Twenty Five:
Last Daze

Footsteps echoed loudly off the stones, light and slow, masking the soft clicking of nails against the floor. A single candle illuminated the darkness. The girl moved carefully ahead, knowing there was a ledge somewhere off to her side. As she stepped further inside, the tomb grew brighter courtesy of the multitudes of candles that always kept the main room lit.

Two kists took up most of the floor space before a large, monolithic statue that seemed to strongly resemble Theresa. The polished stone and gold glimmered faintly in the flickering light like some partially-hidden, exotic treasure. Victoria sat down before the left-most coffin, placing her candle beside her on the dusty floor. Nero stretched out on her other side, yawning as he lay down. Almost reverently, she wiped the dust from the nameplate before her. Sniffling slightly—a by-product of the dust, or so she would claim—Victoria wiped her fingers on her dressing gown and sat back to stare at her father's tomb.

"Things are bad, Daddy," she said softly, unsure how to truly explain the situation. "Really bad. There was a rebellion, and then…and now I don't know what to do. I'm not the Hero Albion deserves…and maybe I'm not the Hero I was meant to be. I've never felt so helpless."

Hobbe Cave spread out before her, thinly illuminated by a few guttering torches. The little girl curled up closer to the centre of the cage she had locked herself into. She'd just wanted to be like her daddy…but now the hobbes wanted to get her. Her fear was crippling and tears streamed down her dirty, round face.

And then the screaming began.

It started far off and grew steadily closer. She was so scared. Was some new monster coming for her? She didn't know. But, soon enough, all the hobbes were gone and a familiar face loomed out of the darkness.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed as he broke the lock and wrenched the cage door open. She crawled out, wanting him to hold her, but received a surprise when he forcefully grabbed her shoulders.

"What were you thinking?!" the Hero King exploded, shaking her slightly. His face creased in worry and anger and something she'd never seen on her father's face before: fear. And there was something else, something that had been utterly alien to her at the time, but that was now an expression she'd seen often; relief twisted with exhaustion, which seemed to deepen the wrinkles on her father's face. "Don't you ever run away again. Do you hear me, Victoria? Never again!" He pulled her close and held her as if he would never let go. "I was so worried."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she told him, crying still. In that moment, she never wanted to run away again.

Victoria brushed her hair from her face. "Well, maybe I have once or twice before. I wish you were here right now. You would know what to do. How to help everyone." She broke off before spitting out: "If you were here, this never would have happened. I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry…."

Pulling her legs to her chest, she rested her forehead upon her knees. It was so peaceful inside the tomb, despite how much she was worrying about the coming day. She could almost feel her parents there with her. It gave her an idea.

She had read once that there were some in the Old Kingdom that had believed that one's ancestors lived beyond death. They followed those who were still living, guiding them and answering their prayers when the spirits believed those prayers would be of the most benefit. Victoria had thought long and hard on it at the time, before deciding she disliked the idea. The dead were meant to be allowed to rest, lest they became hollow men, cursed to roam the world until their wisps could find peace. But, now? Now she wasn't so certain. But she was, however, desperate. And she saw no reason to not give it a try.

Mother, Father, I don't know if you can hear me, she thought as she poured her heart and soul into the words, but, more than anything, I require your guidance.

Logan sat before his chessboard, not really seeing it. The little black and white pieces were frozen mid-game, though there was no other player to be seen.

He merely sat there, accepting his lack of thought. The last month had passed all too quickly. And he'd tried—he'd tried to be the King Albion needed. But it just didn't seem to ever work. No one wanted to hear the word of a failed King when his little sister could give them what they wanted. He couldn't help but wonder what Victoria had that he didn't. Jealousy twisted his gut and filled his mouth with bitterness. Had he been born a Hero, things would not be as they were now. He would have been able to save Albion and Aurora. He wouldn't be considered a failure. The very thought pained him. Would his people love him as they loved her? Would Sparrow have taken more care with him? Would his father have ensured that he was not a frail, lanky boy, but as strong of body as of mind? Would his parents have given him a choice to have a life outside of that of a King?

…would he even be alive today? To die for Albion was something he had always considered a great honour. Something he was more than willing to do. He loved his Albion—it was the spouse and child he had never had, but which he was tied to nonetheless—and now he was being asked to step away? To give it all up? How could he do such a thing? He had bled for this country; he had worked through illness and fatigue and depression to do what was necessary to keep Albion alive. He couldn't turn his back now.

What does she know about ruling? a little voice hissed bitterly. Nothing! She's naught but a pampered child, oblivious to what truly needs to be done! She cannot work as I have!

Exactly, replied what he would have liked to call his "voice of reason". We failed the test. Our time is over. The King of Albion is no more; it is time for the Queen to lead us through the darkness.

The mantle clock's ticking was loud and monotonous—cutting into the sudden silence of his mind—and, as Logan finally decided to move a chess piece, he kept his dark eyes trained on the clock's filigreed minute hand. Things were going to change the next day. Whether they won this fight or lost it, things would change; Albion would never go back to the way it had been before.

And, the day after, he would go into exile…never to be seen again.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Logan watched the minutes tick by but could think of nothing to do but wait.

I've done some bad things, I know. I've hurt people needlessly and— the Princess hesitated in her thoughts, the memory of a kiss and of a passion-fuelled embrace that made her weak, momentarily driving thought from her mind. She stroked Nero's fur to calm herself. And I've been selfish.

The Cock in the Crown pub was much more empty and solemn than usual. In fact, it probably hadn't been this empty since before it had opened. The bartender and barmaids cleaned up at a morose pace, their minds far from their tasks. Other than those few with a fondness for liquor that even the threat of death and destruction could not assuage, only a small group of men sat around a rickety old table. They wore the red and gold of Albion's militia, but none of them, at that moment, bore the pride that came with wearing the uniform.

Ben passed around the latest round, listening as one of his company slowly spoke of their family. It was a trend most of the people at the table picked up on as stories of peoples' families were passed around like loaves of bread at a banquet. Funny, but only a couple hours previous, it was all laughter and amusing war stories. Until they noticed the time.

Everyone noticed the time.

And then it was only silence and mournful stories about those that were missed. Sons. Daughters. Parents. Spouses. Lovers. Ben had none of these—well, he had had lovers but none at that precise moment. His parents were dead. His brothers—Jason, William, and Quentin—were dead. Well…William's death was still a bit of a mystery, but the fact still remained: Ben had no home or family to worry about. He had friends, yes, and he secretly worried mightily for them, but he had no special someone who would sit and fret and hope he made it home safely. And…and that was okay, wasn't it?

Sometimes he really wondered.

He'd teased Page about it when they'd been released from prison. "Vicky worried about me. What about you?" "Please, Finn. Why would I be worried about you?" "So…no 'Welcome back, Ben Finn' kiss?" She'd just given him a deadly glare and walked off in a huff. How nice it was to be appreciated.

"Look, lads," one of his fellow soldiers teased, "the great Ben Finn…moping. Who's she this time?"

"Definitely not your sister, mate," the blond retorted cheekily, earning a couple half-hearted chuckles from his friends.

The laughter died down quickly; not because anyone was offended, but because it felt wrong. Like the country was already in mourning and the slightest sound of happiness broke the sanctity of it.

And there was nothing to do but sit and talk and wait for the minutes to pass.

But I don't want to run away this time. I want to stand up and fight. I want to prove that I'm worthy of being a Hero…and I want to save Albion.

Maps couldn't speak and plans can't formulate themselves. Sometimes that fact infuriated Page.

Page stood, arms braced against the old table as she stared down at her maps and documents. The rough wood bit into her palms, but she didn't mind. What she did mind was that she couldn't think. She was too frustrated to think. Thankfully, there wasn't a clock in the old rebel headquarters…or, at the very least, not one in her personal room.

Conflict raged within her. On one hand, she was angry; angry at having to help the man who was the start of Albion's problems and angry with Victoria for asking her to do so. Who did that little Princess think she was to ask them and Logan to work together?! But, on the other hand, Page had vowed to protect Albion. She refused to go back on such an important promise because of a personal vendetta. If she turned her back on the country now, it would make her just as much of a liar as the men she sought to overthrow. She refused to be thought of as such, both for personal pride and because she cared too deeply for the people of Albion.

That didn't mean that she trusted Logan, though. And that didn't mean that, as soon as this was over—Page had every bit of confidence in her men's abilities that they would survive—that she wasn't going to keep a very close eye on Victoria. After all, things about the Princess just weren't adding up right. She wormed her way out of trouble too easily, and she was ahead of them just enough for it to be eerie. Not to mention how many things kept ending badly around her. For things to line up so perfectly, Victoria either had to be a seer or involved in some seriously shady dealings. To hell with Finn's claims that skill was the reason; it simply wasn't possible for someone to be so lucky without outside interference…wasn't it?

Page's grip on the table tightened as her thoughts branched off. Not to mention that the Princess was uncomfortably close to Reaver. Close enough to make Page's skin feel uncomfortable and sullied.

The Crawler was coming, yes, but Page wasn't as worried as most were. Monsters she could handle. It was the weirdness surrounding the castle that she wanted to get to the bottom of.

I won't stand to the side anymore. But I need your help, or, at the very least, your strength. Please protect us and watch over us in battle. Help us reach victory as safely as possible.

Walter stood on the battlements like a statue, staring out over the dark water. The crisp air was refreshing and kept him awake better than a steaming mug of coffee. But, though his mind was sharp and clear, he felt tired, as though a malignant cloud had descended upon his muscles to constantly leech them of energy.

"Ah, Sir Walter!" a perpetually warm voice greeted.

Walter started slightly, jerked from his dark musings. "Balls to you, Jasper. Were you intending on making me fall?"

"Good heavens, no," the old butler replied, quickly peering over the battlement wall and down into the abyss. He straightened up, fidgeting with his white gloves. "Have you, mayhaps, seen Victoria? She is not in her bed."

Walter shook his head once. "No. Don't worry so much, old friend; I doubt she's gone very far."

They stood in silence a moment, the air heavy and oppressive with some unseen energy. For some reason, the horizon seemed unprecedentedly dark. There were no stars and the moonlight didn't reflect off the ocean there. Strange, for the night was clear and the moon was bright.

"It really is coming," Jasper murmured as though he didn't want to believe it.

"Yes," Walter replied. I can feel it. He paused before heartily clapping Jasper on the back. "Relax, Jasper. I'll see to it that neither the Crawler nor any bats cause you any harm."

Jasper gave him a shrewd look and said dryly, "I feel better already."

Inwardly, he was pleased. He rather loathed bats.

Victoria hesitated. I love you both.

And, with that, she rose to her feet and she and Nero left the mausoleum. And she said goodnight.

And goodbye.

In the heart of the Spire, a single figure sat before an old, weathered desk. Her living quarters were Spartan, bare but for the necessities. Theresa sat before a fire, her small hands barely resting on the worn wood of her desk.

An unnatural frustration had taken hold over her mind.

Her cards were spread across most of the desk in an unfamiliar pattern, but they and the runes scattered beside them said the same thing: Albion's future was uncertain. Theresa didn't understand how this could be so. She had Seen this, many decades ago, and the most obvious paths had been perfectly clear. Now, everything was a blur.

Sparrow would have found amusement in this—a blind woman struggling to See—she was certain. But her trouble was real, and potentially dangerous. Perhaps, she thought, because a different path was chosen, the future is in flux.

It was possible, she supposed; as possible as anything else she had foreseen. After all, the future was always in motion. But Theresa was unaccustomed to waiting for answers. She would try, though. The future would reveal itself shortly.

And, like the rest of Albion, the seeress could only wait.

AN: Only two chapters left! D: Nuuuuu! Gah, I'm gonna miss this fic when it's done. (Seriously, guys, go vote in my poll if you want me to hurry with posting Blackout when it's done.) While I want to ask for reviews, I really feel that I should extend my deepest thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, or otherwise enjoyed MoI. Thank you, thank you for making this fic my most read, most reviewed, most...everything fic so far. Thank you! I hope I continue to entertain you. ^^

Dev. Notes: Hmm...tbh, I just really, really wanted to do a chapter with no real dialogue, no action, just nice and calm. Especially since all the drama that's been going around is so...drama-y. Mmm, drama.

[Edited; ver.3]