The Island Chapter 40, a twilight fanfic

Warnings: Violence, and a possible tissue warning?

Chapter 40

Northern Grasslands - Early Spring

Shasta sat on the banks of the Sunon River, her face screwed up in a scowl. The air was warm around her— the springtime sun lingered longer than it did in winter, and though the island was never truly cold, she could feel the beginnings of summer on the back of her bent neck. Her feet dangled in the current, the water black as pitch beneath the shadow of the Northern Watchtower, and the flow had slowed to a gentle trickle. A few miles east, Shasta thought, and she'd be in the rapids. She did not like this cold calm— she wanted to see the river rage with churning white froth and a dangerous, perilous pull. It would be fitting, she thought, for such a mood as this.

Shasta felt the cold on her feet like fire— it bit and burned as she dipped them further down in the running water. She held her skirt up around her waist and dangled her legs down as far as she could reach without falling in, holding resolutely still for as long as she could bear. Even when she felt the protesting prickles and pins in her very bones, she did not relent. After a long minute— Shasta counted the torturous seconds in her head— her toes wiggled in protest. She was angry with herself, then— angry at her own lack of gall— and with a great, heavy sigh she drew herself back again to the bank where the dry heat of the afternoon sun had warmed the shallow edges of the river to more tolerable temperatures. Her black mood did not subside in the bubbling, merry warmth, and when a silver-blue cichlid came close enough to brush her ankle she lashed out in a fury of temper. Her foot sent the fish darting, its long, sleek body disappearing downstream, and Shasta watched it go with mutinous displeasure.

With nothing left to kick, Shasta flopped back on the warm ground, her gaze fixed on a long, passing cloud in the quickly darkening twilight. Her brain was muddled with the events of the day, disjointed and choppy as if they'd been put to the scythe, and only when she closed her eyes, breathing in the deep, sweet smell of fresh spring grass, did she begin to feel some peace. The world was quiet here— a fact for which she was grateful, for the noise of her own thoughts was loud enough on its own.

As her heart calmed and her angry cheeks faded to palest pink, Shasta swallowed back a lump in her throat, glancing shame-faced towards the trees where her mother's hearthfire blazed. The house was only a blur on the edge of the jungle— a small, white smudge haloed in grey chimney smoke— but even from this great distance Shasta could make out the old, dirt lane, the leaning fence posts, and the water trough where her father's pony spent its nights. The thought of her mother made Shasta scowl, and she turned her back on the house with an angry huff.

"Tidy the yard, Shasta, and be quick about it!" was what her mother had shouted that afternoon while Shasta hunted stones. She had dug a hole in the side yard, deep enough to pull up some small, uncracked geodes, and she had just lined them up in a neat, tidy row when her mother's voice had interrupted. Shasta had eyed her with quiet resentment, following the irritated gaze to the front yard where her sister's tools and toys were scattered haphazardly across the trodden earth. Her sister was always making messes— she was the untidiest creature ever known to walk the earth— and as always, it was Shasta who had the task of tidying up. Shara was one year younger— a mere nine to Shasta's ten— and Mother never let them forget it.

"I didn't make any mess."

"Did you hear what I said?" Mother's voice had gone dangerously shrill. "Did you hear me, child? Do as you're bid!"

"I didn't make that mess," Shasta had repeated stubbornly. "I was in the field."

"Shasta!" Her mother, big with her fourth baby, had glared so ferociously at her eldest daughter that Shasta, always quick to anger, had flared up at once.

"Tell Shara!" she'd shouted. "Tell Shara to clean it up! She was the one with all those blocks!"

Mother, scowling, had rounded on her daughter at once.

"You will do as you're bid, or may the Gods help you," she'd snarled. "I didn't raise you to be disobedient! Take yourself out to that yard at once and do as you're told!"

The sight of Shara, grinning devilishly from a shadowy corner of the kitchen, had sent Shasta into a temper and at once, she'd reached out to swipe at her sister. Their mother, while heavy and slow, had a quick arm and she caught Shasta's hand just in time for Shara to flee to the other end of the room.

"Get!" snapped Mother, her grip hard and tight. Shasta pulled against the hold, making her mother teeter. "You get outside this instant!"

Mother, irritated, had pushed her sharply towards the door but Shasta held firm. Her bare feet were planted so strongly on the cold, dirt floor that it was Mother who stumbled forward, catching herself on the edge of the table just in time to avoid a tumble. Shasta saw the flash of anger before she felt it— a stinging slap on the back of her bare legs that made her yelp. Shasta had been slapped many times for her willful defiance, but it was rare for Mother's hands to bear down on her so sharply.

She felt the angry skin on her legs begin to throb, and when she felt mother's hand between her shoulders again, pushing her angrily towards the door, Shasta's eyes brimmed up with tears that made Shara cackle. It was that laughter, so taunting and victorious, that made her bubbling temper boil over.

Shara was a frequent target of Shasta's rage, and despite her mother's warning shout she threw herself blindly towards the door where her sister lurked, reaching out her long fingernails to strike at that smug, pretty face…

Her mother snatched the back of her dress before the blow could land and Shasta fell back, her hands scraping against a rough stone in the floor. She barely felt the sting, her anger was so hot, and though Mother stood between both of her daughters to stop a brawl, there was little she could do to stop the words.

"Brat!" Shasta had shrieked. "Beast! You lazy, hateful slut!"

Shasta did not know what the word meant— nor, in fact, did Shara— but their mother certainly did. She had learned it in a pub— her father had taken her to market during the last grain haul and they had camped overnight against the wall of a rather bawdy tavern. One of the men had used it during an argument and it had sounded so delightfully insulting that Shasta had filed it away for just such a time as this. She had a store of such words, pilfered from tavern brawls, all of which she knew would insult her sister and make her mother nearly apoplectic with rage.

There had been a pause— a long, shocked silence in which Shara only frowned and Mother balked with an open mouth— before that silence was cracked by a shrill, ear-splitting shriek.

"What did you say!?" Mother had cried. Shara, grinning gleefully from her spot behind the door at this newest outrage, laughed out loud when their mother caught Shasta's arm. She felt her mother's long fingernails digging into her skin. "What did you just say!?"

"Lazy!" Shasta had bellowed in her mother's face. "Lazy, stupid slut!"

Mother had slapped her again, this time on the cheek. Shasta, so angry she could spit, had wrenched her arm away and ran, full tilt, at the great wooden door, behind which her sister still stood. She knew what she would do only moments before she did it, but when her hands reached out to slam the door into that smug, laughing face, she saw her sister's quick and sudden terror.

The resounding crack when wood met flesh had been loud enough for even Shem to hear from where he stood in the yard, gathering Shara's blocks and tools that had been the cause of all the ruckus in the first place. He watched Shasta with long-suffering pity as she bolted from the house, his gaze flickering only briefly towards Mother, who stood motionless with shock and rage in the small, dark kitchen.

Shara's screams and her mother's angry curses had followed Shasta all the way to the edge of the yard, beyond which lay the great, open fields. She ran until her legs burned, and then she inched her way down to the riverbed, where she'd vented her feelings by hurling great, heavy stones into the placid, gentle current.

That had been in the afternoon, long before Father was in from the fields. He'd been in the barley fields today— the furthest pasture from their small, humble farmhouse— but Shasta knew that he'd be back now that the sun was dipping low behind the mountains. They'd be eating, she thought, or perhaps sitting by the fire with the flute. Mother would tell Father all about their day and about Shasta's disobedience, and perhaps, this time, Papa would be angry. Shasta had never seen him rage— indeed, not even when she had locked her sister in the clothes trunk— but she wondered if this would be the final straw.

The very thought made her heart sink to her feet.

Papa and Shasta were like two peas in a pod, Mother always said. Father was a quiet man— tall and strong, with a wiry beard that matched Shasta's own shocking mop of fiery red hair. Shem and Shara were handsome and dark, their black hair straight as a pin, just like Mother's. Shasta was small and pale and skinny as a rat, with skin like milk and such a peppering of freckles that Shara sometimes tried to connect them with black fireplace soot. Her hair matched her temper— her one inheritance from her taciturn mother— and though Shasta did not possess even the slightest hint of introspection needed to regret her tantrums and her fits, she did feel a sudden, gnawing guilt at the thought of having disappointed her Papa.

Papa loved Shasta— he told her so often— and though he'd never say it to her face, she knew in her heart that she was his favourite.

"You're a good girl, Shas," he'd say to her. "My good, strong girl…"

With him, walking hand-in-hand in the fields, Shasta did not feel so awkward or out of place. She was not pretty— not like her mother and her sister— but beside her father, whose nose and chin were as sharp as hers and whose hair was as wild and vibrant, she felt, for just a little while, like she belonged.

Shasta buried her face in her skirt, her eyes burning with the threat of tears as she imagined his disappointment.

Father, unlike Shasta, was a good man. He was a kind man. He loved Shasta, and told her freely, but he loved Shara too, and Shem. On his last run to the King's city, he'd brought Shasta back a delightful white stone made from marble discarded from the old castle floor. It was worth a ransom, their father said, and he could have sold it at market for a pretty penny, but instead he'd brought it home to her, his Purveyor of Fine Things. He had suffered Mother's wrath because of it, fending off her spitting anger at the thought of a month's worth of butter and eggs wasted on a child's fancy.

That rock was her pride and joy— it took the place of honour on the sill of her small window— but so, too, did Shara's doll, which Father had paid a toymaker to carve, and Shem's new dagger, which Father had promised to teach him how to use. Shasta might not love her sister, but her father certainly did, and she knew with a sinking in her belly that his disappointment would be as humiliating as anything her sister could have done in recompense.

With a heavy heart, Shasta turned to glance back towards the homestead, where the grey blur of smoke would be vanishing into the high, dark sky. The stars were out now, twinkling in their heavenly seats, and the moon was small, but bright. She could no longer see the mountains— only the tall, overbearing silhouettes of the great, stone monuments— and though the path had all but disappeared beneath her very feet, she knew the road well enough to find her way back.

But when she turned, she felt the thrumming of her heart beneath her ribs and she blinked, astonished, at the vision near the trees.

Gone was the happy, grey smudge to mark the passing of the evening meal. Gone was the pony, tethered to its nighttime post. Gone was the trough, filled with water and scraps, and gone was the fence to keep the wildcats in their dens. Gone were the wagons, and gone were the crops, and in their place, blazing like hellfire, was a great, billowing inferno to take the place where her home should have been.

Shasta ran as quickly as her legs would carry her, flying like the wind through the tall grass and shrubs. Branches whipped her legs and she felt a trickle of blood down her ankle. Her bare feet, stinging from the punishing poke of stones beneath her toes, began to ache and smart. The field was alight with the glow of the fire— Shasta did not know how she hadn't noticed it before— and the closer she got to the scorching hot flames, the more she became aware of the terrible screams.

She reached the edge of the yard, where the pony's trough was burning, and she squinted to the flaming doorway, beyond which she could see nothing. The windows were blank, like eyes without their soul, and try though she might to see the horrors inside, she could make out nothing but the white glow of fire.

"Mother!" Shasta shouted, her voice almost lost in the roar. She inched nearer to the cabin, but reared back when she felt the stinging heat on her feet. "Mother!"

All around her, the homestead burned.

"Father!" she cried, and she felt the strangling smoke at the back of her throat. Her eyes began to water. "Father! Mother! Shem!"

There was no answer.

"Shara!"

With a great crack, Shasta saw the central beam of the roof give way, and at once, the house began to creak. She fell back in startled fear, her bright, blue gaze fixed on the trembling edifice, and though she scrambled back on her hands and knees, it was all she could do to escape the circle of smoke and embers. A piece of the thatched roof fell in, sending a pillar of noxious, black smoke spiralling to the sky.

"Mother…" Shasta's voice cracked, and she ran a sooty hand over her dampened cheeks. "Mother!"

What happened next was done so quickly that Shasta, white and still with shock, barely had time to scream.

"Grab her!" came a strange voice and Shasta, scrambling back another foot, felt the grip of hot, calloused hands on her bare arms. She screamed in sudden terror, her feet kicking as the hands hauled her up, and when she felt the blow on the side of her face, harder than any her mother had ever dealt, her head snapped to the side with an audible crack.

Dazed and confused, with a face already starting to swell, Shasta blinked away the spots of white across her vision as the stranger hauled her back, tossing her bodily to the ground with an unceremonious thud. Her head bounced off of the hard stone, making her ears ring as a gash opened up on her scalp, and she saw the swimming face of a stranger before her, leering down with a snarling lip. He bore down on her like a wildcat, his scraggly, yellow hair hanging over his eyes, and when he reached down to her dress, his fist closing around her collar to choke her, Shasta heard another scream that was not her own, terrible and hoarse in the din. The noise shocked the man and he dropped her, letting her fall back to the ground.

"No!"

"Get back, you bitch!" barked another voice and Shasta, head wheeling round to her right, saw with mingled horror and relief the figure of her mother, prone on the ground. She was not the same woman Shasta had left that afternoon— gone was the bitter annoyance and the short-tempered, unwholesome anger. This woman was afraid— Shasta could see it plainly on her face— and when she reached out a bruised and bloodied hand to pull her daughter close, Shasta scrambled to her at once, ignoring the throbbing pain behind her ear. Her mother looked ragged— her dress was torn from hem to waist, her legs bare and bloodied in the firelight, and her lip was split, as if she'd been struck. Shasta could not see her brother or sister— there were no other figures in the dirt to mark their presence— and she crawled so quickly into her mother's arms that not even her captor had time to stop her.

"No," repeated Mother, her voice trembling and weak. Her rough hands ran over Shasta's head, her back. "No, no, no…"

Shasta clung like a babe, her face pressed to the rapid pulsepoint at her mother's throat. At once, the strangers pounced.

"Mother!" wailed Shasta, feeling the grip of the strange man at her waist. Her mother, with her swollen belly in the way, flung out a hand to grab the hem of Shasta's dress, and then her foot. Shasta felt the gripping hand shake— her mother never trembled— and it was the feel of that weakened, terrified grip that scared her more than anything else.

When the man hauled her up, her feet leaving the ground altogether, she felt fear break in her like a wild horse and she screamed into the night, her voice drowning out the sound of her mother's sobs. Mother's hand scrabbled in the dirt, reaching up with desperate urgency to take her back, but the man hauled her so high up that Mother, stuck in her spot on the ground, could not reach.

"Mama! Mama! MAMA!"

"Shut her up!" bellowed a voice from the edge of the yard. Nearly blind with panic, Shasta could only writhe. "Shut that little bitch up!"

There was another blow to her cheek, and then another still when the first did not silence her. Her mother screamed too— Shasta saw the shape of a boot bearing down on her— and through her tears she saw her mother's arms around her belly, guarding that precious life inside. Her attempts, however, were in vain, and Shasta watched with horror as the boot found its mark. At once, she heard her mother's renewed cries as she curled in on herself. A shadow of blood began to spread between her legs, pooling like molten rubies in the blinding glow, and Shasta began to scream again, her heart hammering in her chest. Mother's face turned ghastly white, her hands grabbing desperately at the great orb of her belly, and Shasta felt the pain of it in her own self. The man kicked her mother again, and then a third time, before her cries died out altogether, and she clawed at her middle with clumsy hands.

Shasta's tears made her captor snarl.

"Whinging little whelp," he growled, and when he brought a large, filthy hand to clamp over her mouth, Shasta sunk her teeth deep into his palm. The man cried out, nearly dropping her in surprise, but redoubled his grip when she tried to squirm free.

"Let me go!" she wailed, as her mother began to writhe. "Let me go!"

"Shut the hell up!" hollered the man. His hand clamped down on her mouth again, so hard this time that there was no further hope of biting. "You shut your little mouth before I knock out all your teeth!"

Shasta only cried, thrashing angrily in her captor's arms, as the other man stood over her mother with a sneer.

"Not long now, doll!" he chuckled, and Shasta heard a ghostly chorus of laughter from the shadows at her back. "Not long now…"

"My baby…"

"Is dead," said the man coldly. "Burning with all your others."

Mother did not look at Shasta as her face crumpled like wet parchment, and she felt a flicker of horrified grief as her mother's gaze met the billowing flames.

Shasta, squirming like an eel, felt the bottom drop out of her belly.

Burning… the very thought made her stomach roll. Burning like all the others. The others… Shem and Shara. Shem and Shara, burning…

When her stomach turned the man recoiled in horror, leaping back from the flood of sick that splattered his boots. Shasta, shaking, squirmed away into the circle of darkness, just far enough for the man at her mother's feet to wheel around, enraged.

"Grab her!" he barked, and at once, Shasta saw three other figures manifest in the smoke. She began to back away. "Find that little brat!"

And at once, with a renewed strength she had not known she possessed, Shasta began to sprint through the tall grass, weaving erratically through the wheat and the rye.

She ran like the wind, but the men ran faster. She could hear their thunderous footsteps, pounding behind her like horses at a sprint, and no matter how she weaved and bobbed through the tallest plants and ditches, she could see the faint outlines of waving grass where four bodies, tall and strong, chased her through the night. Her breath came in sharp, painful pants. She could feel her heartbeat in her cheek and scalp, where she'd been dealt her newest injuries. Her feet were numb with cold— the ground, sodden with rainwater from yesterday's deluge, had gone boggy and chilly in the rapidly cooling nighttime air. She could see no lights— there were no nearby villages or homesteads to which she might run, and though she could hear the sound of river at her back, she did not dare glance back to see how far she had come.

For Shasta knew, with the certainty of a prophet, that if those men caught her, she'd burn too.

She ran blindly through the fields, not knowing which way was up, until she found herself once again near the halo of firelight from the cabin, her legs shaking and her face slick with tears. She could see the edge of the fence where her mother lay, unmoving and silent in the quiet night, and she could no longer see the four pursuers…

The hand on her mouth was stronger this time, and with a muffled scream of terror Shasta felt herself hauled backwards into the wheat, her head resting against a cold, shaking shoulder. The arms did not release her when she kicked, and when she threw her head back with merciless force to crack the nose of her assailant, she heard his soft grunt of pain.

"Hush!" the voice hissed and at once, Shasta stilled. On the collar of her pale dress, blood dripped down from the man's face. "Hush, my darling… it's only me."

At once Shasta wheeled, her terrified eyes landing on the familiar face of her Papa. His face was gaunt with pain— Shasta could see the knife wound cut deep into his belly— but his grip was still firm, and his eyes still bright.

He kissed her, warm, urgent lips pressed to the crown of her head and her cheeks, before she felt him pull her to his heart and weep, his whole body shaking.

"Oh, Shasta…" His hands petted her hair, coming away wet with her blood. "Oh, my girl…"

"Mama…" Shasta's voice was thin and weak. "Mama… and Shem. Shara…"

"I know, my darling," her father said. "I know…"

"Who are they?"

Her father did not reply.

"We must go, sweetheart," he said. "We must go now, before they find us…"

"Go where?" Shasta clung to him with all her strength. Together, they tried to stand, but before they could make it halfway up, Papa's legs trembled like jelly. He fell to the ground with a grunt. "Go where, Papa?"

Ahead, just feet from where the fence should be, they heard the holler of angry voices and a high, thin scream from the place where her mother lay. The sound made Papa flinch, and Shasta felt a tear drip down to her collar.

"We must go," he said again. Another scream, louder and more urgent. "We must go…"

"Go where?"

"Burn it all!" bellowed a voice, and Shasta saw Papa's face fall. "Burn the every field to the ground, and find me that whelp!"

Shasta clung harder to her father.

"Papa…"

The crashing footsteps through the grass made Shasta start with fear and at once, she saw her father's face harden. He got to his knees, then, his fist clamped tight around his old, rusted sword, and Shasta felt his firm hand on her arm, thrusting her behind him.

"You'll run," he told her, and at once, she felt her composure break. "You'll run, Shasta. Promise me…"

"Come with me."

"You'll run," he said again, wheeling around to face her. She saw a strange fury in his eyes that made her balk, but still, she did not agree. "You'll run, my girl, and promise me you won't stop!"

"Come with me," Shasta begged again, her arms wrapping tight around her father's waist. Beneath her cheek, she felt the oozing blood of his cut. "Come with me, please…"

Don't make me go alone, she thought. Don't leave me here alone, with those men at my back…

Papa kissed her again, his lips rough against her cheek, before he shoved her back away from him, his face upturned towards the fire. In the glow, Shasta could see the bobbing heads of the strangers, each with a sword or spear poised to strike.

She began to cry.

"Go, Shasta," her father said. "Go now, and get yourself away."

"Where?" she asked. "Where, Father? Where should I go?"

Her father, face ashen and clammy, glanced back towards the river.

"You run, now," he said again. "Run to the north, and don't stop until you find them."

"Find who?" Her voice cracked and her father's composure wavered. "Find who, Papa?"

A crack to their left echoed and at once, his face went cold.

"Run," he said again, and Shasta, frozen, shook her head. "Run!"

"No…"

"Go!" shouted Father, and at once Shasta saw the searching figures stop. "Go, Shasta!"

"Come with me!"

"Go!"

"Come…"

"I—"

His voice was cut short with a grunt and Shasta, biting back a scream, knew at once what had happened. Her knees fell out from under her, her eyes as wide as saucers as she watched the tip of a bloody, vicious spear emerging from her father's side. He looked down at it in mild surprise, as if he could not quite believe that it was there, but when he looked back up and saw her staring, he gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.

"Run," he said, his voice a mere rasp. Shasta backed away. "Go… run!"

When the spear was pulled away it was a corpse that fell to the ground, its sightless eyes fixed on the sky where his killer stood tall, leering down at the terrified girl in the grass.

"Found you," he grinned, bearing down on her with glee. "Found you, little girl…"

Wheeling around on her bare heels Shasta bolted, tearing into the utter blackness like a spectre in the night.

The North is burning.

In the quiet of the market, where the people stood stunned, a whisper rolled through the crowd like quicksilver. No one knew where it had started— one had heard it from a friend, who had heard it from a foe, but the words were all the same:

The North is burning.

The baker heard it and his heart went still. His grain came from the north, and his flour too, and his sister, newly married, lived in a farmhouse near the trees. His own sister, whose husband had promised her safety, who had begged him to leave the bustle of the capital for a quiet country life, who had never given a thought to the rugged and angry West. A sister, who might now be dead, if the rumours were true, and if she were not, whose fledgling life had been torn to tatters in an instant. The baker left his stall and began to saddle his horse.

The butcher's wife went numb, her face a mask of shock. Her husband was a brute— a terrible tyrant who served as nothing more than the father of her children, the oldest of whom had fled the city just as soon as he was able. Her son lived by the river, in a little shanty shack overshadowed by the formidable Northern Watchtower that overlooked the coast. Her son, who hunted beasts. Her son, who wanted peace. Her own, darling boy, who had promised her daughter that he would steal her away, that he would save her from the bruises their father left when he was drunk. Her daughter who now, her face glazed with tears, bolted like a filly through the bustling, murmuring crowd, and disappeared forever beyond the high, city walls.

The jeweler closed his stall. The fletcher, slack with shock, watched as the news sent a woman into hysterics. The smith, with his forges still lit, let out an angry cry of protest and tossed three newly-minted swords into the street, where they were picked up by whooping, wild boys. The crowd began to move. The crowd began to shout.

"The north!" they wailed, craning necks to see invisible smoke beyond the walls. "The north!"

"My sister!"

"Mother!"

"My son… my only son!"

"Damn the West!"

"Damn them all!"

"Damn them straight to hell, where they belong!"

The noise rose in a crescendo, so loud that even the approaching horses were not heard until the very last, when the crowd was parted by an angry shout.

"Stand aside!" bellowed a strong, booming voice. "Stand aside at once!"

A child, perched on a fencepost to keep away from the stamping, rushing feet of the market crowd, lifted his head to gaze up at the passing parade. A dozen warhorses, sleek and glossy, bearing twelve armed soldiers. Red and gold adorned saddles and bridles, and painted shields bore the sigil of a sun— the King's sign. Twelve men at arms, all buckled in bronze armour, and one man in particular, near the centre, atop the only ebony horse in a sea of brown.

The child saw the crown on the strange man's helmet, and at once, he let out a shout.

"The King!" bellowed the boy, and heads turned to look. The smith, teeth bared, wheeled around in surprise. He reached back and snatched one of his discarded swords from a small, dirty fist. The fletcher whooped, tossing a quiver of arrows at the bowman near the back of the train, and the man caught them with a grateful nod of his head. The other two boys— ones who still clung to the smith's swords that were too broad and heavy for them— chased after the train of horses, stopped only when another reached out both hands and took them by their scruffs, cuffing each to make them drop their weapons in the dirt. Those new swords disappeared underfoot, clattering against rocks and stones, though the smithy seemed not to notice.

"The King!" called another voice— a man's this time. This voice carried, and the crowd began to bristle.

"Your Grace!"

"My King!"

"The North!"

"The West!"

"Burn the bastards!" hollered a woman, so far out of sight that the boy could not make her out. "Burn the bastards to the ground!"

The child saw the lead soldier snarl, and at once the crowd moved closer.

"Get away!" he spat. "Get away and let your king through!"

"Kill the traitors!" came the holler of another. The King's head twitched to look. "Hang them!"

"Traitors!"

"Bastards!"

"Murderers!"

"Enough!" roared the leader, and the child saw the face of the city commander when the helmet was lifted. "Enough, and move aside!"

The child only knew the commander by sight— all the people in the city did— and that once-jovial face had gone so stormy and dark that the child felt a stirring of fear. The adults seemed to see it too. Several women scampered back, all but one who stood her ground with such a tempestuous scowl that even her husband, surly and red-faced, reached out to pull her back.

The woman in the path, broad and strong, shrugged her husband away and moved just in time to avoid the hooves of the great, chestnut horse. When her husband caught her, spitting angrily, the commander ploughed on without a word.

The boy saw the King falter, offering the offended man a coin.

The boy watched for as long as he could as the King picked his way through the angry, terrified crowd. He watched them go until they reached the gate— a long, tiresome ride down the winding city street— and when the gates clanged shut behind them, bells tolling from the castle keep, it was all he could do to stay seated on his post while the crowd writhed around him.

Noise echoed in a chaotic rage. Voices rose and fell in the din. Swears were shouted, bodies were shoved, and the longer the child clung, the closer he came to falling, where he would be crushed underfoot like an ant.

The people were angry. The people were frightened. The people shouted, and clamoured, and shoved, but no matter what they did, or how loudly they cried out, there was one fact that remained as immovable as stone:

The north was burning.

It was Edward, riding hard and fast ahead of his Kingsguard, that found the scene first. He came upon it with a startling swiftness, and Magnus faltered when his hooves slipped in the wet, sodden mud. Edward dismounted from his horse, feeling the spongy soot beneath his boots, and let out a long, deep breath, feeling a sinking in his heart.

A day's rain had dampened much of the fire's fury, but the devastation it left behind was insurmountable. Edward stared, dumbstruck, at the absolute ruin before him, still smoking in the late afternoon drizzle.

"By the Gods," he heard Emmett mutter, bringing his horse to heel at Edward's back. Edward said nothing. "By the Gods, Edward…"

The land before them had been laid to waste, the once vibrant scenery scorched to a rancid, simmering black. Edward could see where the fire had raged, its angry, red path carved through green earth, eating away the crops, trees, and houses that had once called this land home. The air smelled like smoke, with an underlying, sickly sweetness that stuck at the back of his throat, and he brought up a hand to staunch the worst of it, resting his arm upon his horse. As far as the eye could see, the land had been scorched— a great, long stretch of crops and farms reduced to ashes and shells. The river lay east, blackened with soot, and it was all Edward could do to say a quiet prayer of thanks that the rains had come, dampening the worst of it and stopping the spread.

"By the gods," Emmett said again. "By the gods."

"This has nothing to do with Gods," said Edward darkly. The rest of his men, riding hard through the wet countryside, came upon them with a clatter, and Edward saw the sagging shoulders of Hema, Lord of this wasted, ruined land.

"How many dead, Hema?" he asked, his voice low. Hema dismounted, tearing off his bronze helm. "How many so far?"

"Twelve," said Hema shortly. "Twelve confirmed when I'd left for town…"

"Collected?" Edward asked. Hema gave a quiet shake of his head.

"Not yet, My King," he replied. "We haven't the men…"

"We've got them now," Edward said bitterly. "Do we know how to find them?"

Hema nodded, hesitating.

"But we don't know who, Your Grace," Hema said softly.

Edward stared, heavy and sad.

"We only know where," continued Hema. "I know my people… I know these farms, and their owners, but I can only guess. Some are so badly burned…"

Edward turned away.

"Take us to them," he ordered. "Take us to the nearest."

"At once."

And they rode through the thick, black muck, to the smoking, burned out shell of a farmhouse, where he saw the blistered, raw corpse of a woman, laying face-down in a pool of water on the ground.

And so it begins, thought Bella to herself, seated tall and steady atop the Queen's throne— a place where she had no right to be, but where Edward had placed her, in complete faith, before his departure for the north. The bustle of the throne room was at an all-time high, with common folk and gentry alike swarming at the foot of the dais, each uttering questions and pleas that she had no power to answer.

"Please," Bella said, and Jasper, perched on a stool beside her, gave a quiet frown. "Please, I beg you…"

"A queen does not beg," he said quickly, and Bella, frowning, stared down at him. "A queen commands."

"I'm not a queen," she reminded him in an undertone. "I'm not… anything."

"You're a queen in all but name," returned Jasper, "and even that name will come soon enough. These will be your people, and you must learn how to rule."

Bella bit her lip, glancing down at him with worry.

"I'm not a ruler."

"But you will be," he returned. "And soon."

One month, Bella thought to herself, glancing back at the bustling crowd of people. One month, and she'd finally hold that title Edward was so desperate to give her.

"Please, listen," she said again. The noise dulled, but did not cease. "Please, listen!"

At once, as her command carried over the heads of the group, Bella saw with relief how the bustling crowd stalled. The noise died in an instant, each voice falling silent in the sudden hush, and when Bella stood from her seat, her hands wrapped tightly around her skirt, she saw hundreds of eyes follow her, watching as she spoke.

"The city is safe," she said, repeating the harried words Edward had told her before his departure. "The city… is safe."

"But the north is burning!" came a voice from the rear. "The north, My Lady, burned to the ground!"

Noise rose again and Bella, heart hammering wildly, felt her eyes well with tears.

"Yes, the north burns…"

The crowd rose again, and this time, her guards stepped forth.

"The north burns!" she cried, and the noise grew louder still. "But the city does not!"

"Traitors!" bellowed an unseen man. "Hang them! Traitors!"

"The city is safe!"

"The West will come for us!" shouted another voice. "They will burn the fields, and block the roads, and come for us with their fire and their steel!"

Noise rose in a deafening roar, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. It rebounded with echoing chaos, making Bella flinch as Jasper, his face a mask of stone, leapt to his feet. His temper was almost palpable and Bella let it rage, hoping, selfishly, that it might dampen the heightened state of the crowd.

"You will be silent!" Jasper bellowed, and at once, heads turned to stare. He glared at the crowd, his mouth turned down in a scowl. "Your Lady speaks, and you dare to shout over her?"

At once, Bella saw the crowd settle, heads turning away from friends and kin to look instead upon their prince. Bella had no way of knowing why they fell still, why the eyes of even the roughest men in the hall went wary, but with his pale, blonde hair, and bright, blue eyes, Jasper looked the very picture of his father. Later that night it would not be Bella's speech that made its rounds through the taverns and homesteads, but the Prince's righteous anger, and his startling resemblance to the late beloved King.

"The Lady tells you the city is safe, and so it is," continued Jasper. "There is no danger here. Your King is gone to tend to the northern lands, and I assure you… any assailants he finds lurking in the waste will be served the King's Justice!"

Boots hammered on the floor in approval of these words, and those without boots banged their fists on the walls. An approving murmur followed, with whispered, almost giddy anticipation, and the bloodlust made Bella feel faintly sick. She turned her head away, frowning.

"We are blessed," continued Jasper. "The rains came last night, and before he left, the King received word from the commander of the Northern Watchtower that the flames had been dampened."

Another bellow of approval.

"The time for fear has passed," he continued. "And now, we have time for action."

The crowd listened closely.

"Take yourselves back to your homes," said Jasper. "Back to your stalls, and your shops, and your children. Back to your supper, which will surely be cold, and to your beds, in which you can rest, safe and warm."

Bella watched as a murmur of whispers broke out again.

"There is no danger here," Jasper repeated, and this time, he did not need to shout. "There is no danger. Your King has made you safe."

And Bella, suddenly lax, felt a shaky relief as she watched the people begin to trail out, followed closely by the remaining Kingsguard, of whom ten had been left to ensure her own safety. When the last petitioner had gone, dipping her a low, respectful curtsey, Bella leaned her head back against her chair, feeling a familiar burning in her eyes.

"Thank you, Jasper," she said softly, and she felt his warm hand on her cheek. A tear had fallen— whether of shame, or of frustration, she could not tell— and at once, she felt his warm weight settle on the armrest.

"You'll gain your confidence," he soothed. "It takes time."

"You're younger than me," she protested. "Far younger."

"Aye," he agreed, "but I've watched great leaders all my life. You've only seen Edward speak, and never under real duress, and even then, only for a short while."

Bella shook her head.

"I'll be better," she vowed at once, and she saw the child frown. "I have to be better."

"They respect you," said Jasper softly, and Bella let out a snort. "They love you."

"They love me while they are safe," she returned. "But what happens when there's danger? Real danger?"

"There always is," Jasper said sagely. "Even when we think we're safe, the west are always a threat."

"How bad was the fire?" she asked, and Jasper let out a sigh. "I don't know how big the north really is… was much of it burned?"

"Not as much as might have been," Jasper said slowly, "but more than Edward would have liked. They've burned farms before, plenty of them, but they've never put an entire pasture to the torch."

"Pasture?"

"Swaths of land," said Jasper at once. "The grasslands are different than other districts. There are no real villages there like there are everywhere else."

Bella nodded. She had seen some of the grasslands during her walk from the jungle to the capital— she had seen how dispersed the people were, how far apart each homestead was from another. You could walk for hours in any direction and meet no other soul— only crops, growing tall and high, and the odd field of untended cattle.

"Fire is dangerous," Bella said softly, recalling Edward's fear over it. She'd been with him when the message had arrived, had watched his face go blank, then white, as he read the short scroll. "Fire can destroy everything."

"It can," Jasper agreed, "but it didn't. They didn't burn any towns. Only some farms."

"Only farms," Bella repeated, a shaky laugh on her lips. "Alice's house was only a farm, Jasper, and look what happened to her."

At once, he looked contrite.

"I didn't mean it like that," he said at once. "Any loss is terrible, but…"

But it was not a village, Bella knew. It was not a town. Gods be good, it was not even their main farmland, where their summer crops were only just beginning to grow, and there was plenty of good, arable land left untouched for those who had escaped the blaze.

Bella put her face in her hands, feeling the stinging wetness of tears.

"People are dead, Jasper," she said, and she got no reply. "People died because of what we've done."

"We've done nothing wrong," he returned at once. "Nothing, Bella. Nothing."

Bella shook her head.

"What do they want?" she demanded, a hot seed of anger blooming in her chest. "What do they want from us? I don't understand it."

"The same as they've always wanted," Jasper said. "Our land, our homes, our women, our King."

"They had your King," she reminded him, and the boy flinched away. "They had your King, and your Queen too… it hasn't stopped them."

"Because there came another to take his place," said Jasper darkly. "As there will be when my brother is gone. There will always be another King, and so there will always be another war."

War. The word made Bella shudder.

"War is what comes of duty," said Jasper quietly, and Bella glanced up, astonished. "That's what my father always said. Our duty, as princes and Kings, is to protect this island. Protecting the island means guarding against thugs and bullies. And when you fight a bully, the bully fights back."

Bella swallowed back her grief.

"We will not give in to hate, Bella," said Jasper finally, his voice soft and low. "We will not give in to coercion. My father never did, and my brother won't either."

"It won't be safe."

"It'll never be safe," Jasper said, and Bella saw a new hardness in his gaze. "You've got a gentle soul, Bella. Edward says I'm gentle too, for all that's worth…"

"You're both good," Bella said loyally. "You're both… kind."

"We're both fighters," he corrected. "Fighters who will do whatever it takes to make things right."

"You only fight when it's needed," she cut in. "Only when…"

"We fight for the innocent," returned Jasper. "We fight for what is right. Rosalie is what's right. Her children are what's right. All the innocents in that western stronghold are what's right, and that means that we will never stop fighting until they're all safe. If that means fighting every man in the West to free their children, then by the Gods, that's what we'll do."

Bella listened to this speech with a small, sad smile. Jasper looked so serious— so grown up— that Bella could only sigh, bringing his hand to her lips for a kiss.

"When did you get so wise?" she asked. "When did you get so… old?"

Jasper looked down at her, flashing a boyish grin.

"I've grown up with Kings my whole life," he reminded her. "At some point, it's bound to rub off."

"You're still young…"

"But not forever," he returned. "I can't be a boy forever, and with the storm that's coming, I can't think of a better time to become a man."

"A man," Bella snorted, and the boy had the good grace to look affronted. "You've a ways to go yet, Jasper, before you can call yourself that."

He turned away from her, his chin held high.

"But thank you," Bella said softly. "Thank you for what you did… I've never been a very good public speaker."

"You're going to be my sister, soon," Jasper returned, grinning like a fool. "It'll be my duty to speak for you, when you can't."

Bella bit back a laugh.

"I'll do better next time," she vowed. "I promise you. Next time, I won't need you to save me."

"I don't mind."

"I want to save myself," Bella returned at once. "By the Gods, Jasper, if I do one thing right in this world, I want to save myself."

"The King has returned, My Lady."

Bella, seated quietly atop her throne, glanced up to look at the messenger. The boy, who Bella recognized as the page Roberto, watched her with a solemn gaze, his plump, handsome face striped with dust and soot. He held his cap in his hands— a sign of respect— and he did not look her in the face as she spoke.

"Where is he?"

"In his rooms, My Lady."

"Has he called for me?

"...no," said the child slowly. "He's asked for no one."

"Is he well?"

"He is unhurt," said the boy. "There was no violence… no fighting."

"Did you find the raiders?"

"No."

"Do you know who they are?"

"No, My Lady…"

The child squirmed beneath her gaze, and Bella saw the slight tremor in his hands. She stared at him a little longer, watching for his quick, handsome smile, but she saw nothing but his trembling bottom lip, and the welling of tears in those large, brown eyes.

"Roberto?"

"My Lady?"

"Look at me."

At once, the child did as he was bid. Pity grew in her like a seed in a pot, rising higher and higher until it bloomed in her throat. She saw the sorrow on the boy's face, the ghost of horror at what he'd seen in those burned fields, and she smiled, sad and quick, and gave him a gentle nod.

"Thank you, Roberto. You may go."

At once, the child bowed and backed himself out of the room. Bella stared after him, listening to the quiet patter of his feet in the hallway just outside, before there was a slam of a door, a quiet shuffling of boots on stone, and then silence once more. Torches flickering in sconces along the wall crackled in the dark and Bella stood, gazing down towards the great, arched doors.

"I'll go up," she told the guard, who said nothing, but followed close behind her. "I must go up…"

"My Lady…" The sentry spoke quietly, as if he were not sure if he would be allowed. Bella paused, listening. "My Lady, perhaps…"

"Perhaps?" she prompted, and the man went pink. "Perhaps what?"

The man faltered.

"Sometimes," be began slowly, "after a great trial, it is best for a man to be left alone."

"Alone?"

"Yes, My Lady. To… clear his mind."

"Of what?"

The soldier bristled.

"There was great tragedy today, My Lady," he said soberly. "Great tragedy."

"Were you there?"

"Yes."

"Did you see?"

"I did."

"And what did you see?" Bella asked sharply. "What happened in the north?"

The man hesitated, and his mouth snapped shut.

"It is not for me to say," he replied after a long silence. "It is not… my place."

"But the King should be alone?"

"Yes, My Lady," said the man quickly. Bella turned her face away. "It is best… and kindest."

"Kindest for whom?"

"For yourself," he responded. "Days like these are… trying."

"Was the King upset?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Very upset?"

"I couldn't say…"

"Then alone," she said pointedly, "is the very last place he should be. I'm going up… and if he doesn't want me, he can tell me so himself."

At once, the soldier was contrite.

"Yes, Ma'am. As you wish…"

As you wish. Bella bit down her sudden sadness as she turned towards the stairs, and made her way swiftly up the long, stone steps.

Bella was not used to the quiet of the castle. She was not used to the sobriety of the guards, or the absence of the maids. There were no footmen out tonight— not even one to change the candles on the sills along the wall. There were no serving staff rushing to and fro with trays of sweetmeats and breads or ewers of water and wine. The great hall was empty— there would be no dinner tonight, and there were no flutes or drums in the ballroom. No torches were lit in the library, no courtiers making merry in the gallery. The servants had fled upstairs to bed— Bella could hardly blame them— and the soldiers knew better than to interfere.

The third floor came slowly and Bella, walking alone through the long, dark corridor, felt a strange and eerie chill on the back of her neck. She did not like the dark— she never had— and though she could see a sliver of moon through one of the long, tall windows in an unused bedchamber, it cast no light to lead her on. The guards did not follow her— they remained still and silent at the top of the stairs— and by the time Bella reached the tall, closed door, she could no longer see the light from their torches around the wall.

She listened softly at the door while she gnawed anxiously on her lip. She had never come unbidden to his rooms before— she had never felt the need, since he always called for her— and she was not sure whether she should knock or simply let herself inside. There was no noise behind the door— no chatter of servants, come to tend the fire, no raging shouts to tell of anger or upset. There were no footsteps tracing paths across the floor, and only a flicker of light at the crack— perhaps a candle, or a distant torch.

"Edward?" called Bella softly, her face held close to the door. There was no reply. "Edward, may I come in?"

The door remained still, and there was not a sound from within.

"I know you're there," she persisted, leaning her forehead against the wood. "Please. Let me in."

No response.

Uncertainty gnawed at her like a sickness. She felt it deep inside her bones, in the pit of her stomach, and the lump in her throat. She felt it behind her eyes, pricking like tears, and she saw it in the tremble of her hand, poised against the latch. She wanted to see him— wanted to take him up and kiss away the sadness she knew she'd find— but she was afraid, too. Afraid of what she might find, of the man she might discover should she breach the bounds of trust and intrude on his private space. She wanted to see him, to touch him… she wanted to tell him over and over that it was not his fault that the north had suffered, and that he'd done just what he had to do to keep his people safe, that they were safe, though there had surely been many lost…

"Please?" she said, her voice small. She cursed its tremble, its weakness. "Please, let me in?"

Still, there was no sound. Bella pulled down on the latch.

At once, as she knew it would, the unlocked door swung in. She blinked as she peered inside, squinting her eyes against the blackness of the room, and let her gaze fall first on the bare, black hearth, and then on the prone figure she saw atop the dark, cold sofa.

He did not stir when she came in, but his bright, troubled gaze followed her as she lifted the candle from the sill, carrying it carefully over to the chair.

"You frightened me," she said, setting the candle gently on a table. Edward didn't say a word, and she knelt down on the hard floor beside him.

He glanced at her, his face unreadable.

"I'm safe," he said, after a long, pregnant pause. "Gods be praised, I'm safe."

She took up his hand in hers and kissed it, ignoring the grimace he gave her.

"I'm filthy," he said shortly, pulling his hand away. "I know I must offend…"

He was not wrong. Though the light was dim, Bella could see the day's toil on him like paint on a canvas. It covered his shirt, his hands, his face, in all manner of dust and grime. Sweat had dried, pooling dirt in hollows on his neck. Bella could see the black muck caked beneath his nails, and the muddy footprints that led from the door to the hearth. His hair was a mess, fallen loose from its tie, and he smelled of work, and of horses.

"You worried me," she said softly, ignoring his protest and taking up his hand again. He let her do it without another complaint. "I didn't know what had become of you…"

"I'm safe," he said again, and this time, she heard the bitterness in his voice. "I'm always safe."

"As you should be."

"As they should have been."

Bella's mouth fell shut.

"Do you know what we found there today?" he asked. His head was resting on the arm of the couch, his eyes fixed steadily on a spot on the ceiling. "Do you know what we saw?"

"No…"

He laughed, hard and cold.

"Death, Bella," he said, and she felt his fingers squeeze around hers. "We found death. There was nothing left living… not even a cow, for God's sake, and all for what?"

She bit her lip.

"For revenge," he said, after she offered no explanation. "For fear. For hatred, though the Gods only know what it is exactly that they hate so badly. I don't think they even know why they do it. Only that they do, and that they must keep on."

"I'm sorry…"

"It's not your fault," he said gruffly. "It's never been your fault…"

"I'm sorry all the same," she said again. "I'm sorry for the hurt, and I'm sorry for your sorrow."

He let his eyes fall shut and Bella watched the shadow of his throat bob as he swallowed back his grief. He tossed an arm up across his eyes, heaving out a sigh, before he threw his legs over the edge of the seat and stood.

"You should go," he said slowly, and she followed quietly behind him as he walked towards the window. "Take your leave of me."

"I don't want to leave you."

"No, but you should," he murmured. "I'm no fit company. Not tonight, anyhow."

"I'm not looking for fit company…"

"Leave me, Bella," he said again, and Bella shook her head.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're sad."

"I'll go on being sad whether you're here or not," he replied. "All I need is a bath, and a rest, and I'll be better by the morning."

"Then let me stay," she begged. "Let me be with you."

He watched her, his face inscrutable.

"I'm in a black mood, Bella," he said. "My temper is short, and I don't want to offend."

"I'm not offended," she said at once. "Not a bit…"

"I've not said anything unkind yet," he reminded her, barking a reluctant laugh. "I've not been… short with you."

"Let me stay," she pleaded. "Let me… be here."

"There's nothing to be done."

"I know."

"There's nothing more to do."

"I know…"

"You can't fix this. I can't fix this. There's nothing at all that can be fixed tonight, and it makes me weary, and angry, and sad…"

"I know," she said again, her voice falling to a whisper. She rested her forehead on his shoulder, her lips pressed to his throat. "I know, Edward. I know."

He did not pull away from her when she brought her arms around his waist. Her hands, moving slowly, slid up his back, and when she found no resistance there she brought them even higher still to touch his hair. She did not kiss him— did not pull him down to her— but instead she pulled her face away and let him gaze, his dark eyes searching hers. What he was looking for, she would never know, but she saw the hardness break when he pulled one of her hands free and pressed his lips to her palm, letting out a deep, warm sigh.

"You can't undo the things we saw," he said softly, and Bella felt a renewed pang of grief. "You can't… help."

"I know," she said again, and this time, he frowned when his hand grew wet on her face. He wiped her tear, leaving a streak of black across her cheek. "I know, Edward. But I'm to be your wife."

He stared at her.

"I'm to be your wife," she repeated. "It will be my duty to share in all your troubles…"

"You'll be my wife, not my confessor," he said at once. "It's not your burden to bear."

"All of your burdens will be mine, just as mine will be yours," she said. "I want to share in them, even if they make me sad."

"I never want you sad," he said at once, and the force with which he said it made her smile. It did not reach her eyes and Edward saw it well, shaking his head and drawing her close for the first time that night.

"I never want you sad," he repeated, and she shushed him.

"It's not your choice to make," she said. "My sorrow is yours, and yours is mine."

She pulled away, her heart thrumming in her chest. His hands reached out, not quite ready to let her go, and she felt his grip at her waist.

"Stay, then," he said softly, and he pressed his lips gently to hers. "Stay with me, just for tonight…"

He pressed his face down into her neck. She held him, strong and steady, until she felt some of the tension ease away, his shoulders slumped and trembling as the worry and the sorrow came rushing all at once.

"For tonight," he repeated, and she heard the tremble in his voice. "Just for tonight, Bella. Please."

"Hush, now," she soothed, and she tightened her grip on his waist. "Hush, now… I'll stay until you order me out, be it only for tonight, or for all the nights to come."

And when he began to weep she felt her own tears come, sliding down her cheeks like rain to fall into his hair until their lonely candle faltered and flickered, leaving them together in the dark.

A/N: Phew... Thanks again for all your patience. It's been a crazy few months, but I can finally say that my first teaching contract has ended! I'm back on the supply teaching list, which means that my evenings and weekends are all my own again, so hopefully, I'll have a lot more time to write. This story has been nagging me for months, and it's a big relief to be able to get back into it.

Throughout the next few chapters, things are going to get moving... we've got a wedding coming up, and a honeymoon, and tensions with the West are finally ramping up. I've revised the outline for the story (added some new tidbits, removed some others), so the final chapter count is still up in the air, but we've still got quite a few things to cover before the end.

I've also added another world-building resource to my Weebly gallery. If you go to the site (moonchild707 . weebly . com) and use the links at the top of the page to find "The Island", there is a new document called "Districts of Marolando" that will give you a few more details about each of the twelve Maronese districts. I'm also in the process of creating a second map to outline where all of these districts are located so you'll have a better idea of the geography. I make all of these resources for my own benefit, but many of you seem to enjoy these little extras as well so I'm happy to share them.

On another note... I think little Shasta might be my favourite OC in the story so far.

As always, please let me know what you think! I always love hearing from all of you! 3