THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN
Chapter 21
October 5th, 1520 - Cadherra
Many had gathered on the walls to overlook the meadow beyond Adelton Hall that stretched to Coldwick and further south. The castle inhabitants had experienced days of terror at the prospect of conquering and then witnessed Alistair's vast army knocking at their gates.
It was, therefore, a great shock as one of the sentinels had caught sight of yet another army moving up from the south-west, its size larger than the first wave. Many had despaired, thinking the second wave was upon them.
The days now waned, the nights closing in and the trees in vibrant hues. Isabella stood next to Rosalie as a chill crept into the air. She shivered, despite the warmer apparel she now dressed in. But the wind had not the bite of wintry blusters, merely a faint nip, revealing the coming of autumn. The scarlets and golds were a prevalent backdrop against the invasive gray and muddy picture of camp down below.
The army in the distance was maybe a few hours away—the sound of horses and marching soldiers carried to them with the biting wind. Isabella ignored the tumbling leaves, her eyes trained on the distance, just like the rest of Adelton Hall. A small part of them had hoped it was their salvation—Edward Cullen returned in a miraculous feat, bringing with him a united south.
Her father had possessed a formidable telescope, newly acquired and barely used. He had enjoyed stargazing, albeit not very good at it. But they had found a use for the strange instrument. Emmett Saxton had peered through it, trying to find something that would identify the nearing army. The whole wall held its breath—Adelton Hall altogether stopped breathing, waiting for news. When Saxton exclaimed that a man in a black mask was at the front, they all cheered.
As their cheers had erupted, Alistair's men had gotten up into formation, preparing for battle.
It was a sight of epic proportions. Adelton watched in tense silence as a wall of riders neared from the south. They knew it had to be Edward, bringing the southern lords united. What else could it be?
Alistair's forces stood ready, but not before Adelton prepared once again. Indeed, they would not stand passively in this battle. Arches ran to line up atop the wall, ready to fire on the command of Saxton, Rajac, and Fawkes.
Silence followed. Men breathed with a tremble to their stance, anticipation slick in the air. Alistair's forces gripped their weapons. Behind them was a seemingly impenetrable fortress. But, to their front, stood a massive wall of mounted riders. And, amidst them all, they spotted the one who haunted their dreams, who gave them nightmares: Edward Cullen.
Horses snorted in the biting air as screams amounted. The Alistair forces heard the echo, the war-cry from afar. Audeamus! It sounded through the valley; death itself come for them as the wall surmounted, nearing them.
There was no time to idle, no time to question beliefs or faiths. Each soldier shook in his boots, some even soiled themselves stood before the giant now nearing them.
Alistair's mouth had dropped, and he had ventured to the back of his forces, unseen by most as he put on a cloak with a hood and ran for Raven's Grove before the wall reached them. He cared little for the men fighting for him. His life was the only thing that mattered.
Horse hooves rang through the valley like thunder, crashing down on the soiled earth as they finally neared the enemy.
The impact was brutal and killed many a man instantly. Adelton Hall watched in awe as Edward Cullen, together with some other commanders, took charge.
"Rady the bows!" Fawkes sounded. He would not let Alistair's army get away easily. Rajac rushed by the lines, making sure each bowman was prepared. The scarred lord licked his lips in anticipation, eager to see Alistair's forces fall.
"Steady!" Saxton echoed. They could not hurt their own men.
Amidst the chaos, a shower of arrows came down hard upon the enemy while the horse-wall kept pushing them further to Adelton Hall.
Foot soldiers came up between the horses. Most had never seen such a sight, the smell of gunpowder, the lack of visibility…it was all startling enough.
Under the fog of riveting muskets that spread over the meadow, a soldier fumbled with the icy cold barrel of his gun. His fingers shook, his knees buckled. Alas, he would not fail now. Bullets and shrapnel swished past him as he found his footing in the sodden mud and blood now mixing in a great puddle of filth and death.
He loaded the musket and lighted the chord. He took aim and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He ducked from a blade as he examined the gun. He tried again. A violent noise cracked into the tense air as he exclaimed in triumph. But it was not his gun that fired. His shirt and gambeson were stained by more than the blood of his victims.
He fell lifeless to his knees, dead before he hit the ground.
Isabella did not look at the slaughter. But she heard it. She heard every heart-wrenching scream, every sob, every gunshot. After a while, her ears grew deaf to it as she reverted back inside.
Rosalie had taken to her chambers, the princess showing clear signs of fatigue, of a state that suggested she was more than tired. It was a kind of lacking in will to continue. But no one spoke of it. Their eyes looked away from her shriveled face and pale skin as she was led to her chambers by Glovendale.
In the Palas, many also blocked away the sound. Sofia sat by a sleeping boy, a harsh blow sustained to his shoulder as he had fallen the previous night while supplying the older men with fresh arrows. The stone had been slippery, and he had fallen, dislocating the limb of his shoulder.
Isabella came there, not sure of where else to go. She spotted her mother and walked up to her. Renée quickly embraced her daughter. "I haven't seen you in days, Isabella," she said. Her face was ashen, hair was coming out of the pinned braids and her white apron bloodied, much like any other maid's apron was.
"I have been in the Palas or by Her Royal Highness' side, mother," Isabella reassured. She looked about the room, at the ailing wounded. "I sometime must leave this room because I fear that my efforts are for naught," she admitted.
Renée pushed a stray chestnut lock out of her daughter's eyes. "You are so like your father, Isabella. But we can only do so much. Do not chastise yourself for not being able to solve every little problem."
"But I am the Countess of Cadherra now, mother," Isabella forced. "I am supposed to protect the people of this land and…look at where we are."
Renée looked about herself and raised an eyebrow. "You inspire confidence in them. The first night of the siege you managed to remove their fears with song! It was inspiring to watch Adelton come together, to be so alive." Renée took her daughter's hand, alas a maid had been waiting patiently for the dowager countess to come to speak with her. Distracted by the new set of ears waiting patiently by the side, Renée quickly ended their little conversation. "Do not become blind to all the good that we are doing here. We knew entering into this war would be hard." She leaned in closer. "And Edward is here now, our sorrows will shortly be over." With those words, she left her daughter to tend to the wounded.
Sofia, who had been sitting in the distance, captivated Isabella with her raven eyes. The young countess noted who the gypsy was sitting next to. Alan Moore looked asleep, yet he did not seem to find peace in it.
She walked over to them. "How fares Mr. Moore?" she asked.
Sofia placed a piece of linen into a bucket of water and proceeded to dot his feverish forehead. "Fever dreams," she answered curtly.
"Will he make it?"
"There is slight inflammation in the stump of his leg," Sofia answered again.
Isabella's mouth hardened. "He must make it, Sofia." Enigmatic eyes stared up at her. Isabella walked in closer. "I know you wish him dead," the countess began with a harsh tone to her voice. "But I also know of your abilities." She stood tall before the gypsy, her hands clasped in front of her, not willing to back down before the harsh glance the Spaniard sent her way. "You will save his life."
"He is the reason Edward left," Sofia stated. "We do not kill him if we simply let his wounds fester," the soft accent softened the severity of the words.
Isabella stepped in closer. "If Alan Moore does not make it, you will be cast out of Adelton. I gave this man my word that he would live when he had his trial. I tend to keep that word—and so does Edward." Isabella kept touching the string on her left ring finger, reminding herself of the deep union she held to the masked man.
Sofia stared at the feverish man in disgust. "And who orders me to do such a thing?" she demanded, turning once more to Isabella.
The brunette straightened her back and set her jaw. "The Countess of Cadherra," she started but paused as if thinking something through. Her features softened slightly. "But, also, your daughter-in-law," she admitted in a whisper. Sofia's blank eyes stared back at her. "You may not admit it, but you are and always have been a true mother to Edward. And if you care for him, for his word and his honor, you will let this man live through his wounds."
Sofia pushed her graying mane out of her face, the harsh and wrinkled features softened as her shoulders relaxed. She remained silent, but Isabella knew that she would obey. It was enough for the young woman who walked away. But she did not see the satisfied smirk of the gypsy as she turned her back.
After what seemed like hours, the sound of war finally died down.
It was oddly quiet. The inhabitants of Adelton Hall and the refugees from Hayes only heard the sound of sloppy mud as men's boots and horses' hooves walked through it. The wind glided gently through the golden and ruby leaves while birdsong managed to return.
If they did not look over the wall, no one might ever think a battle had just taken place.
Fawkes had the doors to Adelton open.
They all waited with held breaths. Isabella was obliged to welcome their saviors for she was, after all, Countess of Cadherra.
In rode men with muted faces. It was prevalent what they had just done—a great killing that should deserve nothing but silence. The people did not cheer after what they had witnessed. Although, they were thankful.
The front was led by a group of five men. Edward rode in through the gates on Cid and was the one who got the most attention. Some villagers finally started erupting in grateful thanks despite themselves. He had come back to save them, and many tearful eyes could not help but ignore the slaughter and revel in the fact that they were alive.
Isabella managed a smile his way as he dismounted. Jacob stood next to her, his hand in a sling from wounds sustained while defending the castle. She spotted him wrinkling his nose.
The other three lords dismounted as well. Isabella recognized two of them, lords from old and proud families—the grandest of the south. The other one she had not seen before, but something about his appearance was very familiar.
"Who do you suppose that one is, the dark-haired one?" she whispered to him.
Jacob's lips kept pressing together firmly, not willing to indulge her in her curiosity. When he did not answer, Isabella shrugged and walked over to them, to Edward. She neared him, waiting for the serious eyes to soften into a smile at the sight of her.
But she found none of that with the masked man. In fact, the closer she got to him, the stranger it felt. She could not put her finger on it, but something was off with Edward.
He walked up to her and took her hand, bending down to kiss it. "Edward, I…" But she cut herself short as she was met with two golden orbs. This was not Edward.
"Play along, my lady, and everything will be explained to you later," he whispered to her. Isabella's confusion immediately gave way to a crafted mask where a smile and gratitude displayed instead. He ran a familiar hand along her cheek. The display of affection between Isabella Swan and Edward Cullen was not uncommon, it could therefore not be forgone now. He bent down to give her a peck on the cheek and she fought against every cell in her body not to shy away.
This was not Edward—she had no idea who this man was.
Before she could ask him, too caught up in the small revelation that no one else seemed to have figured out, he turned. "Isabella," he said, and she almost jumped. It did indeed sound like Edward—the same rich and powerful voice. Or someone very good at imitating said voice.
"Lord Raleigh, Irias, and Black are the reason Adelton is safe," he continued. She crooned her neck to get a glimpse of them. Lord Raleigh, she had met one time when she was very little, but she remembered the burly man. In fact, he reminded her quite a bit of Fawkes. The only difference was that Lord Raleigh was quite a bit burlier. But he had the same profuse sense of humor and pride. Not to mention taste for women. And he was one of the grand southern lords. The other man, Lord Irias, came from the oldest family Angloa had ever known. Even his name was old Angloan and not English like many of his peers. He stood taller and leaner than most there present, the armor he wore almost too big on his thinner frame.
And she looked at the third man, Lord Black. Isabella knew immediately that he had to be related to Jacob, for not only did they share the same last name, but their appearance was quite similar as well. She was about to turn to Jacob to comment on it when she found him disappeared.
"Who is the fourth man, Edward?" she whispered, emphasizing his name under her breath.
"Later," he breathed.
"Where are the other lords?" Lord Raleigh asked. "Where is Fawkes?"
Of course they knew each other, Isabella thought to herself.
"My lords," Athar exclaimed in contained joy as he walked up to them. "We owe you a great debt." Lord Raleigh gave him a crooked smile, his face lit up more, however, when he caught sight of Fawkes, followed by Saxton, Rajac, and Glovendale.
Irias kept a neutral expression.
Isabella, however, could not take her eyes of the man in the hood.
Athar kept looking about in anticipation—he was expecting someone else to be there.
"Cullen!" Fawkes exclaimed as he walked up to the masked man standing next to Isabella. He grabbed him in a strong embrace and she could practically hear the masked man being squished by the proud old general.
"You came in the nick of time!" he uttered. The man who was not Edward nodded, catching himself and keeping a stoic expression present in his stance, posture and general air. Fawkes quickly caught on, the glaring eyes behind the mask enough to make him release him.
Isabella had no idea who the impostor was, but he was very good at his impersonation of Edward. As if Edward himself had shown him how to act, talk and behave.
"We seek audience with Her Royal Highness," he muttered after Fawkes had taken a step back.
"She is resting, general," Athar directed at him. There was something else he wished to say, but he stopped himself short, probably not wanting to speak out in the open.
"What I have to say to her is of great importance," the masked man went on.
Athar walked up to him while Fawkes and Saxton chatted with the other lords. The rest of the army and its officers started settling in the courtyard of the castle. Some villagers had gone out, walking around to help search for survivors and drag bodies from the meadow. They had started digging mass graves off to the side of the meadow, inside Raven's Grove, where to bodies would be buried before they started bloating and decaying.
Isabella overheard the conversation between Athar and the impostor.
"Did you find him?" Athar asked in a hushed voice. When he received no answer, he added; "Her Royal Highness told us why you were gone and where you were going…who you were going to get." A hint of betrayal presented itself within his gray orbs. "You kept it from me…even in the dungeon—"
"I didn't know if I could trust you, Athar," he answered brusquely.
"After everything I had done?" Athar's voice gained strength.
"From his perspective…how could you completely be trusted? He was kept in Angloa because you would not let Leonore sail back to France. Maybe if you had, she could have been saved." There was a slight tone of resentment and Athar paled when he realized Edward held some anger toward him.
"Is this what he feels about me?"
Isabella could not help but feel sorry for the old man. He had dedicated his life to the crown. She understood well why Edward was angered by Athar's decision. A decision that had probably cost Leonore Valois her life. But she did not understand why, after everything Athar had done to prove himself, he still resented him.
Unbeknownst to them all, the man in the dark blue hood had slipped away during the chatter and ventured into the castle. He hoped he would reach his destination before they realized he had left.
Rosalie sat up in her bed, feeling better after a bowl of Ruth's hearty soup. She regarded the frail hands gripping the cover, her chest rising and falling. The sound of battle long gone, only the song of autumn brushing against her window. Ticking like sand in an hourglass, time slowly running out until life ceased and winter came.
There was no knock as he entered, a hooded man with a tall figure. He stood out against the dullness in her rooms, yet the wax candles slid past him in a strange haze as if he were not there—a ghost gliding through the realm of death and living.
Rosalie gazed idly at him for she knew who he was, and her lip quivered when the hood was removed.
His hair was cut short now, a few inches or so from his scalp, the copper tresses tumbling boyishly into his eyes. His full beard was gone. Instead, a shadow now grazed his square jaw. A straight and proud nose—the one thing all of their family had in common. His eyes were not as slanted. Thick eyebrows, full of vibrancy and expression sat close to his eyes. Thicker eyelashes lined those forest greens. His full lips pulled aside for a faint smile to present itself on his handsome face.
Rosalie managed a teary-eyed smile as her lip quivered. "You look like him," she whispered. The man sitting before her took her hand in his bare one and squeezed it. "…uncanny," she mumbled under her breath.
"I am here now, Rosalie," he reassured her with those intense orbs that seemingly could stir the seas and skies at their whim. "Now you rest and recover." He took in the sight of her, the shriveled-up princess of Angloa.
Rosalie's head settled against the pillows keeping her upright in her bed and gave away a deep sigh. It was an expression of peace that presented itself within her—as if she had not been able to breathe or relax before.
"Where is he?" Athar asked the masked man as they walked into Adelton. He had been looking around, thinking he might recognize the long-lost son of Philip Fell. But he saw no such face.
"Slipped away while Irias, Black, and Raleigh entertained you lot," came the muffled response.
Athar stopped in his tracks. "Slipped away?" More followed them. Curious officers and lords who all knew whom Edward Cullen had gone to seek.
Where was William Fell?
It was the only thing now prevalent in their minds. The three southern lords and their equipage had kept their mouths shut.
Edward's impostor stopped short before him and his aura grew slightly menacing, almost irritated. "He wished to see his sister before the whole castle sought him out."
Athar could practically feel his mouth turn into a dry desert. Could it be that simple? Was the long-lost son of his old friend really with Her Royal Highness?
"Do you still think he is there?" Fawkes wondered with astonishment lining his features. Lord Tyris was there, returned from Sorise with his entourage. There were also some Marshals, Saxton, Rajac, Glovendale and a few captains joined by Irias, Black, and Raleigh.
The masked man stopped before them, oozing of contained irritation. Whoever hid beneath that mask seemed done with carrying it—wanting nothing more than to remove it.
"Let him have his peace with her. He will meet you later tonight."
The lords were restless. "How can we wait?" Tyris demanded. "A man who claims to be the legitimate son of Philip Fell would have us wait—"
Athar silenced him before he continued spurting out nonsense. "Have him come to the Assembly Room when he is ready. We will be there, we will wait for him," he turned to the others. "A few more hours make no difference, my lords. I think he has the right to reunite with his sister in peace."
It was strange how understanding the old man could be. But maybe he wanted to rebuild a friendship with the prince. He knew there needed to be respect for the man they might one day claim as their king.
"Irias is here as well," he chuckled. It was more natural without the mask, more charm behind the simple gesture. And he was not aware of it. Rosalie grew so confused, should she refer to him as Edward or William?
"Good," she mumbled distantly.
He noticed her distant state, her eyes trailing to the far-off wall. He had lit more candles as the sun started trailing down on the sky.
"I chose this, Rosalie." His velvet voice, not as deep as before—more friendly, pleasant, understanding—wanted to relay to her that he knew what he had gotten into.
"It will be temporary," she swore with wide eyes. "Unless…you would take my place? I am certain that, as soon as the lords here see you, they will blindly follow you as well—"
"It isn't that simple." His green eyes drifted off now as well, caught on a fixed point on one of the medieval tapestries. "The south didn't unite for William Fell…at least not at the beginning." The air grew denser after those words had been spoken as if they should never have been said. Rosalie grew confused.
She wanted to ask, but he continued after pausing, trying to find the adequate vocabulary which would help him express the importance of what had happened in the south.
He turned to face her. "They rallied to our side because Edward Cullen came."
Her brows furrowed. "These proud lords would follow a man whose lineage they do not know rather than a pure blue-blood? Then why did they not come when I went down to call on them sooner?"
"Edward Cullen gave them the unthinkable. And they knew him while they know that William will represent the royal lineage…even though he hasn't accepted the job," he joked.
"This isn't something to jest about in such a carefree manner, Edw— William," she reprimanded.
He shook his head and got up from the bed. "I am in an even greater trap now, dear sister. For these lords want both Edward and William and you…all three of us against Victoria and the English," he growled. The familiar voice of Edward emerged past the charming mask of William Fell.
Rosalie understood the situation he found himself in. "That does complicate things."
He chuckled again. "Carlisle hates being me."
"Carlisle is the one wearing the mask?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.
"He is surprisingly good at mimicking me, though I think Jacob could be even better." He took his sister's hand. "Rosalie, whatever situation we find ourselves in, we shall overcome it. These problems will be solved, and all shall be well. I can see it, the end of this wretched fight, the end of our sorrows."
Rosalie's lips parted while simultaneously trembling. She parted her arms to hug him. Edward reveled in their embrace. Rosalie was everything Victoria was not to him. She was the embodiment of good, of light. In some sense—sharing moment's like these—almost made her feel like a mother to him. A good-natured and gentle mother, very unlike Sofia in her way.
"I suppose you must meet them soon. We must not keep those lords waiting for you much longer," she whispered in a sigh. Yet, she did not let him go—as if she was showing a precious gem to the world. "Or maybe you would forget them and William Fell could remain hidden a little bit longer—"
"It is too late now," her brother's voice sounded in her ear. "I stop hiding from now on and will be by your side, Rosalie." They let go of their embrace and she held his bare hand.
"Let me know how Athar reacts," she chuckled despite herself. "The poor man might have a heart attack, you know."
He laughed at her remark and squeezed her hand with his own before getting up. William Fell strolled to the door as he raised his hood up, closing it tightly after himself and heading for where Edward had told him they would all be meeting: the assembly room.
The Assembly Room was more cramped than usual. Oval in shape and stone walls lined with flickering candles in the absence of sunlight, it cast strange shadows over the awaiting faces. Carlisle, dressed as Edward, Irias, Raleigh, and Black were the only ones who had seen the supposed prince. Many had come to seek further information from them, but they shared little.
Carlisle was as silent and somber as a grave and Fawkes stopped pestering him when a final murderous glance was cast his way. Irias and Raleigh kept whispering on the short end of the table that occupied the center of the room.
There was an air of restlessness, of giddiness and something akin to fear. Who would step through that door at the far side of the oval room?
Anticipation grew, stretching its long tendrils and turned the energy to something nervous, something they could not quite explain. Minutes ticked to hours for them and they all grew silent while awaiting the man of the hour. Tingles flew through them like electrical sparks on the way to the ground.
Conversation had soon died down to be replaced by nothing. Only the occasional push of the wind, rattling the windows. Flickering of candlelight danced its strange dance.
Steps sounded beyond that door and they grew into something bizarre, echoing through their bodies as if they were not really there. Some paled, others felt their hands grow clammy or stomachs turn.
Why were they nervous?
Others awaited with curiosity, ready to pounce on whom they thought to be a clear impostor, savoring the moment they would prove him wrong.
Carlisle stared at the crowd and gave a little prayer for Edward. He felt the massive expectancy drift in that room, as loaded as the sky was before a massive thunderstorm.
And the footsteps lost their echo as they came closer and closer. Athar was the most rigid of them all, his eyes fixed on the door as if it held the key to his whole existence. His lips and mouth had long since grown dry from constant waiting. He trembled slightly, jumping in place as the handle turned and a man stepped in.
It took a second or two for them to register him, his presence, his form outlined against the darkness of the hall behind him. He dressed in simple dress, a royal blue doublet, dark breeches, and polished boots. But he managed to make the clothes look smart for some reason.
The information sunk in slowly as to whom has just walked through the door.
William Fell.
He stood there, wearing the most normal cut of clothes, carrying himself with a relaxed air. Yet, he came off as larger than life to them.
William Fell.
Right before their eyes he stood, letting them process his face, his figure, his eyes. Everything. There was no sound present in that room. It was obsolete; a vacuum where he was the center of it all, of calculating eyes, of curious faces. In the seconds that followed, he closed the door behind him, now standing full figured before them.
At first, most would not see it, the candles casting shadows across handsome features. But Athar saw it from the start.
This could not be him, William Fell.
No, this was someone else. And as he paled further, his eyes glazed with unshed tears, he spoke out first.
"Philip?"
His otherwise calm and fatherly tone was thick, shy and almost afraid. The green eyes fixed on him, putting their full attention on him and his heart burst. Those were not Philip's eyes for they were not the gray orbs that had looked at him through decades. They were not the same gray orbs which had smiled at him, guided him, consoled him, challenged him.
A tear ran down his cheek. Once he realized it was not Philip, his brows furrowed. How could this be? Was it not the same face? The same lips, nose, jawline? How could he be seeing the uncanny likeness and yet not see Philip?
Fawkes' mouth had fallen down, not able to utter a word. But he had seen it rather quickly as well. While he had never seen Philip Fell in his youth, he figured this was the next best thing. For it did indeed look like the portrait come to life. They were all dumbfounded at the face before them.
Edward let them process it, fought hard to let the neutral mask remain on his features. His heart rate was soaring, he could feel the sweat running down his back, sticking to the white shirt he wore beneath the doublet.
But, to their surprise, it was Lord Tyris who spoke out first after Athar, who said a semblance of words that might be considered reasonable. He had recovered from the initial shock first, and he set out immediately to question the young man before him.
"I will n-not argue the resemblance," he stammered carefully. "You are indeed r-related to King Philip," he admitted.
Wide eyes would not break contact from looking at that face. Sounds of agreement sounded beyond what Tyris had stated. "But this whole affair t-that you should be Leonore Valois' son…it is too good to be true that you should be related both to Angloan and French royalty."
Edward remained silent, his forest greens breaking from Tyris and captivating Athar once more. He started walking toward him. The old man stood frozen as he watched the man near him like a specter out of the fog. He took a step back, thinking his heart might give out.
Edward removed his gloves and stood before Athar, his height towering over the older man. He looked at him for a long time before stretching out his left hand with the back turned upward.
Athar's eyebrows knitted together at first until he stared down. A small scar ran along the back of his left hand. It was from an injury the prince must have sustained a long time ago. Slowly but surely his mind started working for him as he remembered a sunny day of May, a knife and what he'd presumed to be a little girl lighting up at that knife. He remembered the cries as she had run for her mother, the cut across the back of her left hand, how Leonore had soothed her and bandaged that cut.
Edward's right hand dug inside his doublet until he produced an item to show Athar. It was a small dagger, simple with a straight blade ending in a sharp tip. The hilt was wrapped in worn black leather.
"A weapon is not a toy, Mr. White." He spoke for the first time and his voice ran like smooth velvet against their ears. For it held a pleasantness and charm to it that none of them had ever expected. Except for Athar. It was the same tone Philip often had spoken in, especially in his younger years. Even his voice sounded like his father's had.
"It's him," Athar whispered, looking the young man straight in the eyes. There was such assuredness in his voice that Tyris would not question him at first.
"It is him," Saxton said in agreement, his eyes shining like the stars now beckoning outside the window. He could not believe what he was seeing. The green orbs now turned his way. Saxton still remembered the small boy who had been brought to his father's estate in Sorossa and cared for. He remembered the nasty cut across his throat and down his chest, remembered overhearing his parents whispering about "Fell" and line of succession. He had known the moment he had seen the scars trailing down this man's throat to his chest that he was who he said he was. Saxton had been struck by the realization that he stood before the legitimate son of Philip Fell.
Edward saw most looks of general curiosity now turn to sheer wonderment at that. But there was still some suspicion lacing them. He took a step back, Athar still silent, still not being able to say more as the tears ran freely down his eyes. This was his failure: the son he had failed to protect now miraculously stood before him and he feared how he must hate him.
"Let us set things straight right now," Edward told the lords. "I will tell you the same thing I told Lords Raleigh, Black, and Irias. I came solely upon my sister's and Cullen's request. I am not here to take her place, I am not here to claim the crown."
A sharp intake of breath followed, and Rajac grew visibly angry. "You have been alive this whole time?"
"I have," Edward answered in the same calming and smooth voice.
"You have been alive, and you have heard of what happened here…of your cousin's death—Jasper' death?!" Anger threatened to turn into rage.
Edward remained silent.
"Why?" Fawkes asked in turn. "Why did you not step forth earlier? You could have saved us so much pain, so much grief." His voice grew rougher and rougher, his tone more intense until the point of breaking.
"Because I would not get involved with a nation that cost my mother her life—with a woman; a sister, who tried to kill me in my youth." He looked around and let go of the anger he had been holding for so long. "I did not step forth before because I never held ambition for the throne that has broken so many people."
"Yet, you are here now," Saxton pointed out.
The green orbs now turned his way and he hesitated at their intensity. "I came because Rosalie willed it. I came because Cullen asked."
Eyes turned to look at Carlisle. "How long have you known of his existence?" many demanded in what seemed like contained anger and irritation.
"Many years before coming back to Angloa, when I was traveling the world," he growled as if not wanting to speak of it.
"We met in the Orient," Edward filled in. "For few would recognize my face there." What he said was true. While William and Edward were one and the same, he had indeed been in the Orient. He and Carlisle had meticulously gone over what they should say if the question ever came up.
"And you did not recognize him?" Tyris asked.
"I did not make the connection at the time, not until I returned to Angloa."
They all turned quiet, taking in the vast and heavy information that had just been presented.
"Edward saved my life," Edward said. He needed to prove that William and Edward trusted each other. For if they held trust, the other lords would trust William as well. It had worked with the southern lords. It would work with the others as well. "And it cost him his face," he continued. It was bizarre to be speaking about such a thing. But, maybe it held some sort of truth. Edward Cullen had, in some sense, saved William's life by putting on the mask. But it meant that Edward Cullen could never show his face to the world. He liked to think that it was the truth in that statement.
They all looked at the masked general with a new sense of awe now present in their eyes.
"When I heard the full extent of Victoria's crimes, of what she has led this country to, I answered my sister's summons. But, my lords, I have spent the past seventeen years away from Angloa. I am, as Lord Irias stated on our journey here, unfamiliar with my fatherland. I hope you will accept me as your equal," he looked at the lords. "As a friend," he looked to Carlisle. "As an Angloan."
They all knew their answer. There was no need to gather the assembly, to ponder it. They needed him. Maybe he did not know how to lead an army, how to command the lords. But they needed what he represented; legitimacy. And if the legitimate heir to the throne supported Rosalie. They had the God-given right on their side to cast Victoria out.
"You are an Angloan, Your Highness," Lord Irias said. His acceptance of the prince was all the other lords needed.
"Aye!" some of them uttered.
"Hear-hear!" others erupted.
Edward bowed his head in gratitude. And in that strange circumstance, he placed a hand on Athar's shoulder. The gray orbs filled with self-resentment, with guilt. They stared at him like a lost child.
"All is forgotten—all is forgiven, Lord Athar," the prince said. What had happened to him had not been Athar's fault, at least not in his eyes. And at that moment, Athar found the peace he had so been searching for. At that moment, he wondered if Philip stared down at them, and he hoped he saw where his son now was.
A shaky smile trailed along his lips as the prince's hand squeezed his shoulder and his own smile parted his lips.
But Athar only saw the smile of his long-dead friend and the tears that now still fell were out of joy instead of guilt and sadness.
A/N: Yet another chapter. I have almost gone over all the grammar from the first fic and slightly altered some things. However, my hope is that when this whole series is finished, I can truly get into the writing and do major touch-ups to the narrating and writing in some areas. I have really listened to all of your feedback during this whole journey and learned so much! So thank you!
I hope you enjoyed this chapter :D If you did, don't forget to leave a review! Thank you also to all of you who left reviews to the last chapter, really appreciate it!
Cheers!