A/N: *crawls into a corner and pretends it hasn't been a shitlong time since updating* I decided to chop this next chapter into two shorter ones, just so I could have something to post for you guys. It's unbeta'd because I just don't have time for that process right now. So if you see anything, tell me and I'll fix it as fast as possible.
Chapter 11
"There's really no reason for this trial," Daka snapped impatiently. "He saved that Daemon's life. He needs to die."
The court was quiet. None of the gods seemed to be able to find an argument against her, though both Arlya and Francis seemed to be wracking their brains for one.
Pakram took pity on them. "He has been useful this past year," he said. "The least we can do is give him a trial before we execute him."
Daka snorted, but relented. She took her seat beside Vahnic and crossed her arms irritably.
"Bring him in," Pakram ordered.
Alfred was walked into the center of the circle of gods by Paan, who gave him a squeeze on the shoulder. Neither Francis nor Arlya had been allowed to accompany him. Paan left him standing as she took her seat in the circle of thrones.
"Alfred, you're brought before the court of the gods on account of treason," Pakram began, from his high, golden seat. "It is alleged that you aided in the enemy, a High Daemon, in escaping death from one of our own. Do you understand the charges?"
Alfred opened his mouth and tried to speak. Nothing came out. He took a moment to compose himself, and then said in as steady a voice as he could muster, "Yes, I do."
"And do you understand the consequences for treason?"
"Death?"
"That is correct," Pakram said. "Alfred, did you or did you not save the life of the High Daemon, Arthur?"
"I did," Alfred said, staring at the ground.
"Do you have anything to say in your own defense?"
Alfred thought a moment, though thinking seemed like wading through mud.
"I didn't think," Alfred said lamely. "It was automatic. He was in danger and I could do something." He caught a glimpse of Arlya from the corner of his eye. She was pale and trembling—with grief or rage at his betrayal Alfred could not tell.
The court weighed his words carefully. Finally Pakram spoke again.
"If you could go back in time, would you do it again?"
Alfred stared ahead. He could say no. He should say no. He needed to say no right now or he'd be killed. But there was part of him that refused. Somehow Arthur had become a friend, and Alfred knew that he'd do nothing different if he had the chance.
Catching Francis' eye, Alfred silently begged him for some queue in how to act. But before he could give any sign, Pakram and the other gods inferred their answer from Alfred's silence.
"It is clear that while your actions were not planned or thought through, you hold no regret for them," Pakram said. "That will be all, Alfred. You will wait while we decide your fate."
Alfred nodded. Francis rose, and looked to Pakram for permission to accompany Alfred. Pakram nodded his consent.
Francis guided Alfred by the shoulder. They walked out of the hall, where they stood a moment on the exposed mountainside. As usual, there was no wind, and the vast height didn't give Alfred any of the usual thrill.
"So they'll just kill me now?" he asked Francis.
Francis tried to smile, but it was apparent that he was worried.
"Don't worry," he said. "I won't let anything happen to you. This will all blow over in just a few days."
"Right," Alfred said, seeing straight through the lie. Francis gave him another sad smile and walked back into the court.
Slumping against the cold stone, Alfred ran his fingers over an imaginary lyre, the familiar movements comforting him. He was dead. There were no two ways about it. He sighed and resigned himself to the wait.
"I don't think we have much choice in the matter. Alfred must be executed," Pakram said slowly. He gazed carefully at Arlya, who wept.
"I don't believe he would do that," she whispered.
"The fact remains that he did," Pakram said. "Daka witnessed it and he as good as confessed. Francis, have you anything to say?"
Francis thought a moment, carefully choosing his words. "I know our laws say that treason must be met with death. However, I can't justify killing him. It feels wrong."
"Well you can take your feelings and leave," Daka said. "The law is simple. Now, please, let us get on with it."
At her words, Arlya broke into sobs. Her white braids hung mournfully around her cheeks as she sank to the floor. "My baby's dead. He's dead. My baby's dead to me," she howled.
Arlya's cries were interrupted, by a soft, sandpaper voice.
"I side with Francis," it said. "Though not because of 'feelings.'" The gods turned to see Circalous, the eldest god, still seated. He moved slowly, reaching for a goblet that rested on the arm of his throne. He took a sip, then continued:
"When the boy was first brought here, years ago, I saw his future and gave a prophecy."
Arlya's head shot up at this, as she remembered.
"Yes," she said, hope rising in her voice. "It said—"
"'Deep shall he fall, down to Daemon's heart,' only to return and play his part," Circalous said. "You see? Everything is going according to my prophecy. It is Fate's decree that Alfred bring about the end of this war, and Fate will not be denied. It would be foolish to kill him."
With that, the god fell still and silent, turning his white eyes back to nothing.
The rest of the court stood in silence as they digested the information. Finally Arlya broke the silence.
"It seems the issue is settled, then," she said tentatively. "This is just a part of the prophecy. Everything goes back to normal."
Daka shifted uncomfortably, obviously irritated by the turn of events. She did, however, keep her silence—even she was not foolish enough to violate Fate.
Much Arlya's dismay Pakram spoke up. "While we cannot kill him, Alfred still must pay for his treason. I propose he be stripped of his wings and banished to the mortal realm."
Many of the gods voiced their support for Pakram's deal. Arlya, however, was furious and fought against it.
"I just got him back!" she shrieked. "How dare you send him away from me—he'll get better. He won't do it again!"
"I plan to ensure that," Pakram said with as much patience as he could muster. "It's as you said, Arlya. He'll change, and then we'll take him back. In the meantime, though, he must be punished."
Arlya could raise no reasonable argument, so rather she screeched wordlessly at them and vanished from the court. Shaking his head in frustration, Pakram left the court and found Alfred sitting outside. He stared at the pale sky and jumped when Pakram spoke.
"We have reached a decision," he said. Alfred turned to face him, obviously scared, but resigned.
"I guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be," he said with just a faint tremor in his voice.
Pakram cleared his throat. "We have decided to be lenient," he said. "We cannot overlook the faithful service you've provided in the past. You will be exiled until such a time it is deemed that your loyalty is no longer in question."
Alfred's jaw dropped.
He wasn't going to die.
He wasn't going to die.
He wasn't going to die.
The realization swelled through him and he felt shaky with relief. The word "exile" hung vaguely in his ears, but it couldn't compete with the knowledge that he wasn't going to die.
"Thank you," Alfred breathed. Pakram nodded and turned away.
"You will gather what belongings you can carry, but you will leave your boots here with us," he said. "Now go."
Alfred returned to Pakram a little while later with the satchel containing his lyre and some clothing. He reluctantly exchanged his winged boots for plain ones. Francis had appeared, and when he was ready, took Alfred aside.
"I told you that you'd be alright. I'm to take you into the mortal realm," Francis said. "Arlya and Pakram want you to be in Aenea."
"No," Alfred said.
Francis nodded. "There's a town called Albion. It borders the mountains and the moors. Aenea has a heavy influence there—which will enough to satisfy the others—but it's out of force and fear. I think you can find someone to shelter you there."
Alfred stayed silent, but nodded. Francis put his hand on Alfred's shoulder and they vanished.
They landed in the middle of a cobblestone street, lined with little houses with candles glowing in the windows. The air was scented with wood smoke and summer heat, but Alfred could feel a cool breeze running of the mountains that towered over the town. Night was just beginning to fall, and the shadows of the little houses stretched in the dying light. At the end of the road stood a blocky tower, like those in Drachma. Alfred shuddered at the sight of it.
"Don't worry too much," Francis said, noticing Alfred's gaze. "It's mostly empty, except for a few guards who are probably more interested in the taverns than enforcing divine law."
"I thought you said Aenea had a strong influence here," Alfred said.
"Oh, it does, and you must be cautious. All the citizens here pay the gods' tax, will house any of the clergy who come through, and submit to rigorous inspection multiple times a year," Francis explained. "That, however, doesn't mean they are particularly happy about it. "
"So how do you know I'll be alright here?"
Francis kept quiet and walked on. Soon they reached the edge of town, where the moors began and the foothills ended. Out into the open stretched an enormous camp. Tents were pitched, cooking fires were going, and the quiet hum of talking drifted over it all.
"Who are these people?"
"Refugees," Francis said. "Southerners, Drachmans mostly, who fled once the city fell under divine occupation. Now Alfred, I must leave you, but you will blend in here well. Albion has sheltered the refugees well, as long as they vanish when its inspection time. Vanish with them and no harm should come to you."
Without another word, Francis was gone. Alfred turned to ask for him to stay, met only empty air. He looked down the road, which rolled straight before and behind Alfred, until it was lost to the moors and the mountain passes.
He felt heavy, trapped without his winged boots, but dwelling on it wouldn't make anything better. He might as well get his bearings the old fashioned way: walking about.
As it was the middle of summer, many people were out, even though it was well into the evening. Children ran everywhere, while adults milled about, enjoying the falling temperatures. No one looked twice at Alfred.
There seemed to be little reason to how the village of Albion was laid out. It was nestled right into the foothills of the mountains that held Aenea. Little one-story houses were placed like a jigsaw puzzle where the mountainside allowed them. There was no containing wall, unlike Aenea, and no metal barriers to deter Daemons. Only the temple, the towering blight in the middle of town, was made exclusively of metal.
Everything, from the roads to the houses spoke of comfort, though not wealth. There were no lavish squares or gardens like those of Aenea or Drachma. The houses and people were plain. Nevertheless, Alfred found himself growing comfortable.
"Hey! You there!" A voice called. Alfred turned. A vaguely familiar looking girl ran up to him. She had short blond hair with a blue ribbon in it and wore a light pink shift. A boy, obviously her brother, ran behind her. She caught up to Alfred.
"Hello, you're the boy who helped me find my brother!" she said. That was it—this was the girl Alfred had met at the festival in Aenea and almost sent her to a life of prostitution. Thankfully, she didn't seem to remember that part.
"Lily, isn't it?" Alfred said.
She nodded, smiling. "You never told me yours."
"Alfred."
Her brother finally reached them.
"You!" he shouted. "How dare you speak to my sister after the trouble you caused her!"
It seemed the young man did remember Alfred's involvement with his sister's trouble.
"Oh, be quiet, Vash," Lily said, taking her brother's arm and restraining him. "I was the one who talked to him first. And nothing bad actually happened." Her brother huffed irritably.
"So," Alfred ventured, "you two are still traveling together."
Vash stood back and crossed his arms, glaring at Alfred. "Of course we are," he snapped. "It was easy once I was excommunicated for bringing a woman along. Which is your fault."
"Excommunicated?" Alfred asked, eyes widening. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know when I helped her—"
"Shut it." He looked away and shrugged. "I don't really care. The only reason I was there was because they paid well. Other people pay well too."
"And those other people couldn't care less about his sister looking after him," Lily added happily. "So what are you doing in Albion?" she asked.
Alfred shuffled his feet, trying to find a way to briefly describe it. There was none. "I'm sort of stranded here. It's a long story," he muttered.
"Wonderful," Lily said, linking arms between Alfred and Vash. "We're headed to the tavern, we'll buy you some food and you can regale us with your story."
"Oh, how wonderful," Vash grumbled.
Alfred was given no chance to refuse as Lily dragged him through town to a humble tavern, The Sign of the Ripe Tomato.
