Arthur stayed awake far after Alfred and Matthew retired. He lay in the sofa where Alfred had been, pondering the answers he had gotten out of the American. It would seem that the younger man knew the Nighteagle very well. Alfred could turn into a valuable mine of information. Arthur just had to make sure the mineshaft didn't collapse on him. Alfred was dangerous; that much, Arthur knew.
And then there were the answers themselves. When they had first met, Alfred described the Nighteagle as heartless, but his current answer disproved that. Arthur could only assume that feigning ignorance about the Nighteagle's personality was part of his cover. Yes, this man was certainly dangerous.
Arthur was interrupted from his musings by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The lieutenant looked up to see Alfred with a satchel slung acros his chest. "Going somewhere?" he asked.
"This is my house. I can come and go as I please."
"Just wondering."
Alfred sighed. "If you must know, I'm going to other villages aligned with the rebellion to tell them about Teal Company's tactics in dealing with us."
Arthur nodded. "That's understandable. Will you come back?"
"So that you can turn me in? I don't think so."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to turn you in, you dolt. Maybe I'll just miss your bloody personality. Did you ever think of that?"
Alfred snorted. "Right. See ya. Or not."
"Good luck, I suppose."
Alfred left the house. Arthur watched through the window as he retrieved his horse from the tavern and trotted out of town. With a pang, Arthur realized that he really would miss the American. There was just something about him that drew the soldier towards him.
Arthur decided to get some rest. If he knew anything about Gilbert, he certainly knew that the Heartian loved publicity. He would probably send soldiers from house to house, rousing people to watch the execution.
Arthur slept fitfully. He missed the warmth Alfred had radiated, missed the man's tossing and turning, even missed his damn snoring. Without all of that, the night seemed...empty. Lonely. Dark and scary, merciless and cold. The night was not young. It was never young. It was old, older than thunder, older than the day itself. The night watched over all.
It watched over Arthur when he was woken by knocking at the door. Arthur hastily threw his uniform on and rushed out before Matthew had even had a chance to fully open his bedroom door. Gilbert wouldn't want one of his officers to be late.
In the square was the gallows, grim and menacing, awaiting its next prey. Arthur repressed a shudder as the noose swung back and forth, back and forth, as though eager to snare a victim. A sense of horror washed over the soldier.
He took his place beside the captain, who was standing at a podium opposite the gallows. People began to pour into the square, their faces grim. They didn't want to watch this, but they didn't want to be arrested, either.
Once the town square was nearly full, a pair of soldiers led Sage Alicia out before Gilbert. The librarian held her head high, her old, wrinkled face unafraid in the face of death.
"Any last words, Sage?" Gilbert asked. The woman did not respond. "No pleas for freedom? No begging to be spared?"
Out of the silence of the crowd, a lone voice shouted, "She's a mute, you prick!" Gilbert grinned.
"Well, that just makes my job easier. Take her up!"
The soldiers walked the Sage to the gallows, but with her proud march, it seemed almost as though she were leading them. Up the steps she walked, never stumbling, not a single gray hair out of place. Her back was straight when she stood on the platform and the soldiers lowered the noose around her neck.
A black-fletched arrow whizzed from behind Arthur. He and Gilbert spun around only to watch another arrow fly at them and embed itself into Gilbert's left eye. The captain fell over. Arthur drew his sword to face the attacker.
Out on the bluff where Arthur had first seen the village, the archer sat on horseback, clad all in black. A hood covered his head, and a bandana hid everything but his eyes. His eyes, oh, light, his eyes. Azure met verdant. Azure narrowed while verdant widened.
"No," Arthur whispered. "It can't be."
The Nighteagle turned his horse and galloped away, leaving Richmond behind. Arthur watched him, still in shock. He vaguely registered someone helping Gilbert stand, heard the captain order the hanging to proceed as if in a dream.
Someone shook him. He turned to face Gilbert, who had pulled the arrow out of his eye socket, the red eyeball still speared on the bolt. The captain ripped off a note tied to the shaft and held it up to Arthur's face. The words, written in a scrawled hand above the Nighteagle's calling card, made Arthur's blood run cold.
EXPECT ME.
That was sloppy, Alfred thought as his horse galloped onward. That was really, really sloppy. Arthur definitely recognized me. I hope Matthew got my note in time. If all went well, Matthew would be on his way to a nearby city. Arthur wouldn't be able to arrest him for conspiracy.
When Alfred reached a clearing in the woods surrounding Richmond, he stopped. he slid off his horse and set up camp, lighting lanterns and hanging them on branches of nearby trees. A fairy-light camp, it was called. Back in the early days of Spades, when people still believed in magic, soldiers and hunters would set up camps in this way. Legend said that the lanterns attracted fairies of light that would fight off evil spirits while you slept.
Alfred reclined against a tree, watching the sun rise on the misty morning. The light haze made the forest seem ethereal and otherworldly, giving the trees a kind, mysterious nature. Songbirds took up their craft, flitting from branch to branch and calling to each other. Alfred whistled along with their tune. Life went on.
Alfred's hand shot to his bow when he heard movement. The sound of footsteps - many footsteps - thundered in his ears. Someone had given him away. He stood up and nocked an arrow.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw who it was. Members of the rebellion, led by Steve, were heading toward him and his fairy-light camp, cloth sacks tied to their belts. Adrenaline surged through Alfred's veins. This is it. We're finally going to fight. We're finally staging a revolution. This is what I've been waiting for my entire life.
"Hey, guys!" he greeted as they approached. "We're finally doing this, right?"
"That's right," Steve answered.
"And I'm gonna be your valiant leader, right?"
Steve suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Well, uh, not...not quite."
Alfred frowned, all the laughter leaving his face. "What do you mean, not quite?"
"Alfred, you're a great leader and an even better assassin, but you're...you're...you're just-"
"What he's trying to say," the local blacksmith, Tony, interrupted, "is that you're too volatile. Like me. So you're going to be the figurehead. The real leader is going to be Pat."
Pat stepped forward. He was a tall, red-headed man, even taller than Alfred, but he had a very gentle nature. "You'll motivate the people," he said in his quiet voice. "I'm just working behind the scenes to make plans."
Alfred felt a huge, festering pit within him. His dream had been to lead the revolution and bring his people to freedom. He had worked every day of his life to achieve that dream, improving upon himself and training for hours, taking the jobs no one else would take in order to prove himself. He felt betrayed. So horribly betrayed.
But he wouldn't endanger the cause just because he was upset. Alfred would prove to them that he was not volatile, that he was a far better leader and strategist then Pat could ever dream of being. He would show them all that he deserved to be their leader.
Alfred kept his face composed as he extended a hand to Pat. "I look forward to working with you." Pat took his hand and shook it. Steve and Tony exchanged looks.
"So, what do we do first?" the assassin asked.
"First? Uh... Well, right now our numbers are too low to do anything. We should send out messengers to gather rebels from other villages. People should also start mass-produced uniforms." Pat looked around uncertainly. "Uh, I guess... Maybe you could pick who does what?"
Alfred nodded. "You got it." He raised his voice. "Listen up! We've got some important stuff to do to get this revolution off the ground! Now who here is ready to fight the Spadean soldiers?" A loud cheer rose up from the crowd of rebels. "Your enthusiasm is great! But let's face it. We have no weapons, no training, no uniforms. We're hopelessly outnumbered right now. So here's the plan to change that!"
"Cauthon family," he said, referring to the family of horse traders, "take your best horses and send word to the other villages. Gather as many rebels as you can and bring them here. Carpenters, build some shelter for when the newcomers arrive. Traders, get as much good steel as you can. Get to working on making weapons and armor as soon as you can, Tony. Anyone who knows how to sew is making uniforms. Anyone who can make arrows, start a construction line and get to mass producing. Anyone who can't do any of that will alternate between hunting, going down to town for news, and training with Steve. Got it?"
The roar of agreement was thunderous. Alfred grinned. "Get to it!"
Everyone dispersed to their given tasks. Pat watched carefully. "You're good at this," he commented. "Really good at this."
"I've had practice. You'll learn." Alfred smiled internally. It seemed that he wouldn't be the figurehead, after all.
AN: Guyssssss you aren't reviewing and I don't know if I'm doing something wrong! Alerts and favorites are great, but it doesn't help tell me what I'm doing wrong or what you really like about the story. I want to improve this thing as much as I can!
In other news, my hands are totally ripped up from rowing. It's getting difficult to type and hold a pen. Wish me luck.