It Could Be Worse (3rd Season)
Episode 5: Royalty
By Sulia Serafine
[A Protector of the Small fanfic set in an alternate universe; all credit goes to Tamora Pierce. I'm broke, so you can't sue me. Any other copyrighted things that don't belong to me in here in fact belong to other very businesslike people. Could you believe that? I guess that's why I'm broke.
BAD LANGUAGE (I. E. cursing, swearing…)! E-mail me at silverwlng@aol.com okay? And you know the drill: titles or subjects of emails are fanfiction.net, s.serafine, or icbw.
IMPORTANT NOTE: I'm still accepting people into the mailing list. That means you'll be told when the next episode is posted, as well as other tidbits of information about the series whenever I put them online. ALSO: Every now and then, as a pledge, I'll send everyone bonus material, such as drawings of ICBW characters and little random facts about ICBW.
Rating of this episode: Let's say… PG, PG-13?
~~
"How much longer until we're at the village?" Neal asked, brushing off snow from his shoulders and sluggishly putting one foot in front of another. He found that his legs were already tired from their trekking. How in the world would he be able to continue on this whole search investigation?
Joren was equally as weary, but he refused to let on that his endurance was straining the tiniest bit. He looked up at the hired hands, a few in front of the officers, a few in back. The man in charge of them led the way, knowing which paths were safe. The last thing anyone wanted was to slip and fall twenty feet down the side of the mountain.
"The trading post is not too far off now. It should be just beyond this ridge," a woman noted, consulting a compass and a map. She showed it to Neal so as to reassure them of their location. He huffed in response, more to himself than to her, and muttered things he didn't dare repeat any louder.
About twenty minutes later, they had reached the top of the ridge and spotted the trading post some fifty yards away. It was a scattered assortment of cabins and huts. Some had smoke trailing out of crudely built chimneys. Others had areas before them, marked off by stones and ash that fires were built in those places daily.
Eastern Yamani villagers along with trading post officials and merchants went about their tasks. Two men were bartering over food supplies while a pair of mountain goats, waiting for their master to come to an agreement, began butting heads with each other.
Joren looked over his shoulder. "Queenscove, what's the hold up?"
Neal was on one knee, tying his bootlaces up. "You guys go on ahead. I'll catch up in a second."
The blonde rolled his eyes and signaled for the rest of their party to move forward. Neal fumbled with the strings, not accustomed to having such thick gloves. He paused to consider his options, and then removed them. As the coldness rushed over his exposed hands, he shivered and exhaled hot air over his knuckles.
After quickly completing his small task, he stuffed his hands back into the warm gloves and stood up. As he reached down to hoist his large pack back onto his shoulders, he caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. He looked, twisting his torso left while keeping his feet solidly on the ground. It wouldn't do to lose his balance at the top of the ridge and go tumbling back down like a rubber ball.
"Odd," he murmured, frowning under the scarf wrapped over the lower half of his face. He pulled his scarf down to have more free movement of his neck. Still feeling as if something were there, Neal then twisted around and looked to his right. His eyes widened in surprise.
A young woman, obviously of Eastern Yamani descent, was crouched on top of a crag, dressed in dried leather skins and furs. Her dark, slanted eyes bore into Neal, driving icicles into him as he continued to gaze on. Long dark hair, some in thin braids, flew about her head, tossed about by the wind.
"Um, hello!" Neal called out nervously. If it had been any other person, an idea would have formed to find out the stranger's name and quite possibly the reason for her eerie sentinel.
Neal, being simply…Neal, took one look at her full lips and blurted out, "You're gorgeous. Want to get a bite to eat?"
"Eat?" she mimicked. The woman cocked her head sideways at his words.
He nodded. "Yeah. You know, to partake of a morsel of food and consume it, preferably with another person with you. Getting a bite to eat." Out of instinct, he offered her his most charming and non-threatening face. "So?"
Her beauty astounded him. No, it was more than that. The way she simply remained there, tense like a cat about to pounce. The coal colored eyes shone with black fire. She was as wild and free as the eagle that flew ahead. Her aura radiated of something fierce, but there was a hint of benevolence in the way she poised her knuckles on the rock.
"You are strange," she said in a resonating, clear voice. It was both demure and forceful. He had no doubt in his mind that she could elevate her whisper to a war cry. And as confused as she was, the feeling did not reach her eyes. It was as if she were jotting down an observation for a scientific study on a breed of man. Not that he minded being studied.
It finally occurred to him what he ought to ask. "Um, I'm Neal. What's your name?"
She narrowed her eyes at him before jumping backwards from her crag and disappearing down the side of the mountain. Neal put down his pack. He ran awkwardly through the thick snow and clambered onto the crag (with a great deal of heaves, grunts, and 'oofs'). Then the officer looked down but found that he could see nothing but mountainside.
White, everywhere he went. The sun shone upon it in such a way that Neal was being blinded. He squinted and averted his eyes. Then, he reluctantly made his way back toward the trading post, still frowning. "I wonder who she was."
Back at the trading post, Joren was at the cabin of the man in charge, Samuel Higgins. The trade master and ex-DJPF army lieutenant was a loud, swarthy man, patting Joren soundly on the back as he led the newcomers inside. His body was large, but not wastefully so. It was as if his spirit was so large it needed to fill out the body into such a shape. Joren paid no attention to it. This man was the one, who had hired their guide for the expedition.
"It's good to see Westerners again. Don't get me wrong," Higgins laughed raucously, "I love 'em Yamanis all to death, but every now and then a man can get lonely for people as stupidly sunburned as him! Haha!"
Joren frowned. He looked around him at his party. True to word, everyone was pinkish red right under their eyes, on their nose, and on most of their cheeks. Joren didn't bother looking for a mirror. He was sure he was just as… colorful.
The trade master sent one of his own men out to retrieve the guide. In the meantime, he retrieved a whisky bottle from the massive trunk in front of his bed and laid it on the table. While getting glasses for Joren and his companions, Neal walked in, unwrapping his scarf and snatching his cap off his head.
"Did I miss anything?"
Higgins offered him a glass. "Just in time, my boy, just in time! All of you! Sit and relax while you can."
While we can, indeed, Joren thought irritably. He glanced out the cabin's window at the white and gray mountainside. He thought of the rocks and the sharp points, the beasts and the terrible coldness. He formed an image of two men in his mind—though he had never even seen a picture of them—and a crashed plane, the men crawling away bloodied and cold with no survival aids of any kind. They were so defenseless.
He was jostled from his thoughts when Higgins started laughing in front of his face, obviously having told some great joke. Joren nodded, forcing himself to half-smile. The messenger sent out before now came back with another man in tow.
"Ladies and gentlemen, here is my good man Imrah Legann!" Higgins introduced with a sweeping bow. He nodded proudly. "He's my best guide and tracker. He'll help you find that plane site in no time."
"Thank you," Neal said. "Time really is of the essence here."
"That may be the case, but it's still early in the day. Rest and supply before you head back out again. I won't let you leave until you've had some food and sleep in ya," he told them firmly.
The guide, whom they had not a chance to notice before, was a tall, thin man of seemingly Western descent, though it was obvious he had some Yamani in him. He wore leathers, furs, and cloths made especially by the Eastern Yamani of that village and trading post. The colors on his sleeves and his back were bright and carefully woven to form a geometric design similar to that of those people at the base of the mountain.
Imrah only sat down when he had seen everyone else take a chair, Joren included. The blonde surveyed the silent man with certain distrust, but put the notion away when he realized that it would help nothing.
Joren knocked back the glass of whisky, feeling the familiar burn go down his throat and make him warm inside. It had been so long… Keladry never let him indulge himself anymore. She had said that he drank when he was sad or frustrated. She was determined to make him neither of those things.
Both DJPF officers were partially relieved to finally set out an hour later. They had made an attempt at tolerating Higgins, but they found that could only handle so much. Neal didn't blame Higgins. The man really hadn't had anyone to talk to, save for those Yamani that he spent day after day trading with. Neal detested that level of monotony and wished that fate upon no one.
"So, Legann, have you any idea where to start leading us?" Joren asked the silent guide.
The tall man inclined his head. "With the information you have given me from the plane's last recorded position, I have a generalized area for us to search. It should only be a day's journey from here." He gestured around him. "With the heat sentries your University has provided, we can camp safely in this cold weather without fear of never waking up."
"Sleep wouldn't be so bad," Neal mused aloud.
"He was talking about the Big Sleep, idiot," Joren told him, sneering. "Death."
"I knew that," he defended weakly. His reddening cheeks indicated otherwise.
They walked at opposite ends of their search party: Neal in the front and Joren in the back. The time passed slowly. Neal was not so sure where they were. Everywhere they went, he saw snow and rocks and the occasional patch of bare ground. If he had to journey through this place on his own, he would get lost within seconds.
He sidled up beside Imrah, pressing his chapped lips together. "So! Can I ask you something?"
"If you wish."
Neal adjusted his pack on his shoulders. "Before I entered the trading post, I saw this girl, you see. Come to think about it—she dressed a bit like you, minus the color." He smiled to himself. "There was something in her eyes. Magnetism, man." He shook his head. "Anyway, I was wondering if you could tell me her name. Is she a regular at the village, maybe?"
Imrah stared at him as they walked. His expression was grave. "There are very few women from the village who journey to this outpost. Those who do travel do not dress in these types of skins and furs." He nodded solemnly. " You must have seen Princess Shinkokami."
"Princess!" Neal gasped. He narrowed his eyes. "Really? Are you kidding me?"
"They call her the Princess of the Snow. She is a phantom who glides across this ice-desert. The beasts of the mountain are her subjects and the moon is her sleeping place," the guide replied, his aged voice transporting the both of them across time. "Under the burning stars, once, a man saw her singing. Her sweet voice tore the mountains asunder and formed secret havens for the lost souls who have perished on this mountain. May you never be one of them, Nealan Queenscove."
The last sentence caused the younger man to shiver uncontrollably. He rubbed at his arms. Thanking Imrah, he let himself fall back a few steps until Imrah was ahead again, leading them through the coldness of the mysterious Yamani mountains. Meanwhile, he allowed himself to wonder about this wild girl. She had captured and conquered him without ever having lifted her bow or her arrow.
~~
The night was not as cold as Neal thought it would have been. After they had set up camp and surrounded themselves with heat sentinels, they ate a small dinner and went about their own business. Neal managed to coerce one of the porters to play a game of hackie-sack. It was difficult to move quickly in their thick clothing, but he preferred it to nothing.
He wouldn't enter conversation with Joren again. Obstinate men like him never did give in first. Sure, he had promised his best friend that he would try to be civil. How could he do it, though? Joren wasn't a man you could just walk up to and talk to (well, not unless you were a certain redhead with no sense of tact). He was unapproachable.
"Mr. Queenscove, I think it would be wise if we went to sleep soon," the porter suggested. He let the hackie-sack drop to the ground and gave Neal an imploring look.
Neal shrugged. "I suppose we need to rest."
"Is something troubling you, Sir? You seem distracted."
"Oh it's nothing. Just this… girl, I guess you could say."
The porter's eyebrows rose. "Oh. One of those things." He paused and bowed slightly. "I'm sure you'll find a beautiful woman with wonderful assets, worthy of marrying you and bearing you many strong children. Goddess, bless the thought."
Neal became flustered. He was still trying to get past the word assets. "Me? Marry? Oh, no, I'm a committed bachelor. I'm fine as is."
"So you DJPF men just like getting your kicks and leaving, yes?" the porter slyly asked.
"We most certainly do not," Joren barked from several feet away. He glared daggers at Neal before ducking into his tent. The light inside it blinked off a few seconds later.
The older officer groaned to himself. He picked up the hackie-sack and scratched the back of his head as he approached the porter. "I'm a unique son of a gun, I guess. As fickle as the wind, yeah?" He paused. "Well, perhaps I should say 'as fickle as the weather' to generalize it, but that doesn't sound right either. Maybe I could say—aw, hell. You know what I mean."
The porter smiled. "Goodnight, Mr. Queenscove."
"Goodnight," Neal replied tiredly and trotted off to his own tent.
Unfortunately, it would not be a good night for him. He spent the nighttime, tossing and turning in his sleeping bag, unable to fall asleep. Finally, Neal sat up and rested his chin on his knees. It was simply ridiculous. How could he have one woman stuck in his head as if the rest of the world didn't matter?
He had never been completely in love before. He dated women. He felt attracted to them. He insisted on having a good time, even if things would never go to the next level. Perhaps it was because he had grown up only knowing his father. Dr. Baird Queenscove had done all that was in his power to make sure Neal felt loved while as a child. There had been no fault there. But it had left Neal curious about the ways of women.
Years of flirtatiousness and an inability to commit followed from this mentality. He could never settle on one. Why one? He had to know them all. Yet this Yamani wild girl, this princess… Neal ran his hands across his scalp, ruffling his hair as he did so.
He knew the look in his face without reaching for a mirror. The officer had seen it before on women's faces, on those unfortunate females that he could not settle down with. Nealan Queenscove, Casanova and Bachelor Extraordinaire, had unwittingly fallen hopelessly in love.
A sudden crash around his ears made him jerk. It was followed by a series of inhuman howls and a few frightened cries for help. Neal scrambled out of his sleeping bag, pulling a large jacket over his body and also reaching for his gun. He didn't know what was going on, but it didn't sound good. He cocked his gun and crawled forward, swiftly shoving aside his tent flap.
When the floodlights poised over the heat sentries suddenly illuminated the whole campsite, he saw that everyone was awake and armed, like he was. Large wolf-like beasts growled and ran in between the tents, knocking over everything in sight. He could barely make out Joren at the edge of shadows, struggling against one of the creatures trying to snap his jaws at the officer.
"Protect the supplies! What are you waiting for?" he yelled, managing to throw his attacker off. He squeezed off a round. The shot found its mark in the left hind leg. The animal howled and whimpered, eventually dragging itself away. The snow was spotted red with its blood.
The other porters were having similar struggles merely trying to protect themselves, let alone the supplies. Neal could barely make out their older guide, poised on top of a ledge, using a hunting rifle to pick off the beasts closest to them.
Realizing he ought to get out of his tent and help, Neal stood. Just as he did this, one of the wolf-beasts leapt for him. He raised his arm to shield himself. This only caused the beast to bite down on his forearm. Neal cried out in pain. As he fell back, the hold of the jaws on his arm only tightened.
It was so hard to concentrate on anything. All he could think was, Get it off! It's going to rip my arm off! The heavy body of the creature weighed him down, preventing him from getting back up. He blindly sought with his free hand some part of the beast that he could hold and shove. He grabbed the snout and tried to pry the sharp jaws from his profusely bleeding arm.
"Hey! Somebody!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "My arm!"
Out of all the chaos, Neal suddenly realized that the wolf-beast was no longer moving. Its large head was still attached to his arm, but otherwise, the body had gone limp. He opened his eyes and squinted through the dim light. It took a few seconds for him to be able to focus, but once he did, he thought he was dreaming.
Three long arrows were planted in the flank of the beast. They had gone in deep, Neal could tell, from the shortness of shaft that he could see. He frantically moved against the slain beast. He carefully removed his injured limb from its now slack jaws. Fortunately, his thick jacket sleeve had provided some protection. His blood soaked into the sleeve and turned the previously blue fabric purple.
He shoved the body off him and rolled over, reaching for his weapon. He had to ignore the pain and be prepared to guard against another attack. The sounds of shouts and growls still flooded his sense. He blearily got up and staggered out of his partially shredded tent.
"No way!" he gasped. His eyes fell upon the familiar figure of Shinkokami, crouching in the snow with her bow flexed and an arrow at the notch. Well, now I know where the arrows came from.
Automatically, his legs began moving toward her. His inadequately covered feet and legs moved sluggishly through the snow. He cradled his arm while still holding onto his weapon. As soon as he approached, Shinkokami began running again. She had pulled up her furs around her so that she blended in with the wolf-like beasts that were attacking.
He could see Joren not too far from him now, standing in front of several porters with his gun. The blonde also saw Shinkokami, but unlike Neal, he only saw a beast larger than the rest. Neal's heart skipped a beat when he saw his partner take aim.
"Stone! No!" he yelled, running at him.
Before either man knew what was happening, they had collided in a tangled mess of limbs, melted snow, and fresh blood. They landed on top of one of the tents, rolling down the slope of their campsite. Neal couldn't fathom this new level of injury. He wouldn't be surprised if he'd have to go on Disability Leave again. His arm was throbbing with excruciating pain. He tried to grab onto something, anything. He got a fistful of ice and more bolts of fire shooting up the muscles of his forearm.
They eventually rolled into a pile of rocks, having already slowed down by the many things they had already hit. In the excitement of things, Joren's body slipped away from him. Neal found himself flat on his back, staring up breathlessly at the dark sky. He moaned and struggled to roll over and see what was going on.
"Mr. Queenscove," Imrah was calling. "It's okay. They're all gone. Are you injured?"
"Yeah," he replied. His own voice echoed inside his head, as if he weren't all there inside. Neal got up to his knees and surveyed the dimly lit area around him. They were outside the circle of heat sentries. He could feel the coldness seeping into his bones.
How in the world was he going to explain Shinkokami to Joren? Even worse, how was he going to stop Joren from bashing his head in? Neal had tackled him. And at such a dangerous moment, Joren must have taken it to mean some sort of betrayal or attack on him, personally. He thought absentmindedly to himself that he didn't care if the former operative was offended by his actions. But Kel would care. Her approval meant a lot to both men. And this event would most likely aggravate the current situation until each other's presence became unbearable.
He finally spotted Joren, having fallen a few feet away. Breathing a sigh or relief, he stood up and approached his partner. "Hey, Stone—"
His voice caught in his throat when he saw that blood was trickling from Joren's hairline. The blonde's head rested against a rock, where he had finally been stopped from his rolling and falling down the slope. His eyelids were tinted blue with the cold. Neal could barely tell the difference of color between the snow on Joren's cheek and the skin itself.
~~
He was sitting on the grass. It was such lovely, vibrantly green grass. He held it between his fingers and enjoyed the coolness of it against his palms. With a deep exhalation, he collapsed backwards onto the hillside and looked up at the clouds.
The breeze rolled over him, blowing strands of pale sunshine in his eyes. He swatted at his bangs. A small chuckled sounded from beside him. Joren couldn't help but lazily grin as he stretched out, cat-like, and rolled onto his side.
Propping his head up, he let his eyes run over his companion, taking in every detail from the curve of her neck to the creamy color of her calves against the peach colored sundress. Her arm also propped up her head as if she had not a care in the world. Laughingly, she regarded him with the same, half-lidded eyes.
"What's so funny?" he asked, still grinning. He felt so light and airy. Could he really have been on the grass? Or was he lying on a cloud?
She moved toward him, crawling on her hands and knees until she was pressed up against him. A soft hand stroked his face, while her cool lips pressed against his. When they separated again, she shrugged and laid herself down at his elbow. "Oh, nothing."
He looked down on her with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "You're laughing at something. Are you laughing at me?"
"Yes," she admitted. She began to toy with his white-blond hair. He enjoyed the sensation of her fingertips against his scalp. While she massaged his head, he closed his eyes and leaned forward until his forehead rested on her shoulder.
He took in her scent. She was fresh like a waterfall, with lilies floating in the water. He rubbed his nose against her neck, causing her to giggle.
"Hey, that tickles."
"Tell me why you laugh at me," he asked again, semi-serious. Joren lifted up his head and looked at her. Her short, light brown hair was spread out on the grass in a halo. His angel. His cruel angel.
The happiness from her face faded. She looked away from him, preferring to pick blades of grass and toy with them in her hands. His uncertainty grew as he watched her, scared and nervous, tearing the grass into smaller bits. She eventually rolled onto her side, facing away from him. She couldn't look at him. Not then.
He put his arm around her and pressed his face to her hair. He repeated his question, now a demand. "Tell me why."
She cringed at his words. With a shaky voice, she replied, "It's because you can't laugh at yourself. You say you'll get better. You promise and promise and promise that everything will change and that you'll try your hardest to get better. But are you?"
Joren lifted his head. He tightened his hold around her. "I am trying! It's hard when I'm away from you. You… you keep me balanced and sane."
"You shouldn't be dependent on me to keep you sane!" she exclaimed, squirming out of his hold. She rolled over and faced him. "You're stronger than you think. You can do it by yourself."
"Are you asking me to leave you, then? To go back on my own and do this by myself?"
Tears were welling up in her eyes. She moved toward him again, slipping her smooth arms around his neck and pressing her face against his temple. "No, you don't have to leave. If you can just do this by yourself, I'll be standing right beside you, celebrating with you. Just try."
After this, she stood up and walked down the hill, her sundress billowing to the side from the force of the wind. He sat up on his elbows and stared after her. Still walking barefoot, she reached the bottom of the hill. A little boy was waiting.
He was about five years old, with pale blond hair that curled about his head. The same stiff black clothing that covered Joren also covered this boy's pinkish skin. As Joren sat all the way up, the boy turned and looked at him. His blue eyes seemed to pity him. There was no light inside.
The one I've lost. The one that was stolen. The one that I can't reach—he thought wildly. His eyes focused on the round little face, taking in every little detail, from the pouting mouth to the arch of the pale eyebrows.
She took the little boy's hand and began to lead him further away. The clouds began passing in front of the sun, casting a shadow over the base of the hill. The shadow stretched toward him like fingers reaching forward to drag him down. She glanced over her shoulder and spoke only once to him before disappearing completely.
"We'll be waiting for the time. You cannot have us before then."
~~
Joren sat up in cold sweat, a tortured cry pouring out from his hoarse throat. He reached for the bloody bandage wound around his head and tore it off. Almost like a feral animal, he threw the blankets off of him and stumbled to his feet. His breathing was harsh and labored. There wasn't enough air to take in. Joren was dimly aware of the biting cold. The clothing that he wore wasn't thick enough to protect against it. Instead of reaching for the blankets again, he boldly went forward.
He managed to reach the edge of the tent. There, he collapsed to his knees and looked out on the wilderness around him. There was no color, no sunshine. No grass, no life. It was still. So still, like death.
It was too much for his fevered mind. He gripped fistfuls of hair and screamed.
"Keladry!"
~~
Author's note: Ta da! Yet another episode finally finished. I tell ya, I missed writing. It's hard to do everything I like to do when there are impending AP and IB exams. It doesn't help when I have Crew five days a week for four-hour intervals, piano lessons galore, National Honor Society obligations, and now an editorship in the school's IB Magazine. At least I get to stop piano after this summer. Not that I want to stop. I like playing, but there's no time. I only have to suffer one more year of crew (or die of shame and blackmail) and school is school. If I don't get that scholarship, I'll go on a bloody rampage.
Okay! So you're tired of hearing me rant, yet again. So here's the fun stuff!
Cleon and Faleron come back next episode! Something exciting happens where no one gets mauled by weird mountain beasts! Kel thinks of Joren—again! Okay, so that last one was somewhat predictable. So sue me. Those two have issues, and I'll be darned if they aren't expressed with the time and care that befits them.
If you must know, I've been listening to Radiohead's "Paranoid Android" for most of Joren's dream sequence. If you need some inspiration for that scene's mood, there ya go. Enjoy!
And hopefully I'll get to post again soon…