"Likely nothing."

Christine told herself this as she dressed for dinner. Meg was busy helping the organization of things, so she dressed alone.

Likely, hopefully, it was all nothing.

This time, she was careful to dress to her rank. Thick, beautifully dyed wool, a necklace at her throat. Rings on her fingers. All through the process she tried to convince herself it was nothing. She had imagined the face of anger. Or, at least, she hoped she had. Perhaps it was only a moment of surprise and then he had recovered. Perhaps he would not pursue it any longer.

He brought back memories of her first months in France. Where Christine had found the short, wet winters strange and french was still unfamiliar and clumsy on her tongue. They had stayed for a summer at the castle. Raoul's father had been very fond of her father's music. They had had their own room, and he had played every evening for the court.

Those days were filled with fondness. Full bellies, warm sleep, shoes with no holes. Following her father around as he played. Helping the women in the castle with whatever she could. And great green grassy hills that seemed to never end.

She'd met Raoul on those hills. He'd been avoiding his lessons, riding his horse across the grass.

She hadn't liked him, at first. He teased her accent, tugged on her hair and stared at her all the time.

But when she'd lost her scarf in a nearby river, the last thing she'd had of her mother, he'd gone off and rescued it. Upon hearing her tears, Raoul had jumped into the deep, fast moving water. His mother had shrieked, fearing he'd drown. But he'd struggled through wave after wave until he'd caught the scrap of wool and brought it back to her, his chest all puffed up.

After that, she'd liked him better. Though she still found it strange how he stared at her, especially when she sang along with her father.

She'd tell him stories in broken french, and he'd take her riding on his horse sometimes. He stopped pulling her hair, but still laughed at her clumsy attempts at longer french words.

For one long summer, they'd been something like friends. Until one day he told her he'd marry her.

She'd stared at him. "No you won't. I'm common."

"I don't care." He'd said stubbornly. "I'm going to marry you. See if I do." He'd leaned over and kissed her cheek. Then leapt up and run away, his cheeks burning red.

She'd stared after him, feeling strange and uncomfortable.

Her father had left two days later, taking Christine south with another company. Which had been strange, because they'd been doing so well there. One would have thought they'd stuck around for a few years, at least.

Christine froze, her hands in the middle of pinning her braided hair up. An old memory came back to her, one she had never quite understood.

Raoul's father had been there when they'd left the castle, had seen them off. She remembered her father accepting a heavy pouch of coins from the man. She'd stared from her place in the wagon, because even then she'd known money meant food and a roof over your head and had been stunned to think of how many days of food and shelter that bag would provide them.

She'd always dismissed it as a last gift of appreciation. But that'd seemed vaguely wrong, somehow. From what she remembered, Raoul's father liked hers, but not enough to give him a heavy pouch of coins.

Christine reconsidered now. Had it been a bribe to make them leave? Had he truly been so worried that his son would carry out his promise? Or had she been too much of a distraction for him? Raoul had an older brother, it wasn't as if he was some all important heir, but no doubt his father had wanted to avoid trouble.

She sighed, covering face with her hands and leaning against her desk. This had all been over twenty years ago. Surely he wouldn't harbor some boyish crush for so long.

But if the second most powerful man in the kingdom would marry a woman he'd known two days, she supposed anything was possible.

Maybe Raoul did harbor some affection for her, maybe he didn't. Christine just worried what he would do about it.


Erik had to give it to the boy, he was skilled at knives, his aim was impeccable, horsemanship more than adequate. With any other knight, he might have hired him on the spot. But with that boy, Erik hesitated.

Perhaps he should have given him more credit. He was hardly a boy, he was older than Christine, after all.

He looked like a boy, with his fashionably thin waist and blonde hair. Hands that were not skeletal, a face any woman would admire.

Erik envied him. And yet, he held no contempt for him for his looks. He had not chosen to be born so handsome, just as Erik had not chosen to have been born so ugly. However, he held plenty of contempt for his blatant flirtations to Christine.

Supper the night before had been tense. Both Erik and Christine had both tried to watch him carefully without being too obvious about it. Neither had liked what they saw.

The boy had watched Christine openly, not bothering to hide his open admiration of her. In response, Christine had glared back and had sat closer to Erik, holding his hand whenever possible. After that, the boy had cut off his attention, having the decency to look ashamed.

No doubt the court would be all a twittering about it.

That night, in bed, they discussed it together and decided what to do about the situation. Erik would test him, as promised. If he passed Erik's standers, he and Christine would confront him in private about his feelings.

If he proved able to restrain himself, he would serve Erik, if not, they would send him away with a written letter of recommendation from the Lord of the Blacklands. High praise that would almost allow him to choose which court he wished to serve.

The boy was passing, and passing with flying colors. Christine had mentioned that he considered his swordsmanship the best, and that was the only remaining thing to test.

This was a one on one fight. As Erik hadn't lost a one on one fight in years, no one assumed the opponent would win. There was only the question of how long they would last, and therefore impress the Lord of the Blacklands.

Erik offered Raoul a blunt practice sword, but he refused.

"I best with my own blade, which I know so well." And he held up his sheath. "With this, I shall be able to fight you with all my skill."

Erik, foolishly enough, agreed. He had offered this courtesy to his other contenders, he saw no reason to now. To avoid accidental injuries, they both donned their chainmail.

Quite the crowd gathered around the ring marked out on the ground in chalk. Probably because of all their twittering. That, and they all wished to see how their master held up to this new knight.

Christine was among their numbers, standing next to the ever faithful Meg. She smiled and gave a little wave to him as he positioned himself in the circle.

Erik nodded to her in reply, then turned to face his opponent.

The boy was staring at him, his gaze hard and concentrated. For all his gaiety in their conversation day before, he was sober now.

They drew their blades, squared off and waited.

Raoul struck first, engaging in quick, experimental movements. Erik fended him off easily. He then lunged forward, releasing a quick series of movements that would have defeated all but the best of his knights.

The boy held his ground, his eyes narrowing in concentration, keeping up with the strokes. He even found a counter attack. This Erik deflected. They danced away from each other, watching each other warily.

This time, Erik darted forward. Their swords flashed in the sunlight, clanging echoing around the courtyard.

They were equally matched, neither could disarm the other, only struggle to keep up with the blows.

Then Erik suddenly realized he was losing ground. But not for Erik's own lack of skill.

The boy had noticed his mask restricted his eyesight. Though Erik had spent many years testing and retesting the perfect fit of mask that would allow him the best view of the world possible, it was not perfect. The edges of his vision were short. This was where the boy struck, attacked and fought, hitting away where Erik struggled to see and counteract him.

Once he realized this, Erik was able to counter it and gain the ground he lost, but was still at a disadvantage.

It wasn't as if other men had not tried such a tactic before, but it was the first time Erik had come across a man skilled enough to truly take advantage of it.

They fought for a few minutes more, before once again breaking back. Both breathed heavily, their shoulders heaving. They rested, gathering their strength for another attack.

Instinct told Erik this would be their last part of the battle. He raised his sword, waiting for the boy to make the first move.

He did, and Erik was not prepared for it.

He dashed forward, and he swung his sword. Erik moved to block, exposing his face. At the last moment the boy changed direction, his sword making a clear move towards Erik's face.

Erik jerked back, but was too late. The sword slid across the side of his face, cutting neatly through the leather cord that held his mask, just out of the protection of the chainmail.

The mask fell to the ground.


Erik could never quite remember what happened afterwards. He knew he had disarmed the boy, for his sword clanged to the ground.

He knew that he had dropped to the ground, touching the shattered parts of his porcelain mask. Trying to find a piece large enough to cover his face. He remembered the blots of blood falling onto the perfect white porcelain.

But most of all, he remembered Christine's face. Her eyes wide, her face as pale as paper and her mouth open in shock.

Then there was the screaming.

Phew! I've had that scene in my head since I started writing this book, and it feels SO GOOD to get it onto... the meaningless spanse of code and light that is my screen.

In other news, I also realized I've been writing this story for almost a year. Just another month to go. *mind explodes*

As I am so close to finishing this story (And fairly eager to post my Labyrinth fanfiction Ahem.) I have now made it a goal to finish this story before it becomes a year old. Which means i should probably start writing that next chapter.

*cackles while drawing back into the darkness*

Reviews make authors happy. :)