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Title: The Fate of a Nation
Author: Snoopy
Rating: R (just in case!!!)
Warning: Angst, Spoilers (Squire)
Disclaimer: I, Snoopy, lecturer in psycho-bitch-writer 101, own nothing. Well, I own an old shoe, but it smells. And the poem in the previous, uh, thing. (Chapter? Authors note? [???]), but that stinks too, sooo, yeah… Please don't sue!
Plot Notes: Set during SQUIRE.
Archive: If u wanna, but could u let me know???
Feedback: Flames, cherry bombs, whatever. All is welcome. ;)
Authors Notes: This is a story. It involves people. Orlando Bloom is gorgeous. That's all I have to say… (Random anyone?)
"…" = Speech
'…' = Thoughts
The Bee
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Alanna of Pirates Swoop and Olau rode at the head of a long train of warriors. Beside her trotted her most resent acquisition, squire Nealan of Queenscove. Her squire. 'Fuck'. She knew that Jonathan hadn't meant to hurt her, to betray her all those years ago. Her brain told her to swallow her pride and forgive him, but other organs - namely a fist-sized red one - would not allow that course of action.
Painful thoughts clouded both mind and vision. Absorbed as she was, Alanna didn't hear the arrow soaring through the sparse trees surrounding the company. Droning in an uncanny rendition of a bee, the missile soared true, finding its mark in Alanna's most troublesome organ. Purple eyes widened in shock as the woman tumbled from the stead beneath her. Darkened figures swam into view before black swamped her violet gaze. A fine trickle of red marked its course past pallid lips to pool beside the burning gem at her throat. In a last effort her hand dove into the pocked of her worn, dirt-encrusted breeches, and found an object inside. Trembling fingers clutched the ring tightly into her scarred palm, its design to be forever imprinted in her mortal flesh.
'Beloved Alanna...
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Hooves clattered on polished wood as the messenger rode forth to his king. A tightly sealed roll of parchment was tucked under his cloaks, the sodden material its only protection against the battering wind. Never in his life did the man expect to be delivering this message to this man. Never in his worst nightmares had he imagined a worse fate.
Across stone floors his boots clattered, etching harsh sounds into the surrounding stillness. He did not falter. Shattered glass littered the floors of the palace, digging deep into the soles of his fragile boots. He did not falter. Cerulean eyes gazed into his.
Nealan of Queenscove faltered.
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…I will love you always…
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Black. A sea of obscurity - vast, sombre, still. The multitude expanded into every corner, every crevasse. At its fore - the sole colour in the dull lifelessness enveloping the vicinity - stood a Mithran Priest and a Priestess of the Goddess, their heads bowed in prayer.
A faint whimper sounded from the masses. Its source rested before a vast altar, glistening tears streaming down ashen cheeks. The body rested upon the slab itself. Dressed in the best finery in the land, the battered form was almost unrecognisable as the individual it had once been.
All that was left of that individual, that soul, was a hasty letter. It read -
My dearest friends,
Please forgive me for any grief imposed apon your fine selves as a result of my recent actions. I in no way intended to cause you distress. I love you all and pray that you never feel the agony of this state.
You see, I was told in my youth that the greatest danger to a person of my - status - was love. I find that comment to be correct.
I'm sorry.
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"I can't believe he did it…"
"Thayet." Raoul moved to catch the collapsing Queen. Her grief-stricken countenance was streaked with filth, raven hair a jumble of knots.
"I knew he loved her, but…"
Raoul held the stricken woman close. "I know, sweetheart. I know."
"No!" The Queen tore herself from the man's grasp. "You don't know! You could NEVER KNOW!!!" Sobbing, Thayet sank to the floor "He- he promised he would never do that." The woman's voice was barely audible. "He promised he wouldn't leave me like his father left him…"
"He promised he would be strong."
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… Jon…'
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The End.
