Author's Note: Oh my God. Hello again, dear friends! I am too tired to write a proper intro; but know that I am so sorry for how long this chapter took, I missed you a great deal, and I sincerely hope that the next one can be written more swiftly. I love you all, and hope that you enjoy this next chapter!


Chapter Seven: Duty and Desire

Draaga

Someone was pounding on her door. Draaga stood with a heavy sigh and made her way to it slowly. It wasn't Elmont's knock, so there was nothing to hurry her steps.

It had been months since she'd last seen him on her front step. When she'd returned from Kaerregg, he had tried so hard to act as though everything was just as it had always been; but eventually her avoidance won out, and he gave her the space she pretended to wish for. She missed him. After all she had done to return to this horrid city, she was now more miserable than ever before.

Had she made the wrong choice?

She heaved open the door, its hinges groaning in complaint, to find Peters behind it. He looked weary, but granted her a tired smile.

"Sorry to bother you, Lady Draaga. The king asked me t'bring you to the throne room."

Draaga stifled a groan, idly waving him in as she turned back inside to collect her things. "What is it this time? Does he need me to help choose colors for his next portrait?"

The young Guardian chuckled softly, crossing the threshold into her home and leaning against the doorframe. "Can't say as I know, but I wouldn't put it past 'im. Wouldn't explain the cart full o' dead sheep in the courtyard, though… Least, I hope not."

She frowned, trying not to jump to conclusions though she now had her suspicions. She gathered up the mountain of papers, pens, and ink strewn about her table and tucked them into a leather satchel. Her axe and dirk found their way to her hips, their familiar weight granting her a small comfort. After a moment's hesitation, she grabbed the emergency bag she kept by the door as well, and slid the satchel inside. It had water, bread, and cheese in case of a sudden journey; but also a change of clothes and a few bathing items. She could smell rain coming, and maybe a storm with it, so she would stay with Isabelle tonight. That bag would come in handy in the morning.

"Dead sheep?" she asked, blowing out the candles on her table and dousing the fire, then following Peters outside.

"Yeah. A right rank smell, too. Can't believe the guy drove 'em all the way here, but I guess ye'd get used to it after a day's ride or two."

Draaga laughed, mounting her brown mare with what had become practiced ease. Peters was young and inexperienced as a Guardian, but had the temperament of a grizzled old curmudgeon, with little patience for the secondary duties of the job—like fetching whomever the king wished to see, and calming frenzied farmers after the loss of their crops and cattle.

"We all get used to the smell of Wicke; I wager he's worse than rotting sheep."

Peters snorted, trying to stifle a laugh. It was no secret that Roderick had spies all over the city, and few were comfortable with ridiculing he or his atrocious assistant out loud. Draaga did not fear them as the others did; for once, she was protected by her infamy, too public a figure for them to touch, and she could be open in her disdain.

"One day, milady, you'll have to watch that tongue," Jackson warned, but Draaga only grinned.

The rest of the ride was spent in near silence, Draaga's thoughts consumed with the contents of her satchel. The sun was just beginning to set, the merchants starting to pack up their wares, the people taking shelter from the dark. Thus their ride through the city was swift, and in hardly any time at all they had reached the castle's main courtyard.

As Peters had claimed, the smell of blood and decaying flesh filled the air, emanating from a cart piled high with the bodies of sheep, goats, and what appeared to be a small calf. An aging man stood before the cart, shouting at the king who stood on the steps before him. To the king's right stood Lord Roderick and his abhorrent assistant (absently cleaning beneath his fingernails with the tip of a dagger, as though all of this was so very beneath him); but to his left stood Captain Elmont, fully armored, hair flawless, a tired look on his handsome face.

As though he felt the weight of her gaze, his blue eyes snapped to her. She could not resist granting him a smile, though even that pained her these days. Surprise crossed his features; but then his eyes softened, and a corner of his mouth curved upwards, and it pained her more.

She dismounted and approached the king, taking her place beside the distraught farmer.

"There's some monster goin' around, killin' peoples' livestock—killin' my livestock! It's attackin' yer kingdom, so what the hell're you gonna do about it?!" The man's face was red, his eyes wide and pleading.

"A monster, you say?" The king turned to address Draaga, and her suspicions were confirmed. "Lady Draaga, thank you for coming. You have a number of…unique skills. Perhaps you could help us determine what killed these animals?"

She stifled the urge to sneer at him, itching to demonstrate her "unique skills" on him right then and there; but instead she took a deep breath, cooling the fire inside her, and strode to the cart, muttering Kaerreggan curses as she climbed into the rotting mass and threw one of the carcasses down as close to Brahmwell's feet as she could.

She felt like impressing them today, so she vaulted down after it and landed in a perfect crouch, knife drawn from its place up her sleeve.

"It's a monster, I'm tellin' yeh—the one everyone's talkin' about! What else coulda done all this to m'flocks?!"

The rumors of monsters plaguing Albion these days were both pervasive and hard to kill. Someone had claimed to have spotted a dragon flying out at sea; others had claimed sightings of men-turned-wolves and blackdogs, even larger and more voracious than the dire wolves that roamed the forests; sailors had been attacked by vicious watersprites and mermaids, women supposedly abducted by centaurs, and nearly everyone seemed to have a tale of encounter with trolls, dwarves, faeries, and wights. Draaga sighed, ignoring the man's impassioned raving in order to examine the poor lamb's wounds. If even half of the stories were true, the land had a serious epidemic on its hands; but she knew for a fact that only a sparse few had any credibility to speak of.

That did not prevent Brahmwell from blaming her for the propagation of said rumors, if not also their perpetuation, or from dragging her from her home and duties at all hours to address any such claims that came to his door. It was his punishment to her for slipping up one time in four years, and she was quickly growing tired of the farce.

Draaga used the serrated edge of her knife to cut through wool and flesh to the bone; her eyesight was poor enough, and with the darkening sky above and the weak, flickering light from the few torches that had already been lit around the courtyard, she needed all the help she could get to discern whatever teeth marks might be present. The smell and sight of all that meat and blood made her stomach growl with hunger, and she did nothing to conceal it, knowing full well that the men around could hear it. They were free to draw whatever conclusions they desired (and if it unsettled Brahmwell in the process, reminded him that she was, in fact, a dangerous creature and not to be trifled with, all the better for it). Her people were only scavengers when need required it, preferring their meat fresh or cooked—many of the clan leaders refused to eat anything unless they knew whose hands had killed it. But she did not have that luxury here, and she also could not remember the last time she'd eaten. It could have been days. Between her duties as a Guardian and the papers in her satchel, food had been last on her list of things to do—until now, thinking of all the meat in that cart, some of it bad but plenty still edible, and nothing a quick roast over a strong fire couldn't fix. She could almost hear the sizzle of flesh and popping fat, almost smell the smoke and flame and dinner. Her mouth was already watering at the thought, and her stomach growled again.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to content herself with the thought of the provisions in her bag, and rose slowly to her feet.

"A wolf," she answered the farmer, cleaning her knife on a spare bit of cloth she kept tucked into her belt.

"A werewolf?" Brahmwell asked, and Draaga rolled her eyes.

"No, a regular wolf. Perhaps a large dog."

"Just a wolf? Are you certain?"

She stifled an impatient sigh; when was she ever not certain? Without thought, her gaze drifted to Captain Elmont, still watching her closely, and she cursed herself in Kaerreggan and gestured to the cart. "It's likely rabid, to attack this many creatures for no reason. It wasn't hunting to eat."

"B-but—the monster—!" the farmer wailed, wringing his hands.

"There are no monsters in Albion," she told him, "except the ones who disguise themselves as men." She threw a glare toward the king, and he returned one of his own.

Despite her disgust for this whole ordeal, Draaga couldn't help but feel compassion for the poor man who had lost his livelihood to fate. She sighed, and told him gently, "There's still some good meat on there, enough to last a family a month, maybe two. Long enough to find more work. If it were up to me, I'd have you appointed to work with the king's flocks, at least until your own could be built up again. But it is not up to me," she added, eyeing Brahmwell. "I am only a knight, and I am done here."

She turned on her heel and stalked to her horse, retrieving her bag and nodding to Peters. "Please return my horse to the stables. I will stay with the princess tonight."

She didn't linger any longer to hear what anyone had to say, swiftly escaping the courtyard and heading for the tower that housed the princess's chambers.

Inside, she heard the sound of footsteps hurrying to catch her up. She cursed herself for recognizing their cadence, for knowing whose boots struck so sharply against the stone floor.

She closed her eyes and stilled her feet, not needing to turn to look. "Do you need me for something, Captain?"

When she opened her eyes, Elmont was at her side, looking concerned. "You seem…distracted lately, Draaga. Is everything alright?"

She tried and failed to not be moved by his concern, and averted her eyes to keep from smiling at him. "I… Yes. Just…" She fingered the strap of her bag absently, warring with herself over how much to divulge. "I've just been tying up some loose ends back home. It's keeping me busy."

"Do you need to return to Kaerregg, or any time off to focus? You've certainly earned it, Drae—"

"No! No, please, I…" She took a deep breath to quell her fright at the thought of going home now. "This, my work as a guardian, is the only enjoyable part of my life these days, Elmont." She risked making eye contact with him. "Please don't take that away."

His gaze softened, and she nearly crumbled beneath the warmth she found there and had to look away. "Then I surely won't. But if you ever need to talk…"

She chuckled softly. "I am grateful for the sentiment, Captain; but if it was something I could talk about, I would have come to you long ago." Oh heavens above, she hadn't meant to say that…

"I…am glad to hear it. I was beginning to think…" He didn't finish. From the pleading look on his face, he didn't need to.

She adjusted the strap on her shoulder, fidgeting again, averting her eyes. This was the first time they'd spoken, alone, in almost two years, and damn if he wasn't making this even more difficult for her. She had been avoiding him, of course, and she had been a fool to think that would be a permanent solution; but perhaps she could manage to drag this out a little longer. "I'm sorry, Captain, I… I'll be staying with the princess tonight, and I should hurry to get there before she is in bed. I would hate to rouse her."

John frowned, obviously displeased; but he nodded and took a step back from her. "Of course. Is there to be a storm tonight?"

She nodded. "I believe so."

"Very well. Try to get some rest, Drae, or I will be forced to give you time off."

"Of course, Captain."

"Draaga…" he sighed, his hand rising as though to touch her cheek, to caress the scar that now crossed her jaw.

She closed her eyes, turned, and ran from him, and did not slow until she had nearly reached Isabelle's chambers, leaning back against a wall to regain her breath and blink away what could not be tears. She was a Draaga, last of the pure line of the great Kaerregg, and she would not cry over some human.

She could not.

With one last, deep breath, she pushed off of the wall and turned the final corner to the princess's chambers, nodding to the two Guardians stationed outside as she knocked on the door.

"Princess?" she called, hoping she wasn't waking her—she was in no mood for stories tonight. "It is only Draaga."

There was shuffling inside, and then the door swung open, and Isabelle was there, dressed and ready for bed, but not yet asleep. "Draaga! Come in! Are you going to stay tonight?"

"If you will allow me, sweet girl."

"Of course, of course! You're early tonight; is anything the matter?"

Draaga stepped into the room, setting her bag down against the wall as the door closed. "No, no, everything is fine. Your father is merely having monster troubles again."

Isabelle rolled her eyes, stepping forward to embrace her friend, and Draaga poured herself fully into the girl's arms, relishing in the comfort she found there. "I'm sorry, Draaga," her young friend murmured. "Surely, one day, he will come to realize that you're not some sort of…vicious monster."

Draaga drew back suddenly as if offended, allowing her face to shift just enough to scrunch her nose and elongate and sharpen all of her teeth so she could flash the girl a large, toothy, menacing grin, and hissed, "I most certainly am, and I'll thank you to remember it!"

But Isabelle only laughed, hugging her friend even tighter, knowing she would never be harmed by the dangerous woman in her arms. Releasing her, the girl chuckled again, and tugged at a corner of her own mouth to display her short, flat teeth. "You know, some days I wish I could do that to my face."

Draaga shook the change from her face, stepping further into the room with a sigh. "With the sort of men that come to you as potential suitors, sweet girl, I wish you could, too."

Isabelle chuckled again, but not as brightly, with a bit of a sigh of her own. The princess of Cloister would soon be turning eighteen, when she would become eligible for marriage. Scaring off unwanted male visitors had been a delightful perk of Draaga's job as of late, but there was only so much that she could do. To the men of court, the prospect of marrying their sons (or, occasionally, themselves) to the future queen was evidently motivation enough to risk the wrath of Lady Draaga, and she wasn't allowed to actually, physically hurt many of them, which made her job much more difficult.

The princess cleared her throat, looking for a change of subject, and gestured toward her table. "Please, Draaga, have a seat. Have you had dinner yet? Are you hungry?"

Draaga's stomach growled in response for her. "I am famished."

The dear girl ushered her to the table, offering the remnants of her dinner, and Draaga fell heavily into one of the chairs there. "It's a bit overcooked," Isabelle informed her, settling much more gracefully into the chair beside her, "so I'm certain you'll love it."

Draaga could do nothing but moan in pleasure, foregoing any utensils and tearing into the roast with her hands, nearly crying at the first taste of tough meat on her tongue.

"My goodness! Draaga, how long has it been since you've last eaten?"

"Don' know," she grunted, shoving more meat into her mouth even though she was still chewing. "Long time. So hungry…"

Isabelle eyed the rapidly-diminishing plate of food. "Do you need more? I can send a guard to the kitchens..?"

Draaga shook her head, looking around for the bag she'd dropped at the door and gesturing to it. Isabelle knew her well enough by now that she didn't have to explain that she'd brought food with her, and the sweet, lovely, darling girl stood to retrieve the bag and bring it to the table. She rifled through it quickly, pulling out the dried meat and cheese and bread and handing them to her friend. Draaga was so elated, so distracted by the revelation of more food that she didn't notice that the girl had also removed her satchel and opened it, curiously looking through the foreign writing on the papers inside. "What are these? More letters from Kieran and Tirave?"

Draaga glanced over, and then nearly choked on her food in surprise, coughing and spluttering and grasping for a goblet of water, gasping when she could finally breathe correctly. Isabelle dropped the papers to draw near, placing a concerned hand on her friend's back. Draaga lurched to her feet, hurriedly gathering the letters and stuffing them back inside. "N-no, no… Well, yes, some of them are. Most are from Avalle, she's the archivist, and I thought…" She cleared her throat nervously, feeling Isabelle's intelligent, inquisitive eyes on her. "It doesn't matter what I thought. They're nothing. Just some…state matters for me to deal with. Nothing you need to worry about."

Isabelle's lips were pressed into a thin line, her brow lowered in concern. "…Are you certain?"

She forced a smile, hoping it was convincing enough. "Yes, sweet girl. It's nothing dangerous. You just surprised me, is all." She returned to her seat, reaching out for the hunk of bread before her, tearing off a piece and chewing it slowly. Her appetite had fled from her entirely, but she wanted to pretend, for Isabelle.

"Well…" Isabelle began with a forced, cheerful tone, sitting as well, "It will not interfere with my birthday, will it? My father has had me bogged down with tedious preparations for the feast for weeks now, and I will be very displeased if you cannot attend."

"No, of course I'll be there, dear girl! It's your birthday! And, anyway, it is my duty to attend."

Isabelle frowned. "Oh, no you don't. You're not attending as my Guardian. You're attending as my friend."

"Isabelle, of course I'm your—"

"I mean it! No armor. No weapons. And you have to wear a dress."

"Oh, well that's just ridiculous! Of course I'll be armed! And I don't even own a dress!"

"Well then you had better start looking for one!" Isabelle fixed her with an imperious, warning look. "It is my eighteenth birthday. My father is trying to marry me off, at which point I will not be able to spend as much time with you as I do now. You will no longer be able to come stay with me at night, even when there are terrible storms. I will not have time to be your friend anymore!"

Draaga threw down the bread, snatching up the girl's hand in her own and leaning in close to look intently into her eyes. "You will always be my friend, Isabelle Brahmwell. Whether you have time for me or not." She held her gaze long enough to make sure Isabelle understood, and then leaned back with a sigh. She still held the girl's hand, though not as tightly as before. "I suppose I could write to Tirave. Her skill with cloth is unrivaled in Kaerregg, and she would likely be willing to make a dress for me, though I shall surely never hear the end of it from Kieran. May I attend with five knives, if they are small?"

"You may have three."

Draaga nodded, then cracked a small smile, delighted when her friend was able to return it. "Very well. Three knives, and a dress. Good heavens."

"I am certain you will look very beautiful. And I'm sure Elmont will think so, too."

Draaga closed her eyes, too tired to argue and knowing it would be useless anyway. Isabelle knew her too well, knew her heart too well; though she could not know that the mention of him would pain her as it did. The girl did not understand the rift that had spread between her two friends despite the readily-evident affection between them, and still did her best to nudge them back together. As with all things related to John Elmont, this too was Draaga's fault. It pained her to keep secrets from Isabelle, to not admit the many obstacles that needed to keep them apart, to not reveal why she had spent two years distancing herself from the one man she wanted to be close to above all else.

But it was her burden to bear, and this one was too heavy to share. She could not risk crushing the poor girl beneath it. She was certain that would crush her, too.

Draaga finally looked up again at her friend with a smile. "I would like to stay with you every night until your birthday, Isabelle, if that would be alright with you?"

The princess encased her friend's hand in both of hers and smiled. "I would like that very much."

Thunder broke outside, lightning lit up the room, and rain began to hammer against the windows. Draaga only flinched a little, scooting her chair closer to Isabelle and squeezing the girl's hand for a moment in fright, and turned to look toward the window and the dreaded storm. She was almost too tired to be afraid, as well. With a regretful look at the food before her, she admitted, "I'm not feeling particularly hungry any more, dear girl. What do you say we go to bed now?"


Elmont

Elmont stood before the doors, fiddling with the collar of his tunic. The princess had insisted that he attend as her friend—not as the captain of her guardians—which meant no armor and no weapons, and he must wear a nice shirt. He had not worn this tunic since his appointment as Captain; he had been a leaner man then, and it no longer fit as well as it had in his youth. His deliberation over whether to wear it anyway, toss it out and wear his armor, or simply not attend had taken longer than he'd anticipated.

He was late, and Isabelle would not be pleased with him for it.

He passed a hand over his slicked-back hair with a sigh, put his hand to the door, and entered.

The feast was already in full swing, wine flowing freely as the band played a jaunty tune. His name was announced, and a servant hurried over to take the gift from his arms and add it to the mountain of presents for the beloved princess. He strode up to the head table and bowed low.

"Happy birthday, Princess Isabelle."

"Elmont, you are late!" she cried, trying to sound offended though she was clearly grinning.

"My sincerest apologies, Princess. I…couldn't find anything to wear."

Thankfully, she merely laughed, and hurried around the table to throw her arms around his neck. He caught her up in the embrace gladly; she was a grown woman now, and this would likely be the last time that she could be so openly, childishly affectionate with him, and he with her. He loved her like the dearest of all sisters, but she was his princess and would one day be his queen, and he would remember his duty and show her the respect she deserved. But tonight, he would hug her and tease her and laugh with her while he still could.

He hugged her tight and then released her, pulling back to look at her with a broad grin. She looked stunning in her gold dress, and he took her hand and kissed it, and murmured, "I am so proud of you."

She beamed, her eyes shining, and reached up to touch his cheek. "That is the greatest gift I could possibly receive today. Thank you, Elmont."

She stepped away from him and returned to her place beside her father, every step looking less and less like his little princess and more and more like his future queen. She would make a great ruler someday, and as much as he would mourn the shift in their relationship, he was elated to have the opportunity to watch her grow up and continue to serve her.

With another bow to the king and his daughter, he turned and stepped down from the dais, skirting the crowd and surveying for someone he knew, nodding to his soldiers stationed around the room as he passed. He was not always as solemn as his men believed; but even so, he was not good at parties. He struggled to make small talk, though it hardly mattered as no one ever asked him about anything other than his work. And it took a great deal for him to let down his guard, to not be concerned with the safety of the room, to not examine every reveler for concealed weapons or watch all of the doors and windows for intruders.

For the millionth time, he wished that Isabelle had allowed him to attend as the Captain of her Guardians. He would feel much more comfortable in his armor, with his sword at his side, standing behind the table without worrying about making conversation with dignitaries and court officials, able to completely focus his attention on the safety of the princess and the king.

With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the people pressing closer and closer around him.

He hadn't been looking for her, not really, though he couldn't deny that he had been hoping she would be here, hoping they would have a chance to talk. He'd seen Crawe first, and his wife, Elizabeth, but it had taken far too long to recognize that the vision in red standing with them had long, white hair. In his defense, he had never seen her look quite like this before.

He had never seen anyone look quite like this before.

The blood-red fabric of her dress—if it could even be called a dress—wrapped around her body, clinging sensually to her waist, hips, and thighs, where it flared out to pool around her feet. It gave a softness and curvature to the harsh angles of her body, and was cinched at the waist by a belt of interlocking gold discs. Delicate strands of gold chain hung from the belt, looping around her hips. More gold covered her bare arms and wrists, a wild assortment of bangles and chains. Though her hair hung free to her shoulders, below that it had been wound into a wide, loose braid, tied off with a golden cord.

Crawe spotted him and caught his eye, nodding in his direction.

Elmont had always thought the concept of being struck breathless at the sight of a woman was merely a fiction the poets had made up; but then Draaga turned, and saw him, and grinned, and he found it to be true.

Her lips were painted in the same deep, rich red color as her dress, but the rest of her face was decorated in some intricate, aggressive pattern that seemed to be painted in liquid gold, framing her face in vicious, jagged lines. There was more gold, dripping from her neck, her ears, a gold circlet atop her head, even gold on her teeth, covering her canines to make them look even longer and sharper than usual and giving her grin a more threatening appearance. All this, paired with her dark skin and eyes and her bright white hair, made her look dangerous, exotic, and breathtakingly irresistible.

Elmont hesitated, taking a deep breath to gather himself and approach her; but Draaga was already bowing her head and making excuses to Crawe and Beth, and hurrying over to him, the crowd appropriately fleeing from the path of the warrior goddess in their midst. She didn't seem to notice, still grinning, not looking anywhere but at him.

"It's about time you got here!" she crowed in her strange accent, drawing near; but then her expression changed from amusement to relief, and she leaned in and dropped her voice, and told him, "I need your help. I don't recognize any of the food, and I'm so hungry!"

The laugh that burst from his throat startled them both, and she drew back, a nervous smile on her lips, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment. He didn't mean to laugh at her; if anything, he was laughing at the situation, at his own naivety in thinking she was that excited to see him, without ulterior motive. So he grinned fondly—encouragingly, he hoped—at her, took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles (discovering, to no great surprise, that her fingers also were dotted with gold rings). "Come, my Lady Draaga, let's find you something to eat."

He led her over to the banquet table, handing a plate to her and taking one himself, and then they moved slowly along as he quietly told her what each of the dishes were. It had been a long time since he had had to help her in this way; she was familiar with the general fare of Albion by now, but only what she could find in the market, and mostly as it could be prepared over a fire or in a pot. This spread of imported delicacies, masterfully prepared and immaculately presented, likely did not look anything like what she had become accustomed to.

He realized how much he had missed going to the market with her; had missed the way she hung on his every word, how she leaned in close to him so he didn't have to raise his voice and no one would overhear them, the delighted little sound she made when he pointed out a favorite fish of hers or something else she knew, the way she would touch his arm just so and guide his hand to the next dish she thought looked interesting and wanted him to describe.

He missed spending time with her. It was ridiculous, he knew, because he saw her almost every day when their duties coincided and she was almost always at his side; and it wasn't as if they were alone now, in the midst of the largest feast of the year. But it was different being with her off-duty, despite who else was around, without the worries or concerns of their ranks. There was a lightness in his chest, a fullness, a warmth that he lacked when she wasn't around.

It took him a while to realize that she had gone very quiet, and when he finally surfaced from his thoughts he found her staring up at him in concern. So he smiled reassuringly and looked down at her plate. "Do you have enough?"

"Yes. Thank you for your help."

He nodded, leading her away toward a tall, empty table along the wall where they could stand and eat and talk and survey the room, hopefully undisturbed. A servant came and filled two goblets with wine for them, and he waited until she left before speaking. "You're welcome. Though you know you could have simply asked Crawe or Elizabeth, don't you? You didn't have to wait for me. They are both very fond of you."

She averted her gaze, placing a piece of haddock in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully, and then washed it down with a long sip of wine. "I know they are, and I believed they would have aided me without teasing me to my face. But I was certain that you would not. The fewer people who know of my struggles in this country, the better," she admitted, and now he felt supremely guilty for laughing at her. But she didn't give him much time to dwell on it, her mouth turning up into a wicked smirk and her eyes taking on a mischievous light. "And anyway, I had no idea you were going to be so very late!"

He groaned and rolled his eyes. "Oh, not you, too! I just…ugh. I don't like parties, alright? And I only have this one nice tunic, but it obviously doesn't fit me properly, but I couldn't wear anything else, and…ugh." She was laughing at him now, and he was the one that was embarrassed, so he hoped that made them even.

"Well, you look quite handsome in it, Elmont."

The compliment surprised them both, and he wondered how much wine she had already had. "Thank you. You look…very beautiful as well."

She flushed and turned away, biting her lip with a frown. Apparently she had had enough wine to give out compliments, but not enough to accept them. "…Thank you," she finally murmured, still not looking at him.

He mentally cursed himself, looking for a way to change the subject. They had almost managed to reach the easy, lighthearted intimacy their relationship had had years ago, before her father died (he knew that that event was, somehow, the catalyst for her apparent newfound fear of him, though he could not for the life of him figure out what that had to do with it), and then he had to go and ruin it. Thinking of her father made him think of the way she lit up when she spoke of her homeland, so he tried that and hoped for the best. "Is this anything like the feasts back in Kaerregg?"

It seemed to work; she turned to him with a smile, and there was that light in her eyes that he adored. "Essentially, I suppose they are similar, but they look very different." Her expression turned thoughtful for a moment, as she looked out at the people dancing and feasting and talking before them. "Back home, there is far less clothing involved."

"…Oh."

Her eyes went wide and her face flushed and her hand went up to cover her mouth. "That's not what I meant! We do wear clothes!" Elmont laughed, and eventually so did she, though her face was still flushed and she covered her eyes in mild embarrassment. "Kaerregg is very cold," she said, trying to explain, "Our summers are like your winters. So celebrations, for us, are a time of warmth. We build an enormous fire in one of our caves with a hole in the ceiling so the smoke can get out, and all of my people come together in that one room, and we dance and eat and relish in the heat. It is one of very few times that we need not wear our furs and cloaks. It is not like this, where people dress to display their wealth and rank. Everyone dresses simply, regardless of status, to remind ourselves that we are all one people, that we are all equal regardless of what work we do and what task we perform."

"That's beautiful, Draaga." He gestured to her outfit, and the gold she wore so proudly. "So this display of wealth would be frowned upon, then?"

She laughed heartily, looking down at herself. "This? Oh, goodness, no. This is a negligible collection at best. Our caves are full of gold; it has very little value in Kaerregg, though we are still quite fond of it regardless."

"Really? I had no idea."

She flashed him a broad grin. "It's not something we like people to be aware of. My people are fierce warriors, but we are also greatly fond of peace. We like not to incur attempted invasion and theft if we can avoid it. Oh, but you should see the suit of armor I had made for Isabelle's birthday! It's only gold leaf, of course, over steel, or else it would be no good for protection; but still, I cannot wait to see her face when she sees it!"

Elmont grinned, knowing what a fitting gift that would be coming from Draaga. "I'm certain she will adore it, though she would adore anything that came from you. And what about this on your face?" he asked, passing his thumb over her cheek and the intricate pattern painted there, careful not to smudge it. He wondered, briefly, if it was merely the wine that kept her from drawing away from his touch this time, or if it was something more. "Is this a symbol of status, then?"

Her face grew very solemn, and her voice lost the light, teasing edge. "Yes. This is a display of my occupation as a warrior, and a declaration of my heritage as a descendant of the great Kaerregg Draaga. It is the sign of my clan and of my rank, and tells the story of my many victories in battle."

"Really?"

She snorted, her face breaking out into another grin. "Of course not! Don't be ridiculous! We just think it looks pretty. God, I can't believe you fell for that!" It took her a moment to stifle her laughter at his expense. "Heavens above, we're not as barbaric as you must think us!"

"I don't think you're barbaric!" he tried to defend. "Just—God, you seemed so serious! How was I supposed to know?" She laughed again, wiping tears from her eyes. He felt foolish, but also elated: she had let him touch her cheek—she hadn't run from him this time—and now she was openly teasing him and laughing with him, and it almost felt like the way things had been before…like the way they had been when she kissed him. He hadn't forgotten about that, though it seemed she certainly had. "It does look pretty," he began, cautiously. "No, more than that. Draaga, you look…exquisite. Radiant. Enchanting. Magnificent. There isn't a word full enough to describe how you look tonight."

The grin fell from her face, and her eyes looked stubbornly away, and she seemed to shrink down into herself. She tried to take a step away from him, but he gripped her arm and held her at his side. "Don't… Don't run away from me again," he pleaded.

"Captain—"

"Don't you 'Captain' me. I deserve an explanation, you know I do."

"I don't know what you're talking ab—"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about! Did you think you could just stop talking to me and I would never wonder why? That I wouldn't spend every day agonizing over what I could have possibly done to make you hate me?"

"I do not hate you!"

""It certainly seems that way! Or have you simply forgotten that it was you who kissed me?"

"John!" she hissed, eyes wide as she scanned the crowd around them as if wary of eavesdroppers.

He tugged on her arm, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Oh, well at least you remember my name! What, are you afraid there might possibly be a single person in attendance tonight who hasn't heard the rumors? You did not seem concerned about who might be nearby when you did it!"

She did not look away from him, but her eyes were wide and fearful and pained. "John, please."

He took a deep breath, relaxing his grip on her arm, cursing himself for letting his anger get the best of him. He could count the number of times that had happened on one hand, and all of them were related to the Lady Draaga. He ran his thumb against her soft, warm skin. "Please, Drae… I deserve to know why."

"You do," she murmured, lip quivering, "but I cannot tell you."

"Dammit, Draaga!" She flinched from him, looking fearfully around, and he saw that they were now being watched by those nearby. He released her arm, only to put his arm around her waist and guide her toward the nearest door. "Come with me."

Distantly, as if through a fog, he heard Brahmwell call for attention, preparing to make his announcement. Draaga tried to hesitate, to listen to what the King had to say; but he would not let her linger, and the distraction allowed them an opportunity to sneak out into the hallway unnoticed.


Draaga

Draaga leaned back against the wall with a heavy sigh, watching the man pacing before her. He was furious with her. He had every right to be.

"You…cannot tell me?" he echoed.

His tone held no malice, but she winced all the same, wrapping her arms around her own waist as if that could protect her. "No, I cannot."

He ran a hand through his hair; he had clearly put effort into taming it this evening, but all that was ruined now. "And why not? Because you enjoy tormenting me, is that it? You don't care that I cannot stop thinking about you; you would rather watch me suffer alone?"

"You honestly think I am not suffering?" she snarled, watching as he drew back, startled at her sudden rage. "I kissed you, remember?" She ground her teeth together, cursing in Kaerreggan—cursing herself, her uncle, her entire damned race, and John Elmont above all. "There are things about myself that I cannot tell you, that I have been sworn to keep secret, on pain of death. When I say I cannot tell you, I mean that to give you the explanation you 'deserve' would mean that I owe your king my head. I kissed you because I wanted to, because you are handsome and I am attracted to you, because it felt good, because I might never have gotten a chance to do so again, and I do not regret it; but it has caused me nothing but pain ever since. I kissed you because I thought I could afford to choose my own desires over my duty, and I was a fool."

Her uncle was attempting to usurp her birthright, to claim his half-bred son as heir to the seat that belonged to her, that belonged to a pure descendant of Kaerregg Draaga—the ruling seat of the Kaerreggan council—and all because she had been a foolish child in love, all because she had wanted to return to this wretched country and these wretched people, all because she had let her uncle win. Avalle had scoured the archives, searching for any basis of a way out, but there was nothing to be done. She could return home, challenge and defeat her uncle and thus reclaim her father's throne, to rule Kaerregg and never think again of Albion or Isabelle or John ever again; or she could allow her uncle's claim and thus reject her birthright, and heap shame down upon herself and, retroactively, upon all her ancestors, her father, her mother, and all who had borne the name Draaga.

No matter what she chose, the council claimed that she must be mated to her cousin and attempt to produce an heir, another true descendant of Draaga to ascend the throne, though the genetic probability of such an occurrence was slim at best.

What truly turned her stomach was the recognition that the council—her father included—had been planning this all along, that they had first intended for her to marry her brother until he fled Kaerregg and was slain.

Had he known?

Was that why he fled?

Draaga pressed her hand against the wall, feeling as though she was going to be very sick.

"Do you love me?"

She looked up at John, blinking, having been so lost in her thoughts that she had forgotten he was still there. If she allowed herself to love this man—a human—if she allowed this to progress any farther, if she loved and was loved and became intimate and sullied herself with a human man—or, all the heavens forbid, bear his child—all would be lost. She would be destroyed. The full rage of Kaerregg would descend upon her, and her name and all of Draaga would be stricken from the archives, from the language, from the very minds of her people.

"Do you love me?" he repeated.

"John, please," she gasped.

"Do you love me?"

"I cannot!"

Her cry was punctuated by a door slamming against the wall. They both jumped, startled, and saw Princess Isabelle rush out from the ballroom in a blur of golden silks. The girl's wide, frantic, tearful eyes met Draaga's own, and she shot her a vicious glare that pierced Draaga's heart.

"You knew about this? Both of you knew, and you did not tell me?!" she cried, turning on her heel and fleeing from them.

"Isabelle!" Draaga called, startled, and turned to Elmont with wide eyes, immediately suspicious of the look of resignation on his grim face. "What is she talking about?"

"King Brahmwell's announcement. He has betrothed Isabelle to Lord Roderick."

"He what?! And you knew about this?! Isabelle!" She called, turning from the man she loved, hiking up her skirt and chasing after her friend. "Isabelle!"


Draaga had stood outside her door, knocking and crying and assuring the girl that she had had no idea, for over an hour before Isabelle finally let her in. The room was in shambles, clothing and bedding and furniture strewn about the room, and Isabelle in the middle of it all, sobbing even as Draaga picked her way through shattered glass and broken ceramic and splintered wood to hold her friend, smoothing her hair back and rocking her softly, as she could vaguely remember her own mother doing for her in her youth.

They did not say a word—they did not need to—until both had finally found the energy to change and climb into bed, picking the sheets and pillows up off the floor. Isabelle curled up tightly into a ball, and Draaga held her close, whispering soothing words in Kaerreggan into her hair.

"Draaga?" the girl finally whimpered, her voice weak and hoarse from crying. "Will you tell me how you met my mother? You always said that you had known her, but you never explained how."

Draaga kissed her forehead, running her fingers through her dark hair. "Did I not? Then yes, I would love to tell you now. She was not much older than you are now, sweet girl, when Kieran and I found her, nearly frozen on our shore. She had been out at sea, but a bad storm had forced their ship far off course, and they capsized along our coast. If Kieran hadn't convinced me to go out fishing with him that morning, and if I hadn't begged him to find shelter from that storm, we might never have found her. We carried her to the nearest cave and built a fire and cooked our fish. She was very frightened when she woke up; your world did not know of us then, and we did not know the lengths to which we must change our appearance to make your people unafraid. For her to wake up in a foreign cave, with two fully-grown, half-transformed Kaerreggans must have been quite the shock."

Isabelle shifted, blinking up at her with reddened eyes. "Wait, you were fully grown when my mother was my age? How old are you, Draaga?"

She smiled wistfully. "Oh, I am quite old, dear girl, though we do not measure time as you do. I fought against the Saligon clans during their rebellions, the last time there was a war among my people. That was about…one hundred of your years ago, I believe, so I am at least that old; though even by that time, I had been around for a while. Long enough to already be a skilled warrior and a leader in battle."

"Oh my God," Isabelle breathed, and Draaga laughed.

"We live for a long time, my dear; but you are getting me distracted. Where was I? Oh, yes. Your mother was very afraid of us. But I could speak a little English—at least that much of my proper lessons had stuck with me—and was able to calm and reassure her. It helped a great deal that we had food to offer her. Kieran was quite taken with her—did I ever tell you that?—though he did not know your language and could not speak to her. His tribe is full mostly of hunters and fishers, so there was never any reason for him to learn. He did try to learn for her, though. Your mother was an enchanting woman, even in her youth, and could even soften Kieran's prickly heart. But she was already betrothed, to your father."

Isabelle frowned. "…I did not realize that my parents married so young."

"Well, I said she was a little older than you at the time; and anyway, her wedding was delayed for quite some time while she was with us. She had been on her way to Albion to be married when the storm struck, and then she fell ill, and then winter came and it was too dangerous for us to attempt to sail her across. She stayed with us for several months before she was able to leave. I believe she enjoyed herself, or at least she made the best of it, though she often confided in me that she was anxious to leave, anxious to meet her husband."

"They hadn't even met yet?" The girl looked thoroughly conflicted, and Draaga felt a pang of guilt.

"Perhaps this is a story to be continued another time…"

"No, I… It's alright. At least… At least I have met Lord Roderick. That's a step up, I suppose, isn't it?"

Draaga chewed her lip, nodding softly. "I suppose it is."

The girl gave an anguished sigh, burying her face in Draaga's shoulder. "My parents loved each other a great deal, and they hadn't even met before they were supposed to be married. So maybe… Maybe I will learn to love Lord Roderick, as well."

Draaga wanted to cry on her friend's behalf. "I'm sure you will learn to be very happy together. Your father loved your mother, and he loves you, as well. He only wants the best for you, Isabelle."

She hugged the girl tighter, trying to keep the pain out of her voice, trying to be strong for her friend, trying not to display her own sorrow. "Sometimes, we have no choice but to do our duty, and hope that the desire comes later."