…"

Her Will filled her veins, adding to the painful pressure at her throat. There was nothing to direct it to. Her vision began to ebb—fog swirling before her eyes. No….

It chuckled, low and euphoric, as it murmured, "Do you feel the joy the Darkness brings you? Do you feel it crawl through your veins? Tell me…tell me how it feels…." It loosened its grip just enough for her to cough on a breath. "Tell me…."

"It…it feels…it feels like this." Will pooled in her hands, exploding outwards in a burst of pale, bright light. The pressure on her throat and chest vanished. Screams of agony tore through her mind, making her head throb and ears bleed. Her body burned as though she'd been lit aflame.

When the light faded, she was left alone and weak. Breaths coming in short gasps.

"I warned you…I warned you…," she whispered over and over again, panting as she collapsed against her mattress; dampened with sweat and blood.

And there she lay, alone and bleeding in the dark, until the dawn finally came.


"Stop shoving!"

"Quiet down!"

"You shove off!"

Dusk in Bowerstone and the stars were already out—silvered freckles glittering through a haze of cloud. Though those that lived in the expansive manors perched along the road to the castle were beginning to settle in for the night, those who dwelled in the city below were showing few signs of quieting down. The pubs were full to bursting with patrons—both travellers and Bowerstone residents. A fisherman was making a futile attempt at selling the last of his spoiled wares. A baker in the Old Quarter was handing out the last of their unsellable bread to a beggar. For the moment, everything seemed to be proceeding as usual…with the exception of the crowd gathered outside Bowerstone Castle. They'd been gathered there for a few hours and were making no attempts at dissipating.

"Her Royal Majesty is not holding court today!" a guard finally managed to proclaim over the din of the group gathered at the base of the stairs. He was an unremarkable-looking man with a bored voice that suggested this was not the first time he'd made such an announcement today. "Please disperse and go about your business elsewhere!"

Jericho sighed, edging through the disgruntled crowd. Men and women in their simple work clothes stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder with nobles draped in opulent finery and beggars clad in rags; every one of them clamouring to be heard by their Queen. Jericho was of mixed opinion on the crowd's presence. On one hand, such a varied group of people kept attention away from her and her work leathers. On the other…they disconcerted her, setting her nerves on edge. She did not have time for this. Back home, there were cases to be solved—people she knew for a fact were in trouble—and suffering through this mob just to speak to Queen Victoria for a few moments wasn't entirely worth it. However, she also had vital information for Her Majesty, so she had little choice but to endure.

"Why not?" someone called to the guard.

"Because Chamberlain Hobson has declared that today is a good day to take care of important matters of state," the guard replied evenly, looking as though he regretted every moment of his life as fresh complaints arose.

"Then you can tell Chamberlain Hobson to kiss my hairy arse!"

"Excuse me," Jericho murmured to the guard as she finally reached his side. "I understand you are busy, but I need to go in. I need to speak with Her Majesty."

The guard grimaced, tobacco-stained teeth gritting as if she'd just insulted his mother. Exasperated, he replied, "Ma'am, I'll tell you what I've told everyone else: I can't let you in unless you work here or have an invitation."

"I have an invitation," she informed him briskly, reaching into the pocket of her woollen cloak and retrieving an envelope bearing the Queen's personal seal. Jericho handed it over carefully, making an effort not to touch him, and stuffed her hands into her pockets once the envelope was safely in the guard's possession.

He opened it and looked it over, ignoring the shouts and insults being hurled his way, before turning his gaze warily back up to her. "What did you say your name was?"

"I did not state it, but it is Serafina Dubois. I assume you were informed I might arrive?"

The guard glanced questioningly over at his counterpart—a thin, pockmarked man with enormous mutton chops—and waited as he flipped through a pamphlet. After a few moments of exceptionally slow page turning, the thin guard looked up and gave a short nod.

"Right," the first guard said, knocking hard on the castle's door exactly twice. "Seems in order."

"Hang on! Why does she get to go in?!" someone in the crowd fumed.

"Because she has an invitation, you daft chit!" the guard snapped, temper clearly beginning to reach its limit.

"I have an invitation!" a man put in hopefully.

"Your mum's knickers, you do!"

The door cracked open just enough for a servant—who appeared no more pleased by the crowd than Jericho or the guards were—to poke their head out and frown at the guard. "What?"

"She has an invitation and needs to see the Queen," the guard explained, gesturing towards Jericho almost helplessly. The detective was beginning to wish she truly was invisible.

"They're still arguing," the servant replied dryly, moving to close the door.

The guard sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "Just take her in. Her Majesty said petitioners with an invitation could wait in her study."

"You sure you want to come in?" the servant queried, turning her frown on Jericho instead. "They've been at it since breakfast. Even Cook's about fed up."

Jericho glanced up at the sky. It was swiftly growing darker, stars growing more pronounced. She didn't mind the night—it was actually her preferred time of day to do anything—but the air was quickly growing colder, reminding Albion's residents that, despite the snow having melted, it was still technically winter. Perhaps the petitioners and courtiers will have no choice but to leave soon. She would not have bet on it, though. "Then they should be finished soon, should they not?"

Muttering under their breath in blatant disapproval, the servant straightened up and pulled the door open further. Jericho thought she caught the murmur of "on your own head be it" as she began her ascent up the last of the steps. A commotion swelled behind her once more and, alarmed, she half turned toward it, wishing she'd thought to bring her walking stick. Her concern was for naught. A man had attempted to follow her but now found a guard and his rifle standing much too close for anyone's comfort. Sighing, Jericho followed the servant inside.

"Look here," the guard barked. "I'll only say it once more: the only way you're getting in here today is if you've got an invitation, you need to get in for work, or…maybe if you're an accountant."

"I'm an accountant!" someone called out.

"Then…could you…maybe help me with my taxes?"


"No; absolutely not!" Victoria snapped, barely managing to keep from putting her head in her hands and rubbing at the bridge of her nose. She was exhausted…and furious. To this day she didn't understand what Walter had been thinking when he'd hired Hobson. The man reminded her of a toad—short, fat, and slippery—though he was greedy enough to put a magpie to shame. Not to mention he had the worst ideas for how to run a country…and that was even taking into account the ones Reaver—whom Victoria had long ago come to regard as bad decisions in a good suit—came up with. "Firstly, that is absolutely repugnant! Secondly, even if I could find enough merit in this to even consider suggesting it to the Court, everyone in this castle would be dragged into the streets and hanged!"

"But, Your Majesty, if we taxed the people per every child in their household, it would—"

"I don't give a damn what benefit you think it might have! I have no desire to alienate my people or make things harder for those whose lives are already difficult!"

"Then we have no choice but to raise the tax further!" Hobson insisted, ruddy jowls wobbling slightly in his fervour. Victoria had never seen him so adamant before, but it did nothing to sway her position. If anything, it made her wonder if someone was paying him to push their views. Reaver? No, it didn't sound like him. One of the other noble families, then? Perhaps someone else who had supported Droogan's failed campaign? That sounded a bit more likely, but still raised a question of exactly whom.

"We will do no such thing!" she shouted back, feeling a faint stirring of her Will in response to her growing ire. "Even without collecting taxes for this year, the treasury is full enough that we could renovate much of Albion and Aurora without risk of running out of gold—much less what's needed for actual upkeep. There is no reason to raise the tax levels or implement extreme measures. And there will be no further discussion on this."

They both fell silent—Victoria seated on the stairs leading up to her currently empty throne, documents littering the ground around her in neat stacks, and Hobson standing to her left, balancing several sheaves of parchment atop a slate. They both glared at each other, their egos clashing as they both silently willed the other to give in. And then Hobson seemed to remember himself and who he was challenging and the moment passed. He quickly tore his gaze away from her to stare down at his papers. Victoria couldn't help but take a measure of pride in that. There was only one person her glares had no effect on and she had no desire to expand the list to someone who was supposedly intending to help her.

"Very well, Your Majesty," Hobson finally replied in a tone like an oiled serpent, though something in his words suggested he wanted to sigh at her as he made a note. "I will ensure the policies remain unchanged." For now. Though he didn't say it, Victoria could hear the words clearly. She knew perfectly well the argument would resume next year and already was beginning to dread it. "And what shall I put for the school and academy budgets this year?"

Victoria picked up a few documents, rifling through them in an attempt to find the records of previous budgets. "What are they asking for?"

"The same as last year, I'd imagine."

"Then that's what we'll give them. As usual, set aside a buffer in the event additional funding is needed."

"I will do so. Ah—Bowerstone's University is requesting assistance in renovating its laboratories for their medical students."

Victoria frowned, rifling through her documents quickly to try and find the estimated sums. "Where—?"

"Page six, Ma'am."

"Oh! …oh." Frown deepening, she bit her lip. "How long would it take to refurbish…?"

"Structurally, I believe the estimation was nearly six months—the laboratories are in the oldest wing of the university, or so I'm told."

"Alright, then," Victoria said with a sigh. "Let them know we'll help with the structural repair. If they can't afford new equipment, they may petition once more when the wing is repaired."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The sound of Hobson's writing filled the room and Victoria stretched, wishing she were anywhere but there. So tired. Sleep refused to come most nights and the potions meant to help no longer did. Stress and overwork, she was certain, played part of the reason for her insomnia. Being possessed by a creature of the Void that wanted to use her as a puppet and delighted in making her relive her worst memories probably also had something to do with it. But it wasn't as though she could go tell anyone about that. If she was lucky, the citizens of Albion would call for her removal from the throne. If she was unlucky, they'd call for a removal of her head. Neither option was one she really favoured. What she really needed was a way to get the Crawler under her control—to either silence it for good or to ally it with herself. However, none of her research into the arcane had thus far provided any useful results.

Yawning and pushing several long strands of mahogany hair behind her ear, Victoria straightened up. A shiver slid down her spine as an icy breeze hit her bare neck. A…breeze? None of the windows or doors were open and there was no one else in the room but them. Something felt wrong. The big room was as stifling and oppressive as always—the wood panelled walls were stern and severe even with the portraits of people Victoria would never know hanging before them. The violet rugs were too thin to even hint at comfort and the suits of armour lining the hall—each mounted before a column—seemed like a solemn funeral guard. At this hour, the room was shadowy and the stained glass window heading the room was dull and almost lifeless. Nothing seemed to be out of place. But still her skin prickled as though she were under observation as she slowly scanned the room.

"Getting back to business, Ma'am; I believe Lord Reaver has an—" He paused at the finger being held up in his general direction and frowned. "Whatever is wro—?"

"Someone's here that shouldn't be; we're being watched," she replied, casually dropping her hand to reach for the long dagger in her knee-high boot. Her reach was interrupted as she flung herself to the side, only narrowly avoiding a throwing knife. She'd barely had time to spot a dark-clothed figure clinging to an alcove near the ceiling when she was pushed into action once more—stumbling almost to her feet to shove Hobson down and out of danger as another knife was loosed. "Hide!"

She shifted easily into a crouch and wrenched her dagger free of her boot just in time to see the figure drop down to the floor of the throne room, yanking his scarf from his mouth with one hand and drawing a sword with the other.

"What, by Avo…?" she murmured, trying to both ready herself and wrap her head around the intruder.

"Am I too late for an audience, Your Majesty?" he snarled, spitting out the honorific as though it tasted disgusting. As he slunk closer, she noticed his head had been poorly shaved and what few teeth he seemed to have were rotting.

"Who are you?" she enquired, mystified. Perhaps it was wrong of her, but she felt more bewildered than she did angry or afraid. She'd never had someone sneak in with the intention of harming her before—which, if she really thought about it, was surprising in itself. At the thought, a rush of fury swept through her; burning with ire that someone would dare attack them. No. No, not us. There is no us. Just me. I am myself and no one else, she told herself furiously. But there was an echo of laughter that was not her own behind her thoughts and the words felt uncertain.

Even knowing it was coming, she was not prepared for the ferocity with which he attacked her. He lunged and she attempted to dodge. It wasn't entirely successful. She felt a sudden, burning sting in her shoulder, but ignored it in favour of continuing to move. Eager to end this quickly, Victoria attempted to duck under his guard—if she could disable his sword arm, then she stood a chance of forcing answers from him. But it didn't work. He dropped his reach, swinging low, and Victoria was keenly aware that, had she been fractionally slower in stepping back, she would have been dead.

She finally managed to interrupt his sword with her dagger on the next strike, driving it away from her with less strength than she should have had. She could feel the shock of the impact reverberate through her arm. Worry followed it. Clearly this man was skilled, but he couldn't be skilled enough to best a Hero…could he? She didn't want to find out. This was getting far too risky. Stop fighting me, she thought, searching for the presence clawing at the back of her mind. He wants to kill us.

Yes…and why would you believe I desire you alive? the Crawler replied with a dragging hiss as Victoria countered another strike.

Because you won't survive without me.

She slashed at the would-be assassin's neck, driving him back and freeing up more room for her to manoeuvre . They were both out of striking range now, but Victoria was glad for it. She stepped away from him as he attempted to close the distance between them and skirted around him, looking for an opening. Spotting it, she angled her blade low and lunged forward. She'd been aiming for his left hip, but, only a split-second before she could connect, he brought his sword down on her dagger, forcing it away from him. The impact was jarring. Her hand throbbed, nearly causing her to drop her dagger. Distracted, she wasn't fast enough to get out of the way as he moved once more. His sword pierced her shoulder, biting deep. She could hear Hobson's concerned shout from wherever he was hiding as she bit back a scream. Pain seared through her veins, spreading through her shoulder blade and down her arm.

Her dagger slipped from numb fingers.

She felt a tug at her shoulder as he tried to free his sword. Arms protesting, she reached up and clamped her hands around the blade, holding it in place. Her breath returned to her. With as much calm as she could muster, she demanded, "Why are you doing this?"

He pulled once more at the blade and Victoria winced at the sting of sharp metal against her bare palms. Hurts….

Finally, he snarled, "I've waited years in a cell for this moment. It's time for Albion to truly be free. Will…it doesn't need the crown or the throne—it doesn't give you the right to rule the country! You're not a god! You're a relic! An' your monarchy has no place in this land!"

What the fuck is he going on about? The thought floated blankly about Victoria's head and she was uncertain whether or not it was purely her own. She…didn't understand. Certainly, some of her policies had not gone over well with the nobility, but she hadn't heard any complaints from ordinary citizens about things she had specifically done. Not even in the form of anonymous letters. Even Page seemed somewhat more trusting and content with her as of late. Had she been terribly wrong? Had she convinced herself that everything was going well in an effort to feel better whilst remaining blindly ignorant of true problems? What was she missing?

The Crawler, in contrast, was writhing—raging, struggling to be released. We are not relics! it swore, and Victoria could feel its darkness seeping into her Will; tainting it until the power building beneath her flesh felt almost uncomfortable. The Darkness was here first! More than gods! We are eternal!

Great, now I have two of them lecturing me, Victoria through dryly. To the Crawler, she added, I would much rather have some help right about now instead of inane babbling!

The stranger ripped the sword from her shoulder, cutting through her internal argument and slicing into her palms. Her vision swam. She sank to her knees, gritting her teeth against the pain and lamenting the loss of her suit. The blood would probably never wash out.

"I only wish General Turner was here to watch you die."

Victoria flung her hands up, tapping into her Will and pushing it outward just in time to halt the sword descending towards her face. She couldn't help the surge of satisfaction that swept over her as her would-be assassin's expression slowly turned from rage to confusion.

She'd had a theory, many months ago now, that the spells she already knew could be adapted to other uses depending on the intent and energy behind them. For example, by using only a small amount of energy, she could use her fire spell to automatically light candles as she entered a room (or reheat tea that had gone cold) or use her ice spell to numb a wound. On the other end of the spectrum, she could turn her lightning spell into a thunderstorm with enough energy behind it (it hadn't worked in full yet; she'd only managed to summon a very small cloud that had followed her around for most of a day and had drenched the carpets with rain—no one had been especially pleased by that development). In theory, the more spells she stuck together, the more results she could get from each attack. And, as wonderful as she was sure it would be the day that she had them all figured out and perfected, she was sure nothing would ever beat the feeling she'd had upon realizing that a low-level force spell maintained indefinitely was a shield.

She kept her eyes trained on the man, trying to think through her options. Time was running short. His confusion was already turning to frustration and fury once more as, again and again, his sword failed to penetrate her shield.

"I truly don't understand what it is you're accusing me of," Victoria told him, working to keep her voice even and civil, "but I can assure you, I haven't done anything." She pulled at her Will and let her spell loose with as much power as she could summon.

Her shield exploded outwards. The stranger was lifted off his feet and the unhealthy thud that echoed through the room as he hit a pillar across the hall almost made Victoria wince. The almighty clang! As he dropped onto the suit of armour at the pillar's base, completely ripping it from its stand, really did result in a wince…and additional pain for her already aching head.

Victoria could hear running footsteps and shouting in the hall, but paid them no heed. About time. She slowly retrieved her dagger and clambered to her feet, watching the now limp body warily.

"Is he…dead?" Hobson choked out and Victoria looked over to find him peeking out from behind her throne. His hair and ascot were dishevelled, but there was almost no other indications that he'd been panicking. Another time, she might have been impressed by the speed of his recovery.

"I doubt it," she replied. "Most likely unconscious…if we're lucky."

She crept forward, blade at the ready. Her heart pounded, annoyingly loud, in her ears. She was dimly aware she was holding her breath, but made no effort to release it. His chest moved steadily. His right leg, however, was clearly broken. His nose, as well. There wasn't enough blood for her to think his injuries were fatal. Good. She knew it didn't really mean anything—she wasn't a physician and there could easily be injuries she just couldn't see—but it gave her a small measure of comfort. Answers would be short coming.

Lowering her guard fractionally, she half-turned toward the throne. "Hobson, go fetch Nanny and—"

A gunshot. The bang made her ears throb. The pain in her side was minimal. Good, it went straight through. Hobson was screaming. Funnily enough, it somehow hurt more than being shot. The assassin now had a dagger buried in his clavicle. A gun she'd not previously noticed he'd had slipped from his fingers. And, in the now-open door between the throne room and the hall, Jericho stood horrified; her long braids a mess and her dark skin oddly ashen.

"Oh no," she heard Jericho lament as Victoria crouched down beside the dying man.

"You think you're safe now?" the man croaked, blood speckling his lips. "I came here alone, but I represent legions. You'll never defeat us all. We will kill you in the end."

"Perhaps…but you will not live to see it," Victoria countered, trying to ignore the trepidation that followed his words. Instead, she buried her dagger in his skull.

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Hobson seemed unwilling to crawl out from behind the throne. Head pounding, Victoria stood up once more, already feeling guilty about the blood now soaking into the carpets. Hobson and Jasper will be pleased, she thought absently. We might finally get new carpets. It didn't really make her feel better, though. Perhaps she'd offer her staff a bonus and a formal apology…but, first, she needed to get the room to stop spinning. With almost drunken steps, she made her way back to the short stair at the base of her throne and lowered herself until she was sitting on them—a good distance from what few of her papers were not scattered about the room.

"I apologise," Jericho murmured, having crept up to her side. "If I had not—"

"There's no need to apologise, Jer," Victoria replied, staring at the ruined room in dismay. "I should have anticipated he'd have more weapons than just a sword. I should have been more careful. And…thank you. For trying to keep me safe."

Jericho didn't smile, but her expression did momentarily soften. A minute or so passed before she finally said: "I think he was who I was intending to warn you about. One of my informants told me a strange man was looking for weapons and a way into the castle—I knew it was relevant, but it seemed unlikely."

"I'm surprised Rowan didn't try to beat you to me."

"Rowan…might have been the one who informed me." Jericho looked uneasily away. "I believe she is experiencing some manner of family drama."

"I know—her elder brother is my psychologist."

"…pardon, but I cannot imagine how those sessions must go."

Victoria hummed noncommittally, rubbing absently at the scar stretching from her brow to under the right side of jawline. The action was soothing and familiar but did nothing to help the situation. Hobson and the Crawler had both fallen silent, but that wasn't helping either. This was a mess. She was going to have to make a statement. There was going to be so much research and investigating to discover who else may want her dead. Inquiries would be made into her staff. New training would need to be scheduled for her guards. And…oh, Avo, I don't want to think about it.

Her heart was beating oddly, fluttering and unsteady. Her head was still pounding and her limbs felt like jelly. When she finally opened her eyes, the room was spinning worse than ever.

She licked her lips, mouth dry, and cleared her throat awkwardly. "Hey, Jericho?"

"Yes?"

"I think I need some help getting to Nanny." At Jericho's enquiring stare, Victoria added, "I think he may have poisoned me."


Author's Note: After millennia away from y'all...I'm back. :) Who's ready for everything to go to hell once more? If we've met before, I look forward to seeing all of you again. If we haven't, I look forward to seeing you around! I hope y'all enjoy. Usual rules apply: interest results in more chapters being posted, a lack of interest results in hiatus. Con-crit is always welcome, flames will be used to burn Oakvale to the ground. Again. Til next chapter. -waves-

Development Notes: Wow, it feels weird to be writing these again. Okay, so this is the only fic in the Shattered Albion that wasn't planned. I'd initially started on Blackout after finishing MoI's first draft, but my com ended up eating its first draft. When I finally felt up to rewriting it, I realized that the progression of Reaver and Victoria's relationship didn't make obvious sense to readers without me explaining the canon you don't see between fics. So...this is the bridge. Hopefully it explains some things. And, while I'd say this series when taken as a whole is slow burn, I think this one is more like a low simmer. An angry, punch-you-in-the-face-because-fuck-you, low simmer. -hides behind sand bags-

Additional thanks to my beta for editing this about four times in less than three months. You rock! Want to keep up with what we're up to and what fics are coming next? Follow me at raeofalbion on Tumblr.