A/N: A continuation of the last chapter. This one has a lot more angst in it than the last. Ye be warned.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The Prelude

Part Four

It seemed as though it had only been a moment before her eyes flew open and her hand was on her pistol in its holster. She had been awakened by a sudden presence in the room, and she whipped about to see just who stood at her end of the bed. She relaxed slightly at seeing the silhouette of Sir Walter Beck in the darkness, but her guard was back up when his worried, hushed whispers reached her ear.

"My lady," he hissed, a hand on her shoulder. "There's been an attack-a bomb-your family-"

Immediately, she was on her feet, her heart pounding as if to break out of her ribcage as she pulled the soldier out into the hall. "What's happened, Walter?" she questioned, trying to force out the quiver in her voice.

"A crowd had gathered to watch the royal carriage pass, you know. And someone… Someone threw an explosive-"

She whirled about to face him, fighting to remain calm and losing the battle horribly. "What about my family, Walter?"

He hesitated, and it was as if something inside her snapped. She screamed, making many of the passer-by servants jump half way out of their skins. Walter's hands were soon placed upon her shoulders as he tried to calm her down; he spoke urgently, but soothingly, "I don't know, Your Majesty. One of the soldiers guarding the carriage at the time came and gave me the news. He didn't know if anyone else survived. But I'm sure they're alright." He paused, looking around. "Where's Prince Richard?"

"He went out to ask his girlfriend to marry him," she replied, understanding where this was going. "My… You don't think that-"

As if to answer her question, he turned to one of the soldiers in the hall. "Find the prince. He may be in danger as well."

The guard nodded and darted off, stopping only to get a few more men to follow him.

Maegan felt that she was going to be sick. The world spun around her, her vision blurred. It was only Walter's hands that kept her from collapsing to the floor in a sobbing heap. "I need to go to my family," she heard herself say in a hollow voice. "I have to know if… if they're alright."

"You can't, my lady; it's too dangerous."

"I'm the queen and I'll do whatever I please!" she snapped, determination shoving her weakness aside. "I must see my family!"

Walter was silent for a moment, his jaw flexing beneath his beard. His dark eyes held both sympathy and stubbornness. But what was his word against that of the queen? "…Very well, madam…But allow me to come with you, for safety's sake."

Without a moment's hesitation, she picked up her skirts and ran. After a moment, the heavy foot-falls of his military boots announced his pursuit. He caught up with her easily, but did not make an effort to stop her, and he took her silence as permission to escort her to the place of the attack.

They were soon running on the lawn towards the stables. There was a flicker of orange light down in the city; it was close by-the smoke could even be seen engulfing one of the houses in Bowerstone Market. "They are far from the theater," she commented as she saddled the first horse she'd come to.

"They were on their way home, Your Majesty."

"What's the hour?"

"Nearly eleven."

"It's far passed the children's bedtime."

He did not reply, but gave her a silent, worried look before mounting his own steed. She ignored this, urging her horse straight into a gallop and forcing their conversation to a close.

It was not hard to find the sight. All that had to be done was to follow the screams and the tell-tale smell of smoke and heat. The horses galloped on, gaining speed as their riders urged them onward. Maegan's heart rate matched the pounding of the hoofs upon the cobblestone streets, rapid and border-line random.

She thought that perhaps she should have been angry that someone had the gall to try to murder her family, but all she could feel was the overwhelming fear that they had been successful in their endeavor, and the hope that she was wrong. Walter could almost see the struggle his queen was going through, and a part of him shared in her pain. He had trained the boys and protected the girls all their lives-they were like family to him. He was scared as much as she was, but his calm, urgent exterior had to hold. For both of their sakes.

The queen was off of her horse and running as soon as the carriage came into sight, before Walter could make an effort to stop her. Her aging body might have protested, but if it had, she took no notice. All that mattered was finding her family and ensuring their safety. It never occurred to her as to what she would do if they hadn't made it.

There were other people, frightened but wanting to help, running towards the scene. There were unintelligible shouts, even a couple of shots fired from a gun, though who or what it was directed at Maegan didn't know. Her fear began to mount, growing with every step she took, with every cry she heard.

There were soldiers trying to keep the amassing crowd at bay, but they let her through with only a slight hesitation. One asked if she was sure she really wanted to see. She passed by him without a word.

They all lay on the ground in a row. Someone out of common decency had covered each of their faces with a kerchief; she didn't need to take them off to know who lie beneath them, or the fact that one was missing.

It took her a moment to realize that she was screaming their names, over and over, and it took a moment more for her to notice Walter's arms restraining her from running to them and ripping off the kerchief-masks. She wasn't really aware of what she was saying, or the fact that she had turned and started punching her general in the face and chest. He managed to hold on, despite her Heroic strength and the pain he undoubtedly felt in his chest and jaw, and he was saying something, shouting. She didn't hear any of it.

"Where is Logan?" she cried, ignoring all of his attempts to quiet her. "Where's my son?"

Her strength suddenly left her, and her violence ceased. Instead she clung to the bear of a man, her body now limp and wracked with screaming sobs. He held her, his restraining arms now holding her in a comforting embrace. "I'm… so sorry."

"Where is he?" she sobbed into his coat. "He's not here; where is he?"

"I don't know," he replied hoarsely. "I don't know, but we'll find him. Come on, we'll look for him together."

Unable to support her own weight, she continued to cling to him, her right hand clutching his right as tightly as humanly possible. She trembled almost violently as they walked, and she was tempted to look back at the four corpses she was leaving behind. Instead, she buried her face in Walter's shoulder and shut her eyes tight. Perhaps if she told herself it was all a dream it would all go away. Perhaps it wasn't real-it was all some cruel, sick joke.

No. No, this was real. And she needed to find her son.

She breathed his name, reminding herself why she was here. If there was any chance at all that her son was alive, she would do what she could to find him.

Walter's hand squeezed hers almost excitedly. "I think I see… Yes! There he is!" And he pointed to a small alleyway, slightly lit up by the light of the fires.

The boy had somehow managed to climb up onto a part of the wall that jutted out from the side of one of the houses, his left arm cradled against his chest, his face cut and bleeding profusely. He was dirty, his face and clothes smudged with blood and soot. His blue eyes were wide with shock and fear; he looked like a trapped and wounded animal.

Maegan's arms ached to hold him, to make sure that he was real, to ensure herself that he was alive. She broke away from Walter's side, her arms outstretched for her child. "Logan," she called, "Logan, come to me!"

He hesitated, as if trying to determine whether or not it was a trick, and then he leapt off of the wall and ran into his mother's arms. Her relief manifested itself in the way of tears and the showering of kisses. She held him close, petting his hair and making him vow never to leave her side again. He simply clung desperately to her with his one good arm, his shoulders trembling though no tears stung his eyes.

Walter watched for a moment before kneeling beside the boy, gently touching his side to get his attention. "Logan, let me have a look at you. There's a good lad." Logan obediently turned to face him, though he still pressed himself to his mother's side, unwilling to leave her. His mentor's fingers gently prodded his left arm, and he squeaked in pain, jerking back, out of reach. "Looks like it's broken. And those cuts need to be tended to as well. He's lucky that's all that happened to him."

The queen nodded, squeezing her son's good shoulder. "When I say close your eyes, do so, alright?"

The young prince didn't reply, and when his mother and Walter tried to coax him out into the open, he instead backed further into the alley. Maegan bit her lip to keep from crying-of course he didn't want to go back out there, where he knew his family's bodies lay broken in the street.

Her second in command cast her a side-ways glance, a silent request for permission. She returned it with a nod, and he stepped forward, kneeling once more before her son. "Logan, I know you're scared. I am too, but your mother and I won't let anything happen to you. We promise."

The boy offered little in the ways of a reaction to his words, and Walter sent another look the queen's way. She didn't know what else to do but join him at his side. Her throat had run dry by this point, and she could not find the words to say that would comfort the lad. She needed a great deal of comforting herself.

"You want to get out of here, don't you, Logan? You want to go home," Walter questioned softly. Dumbly, the boy nodded once, casting his fearful gaze on the scene over his mentor's shoulder. Walter quickly moved his head so as to obstruct the boy's view. "But you don't want to go back out there. I understand. Here's what we'll do: I'll carry you back to the castle, and you'll close your eyes as tight as you can. Sound good?"

Logan looked questioningly up at his mother, and finally her throat loosened as she managed, "I'll be right there with you, love." Silently, she wished that she could have been the one to carry him rather than Walter, but she knew that she was in no condition to haul a twelve-year-old boy around like she could his younger sister. Especially now, when her legs were weak and she felt like she could pass out in a moment's notice.

She watched as Walter scooped her son up into his arms, and was instantly reminded of a scene from months passed, when Dean had done the same to little Angela while at a picnic. He had swung her around, and she had spread out her arms like a bird in flight, happy as a clam. The rest of the family had laughed and cheered, munching on whatever goodies the cooks had packed for them.

Maegan shook herself out of her reverie, finding fresh tears upon her cheeks. Now was not the time for fond memories-they hurt more than they healed, and right now, Logan needed her attention.

She followed Walter, her eyes on her son the entire time. He kept his face buried in his mentor's shoulder, and never once did he look up until he was told that it was safe to open his eyes. She herself did not dare look around, even as they passed by the still forms of half of her family. Instead she took in her son's expression, the planes of his face, and soon his eyes traveled to lock with hers.

The castle soon loomed ahead of them. It seemed both welcoming and sorrowful, for though they longed for home, it wasn't the same.

It would never be the same.

There came a shout, and the queen looked up to find her eldest son running pell-mell across the lawn, coming upon them fast. His eyes were wide as saucers and filled with fear and unasked questions. "Mum!" he cried, barely slowing down in time before he collided with her. He took her almost roughly by the shoulders. "Mum, tell me it isn't true. What I heard-what they told me-it isn't true. Martin and Anne, Dad and Angie, they're… They're alright, aren't they?"

Of course, had he possessed any form of logic then, which no one really did, he would have known the answer simply by looking around and taking note of half of his family's absence, or by the expression his mother wore. But in his worry and grief, he asked the questions anyway, bringing the image of the broken bodies to the forefront of the queen's mind.

No words came to answer him. It was all Maegan could do to hang her head and lean on her son for support, the fountain that gushed from her eyes staining his shirt with salty water. He paled and stumbled back slightly, though he still held her tightly by the shoulders.

"I don't know about this, Your Majesty," Walter gently prodded. "It's too soon."

Jasper, whose graying black hair was uncharacteristically messy due to the long and depressing night prior, cleared his throat. "If I may say so, you do look rather unwell. Which is to be expected after what has happened, of course, but don't you think that you should get some rest, perhaps?"

Maegan stood on shaky legs, staring into the crackling fire on the hearth. The study had always been a place of some abhorrence for her, but now, for reasons unknown to her, she had ran to it for comfort. With a shiver, she pulled her shawl tighter about her, and said nothing.

"I can understand your reasoning," Walter sighed. "I would want to put the man on trial straight away, too. I'd have his head and stick it on a pike, if it were me… But-"

"I'm fine. My hatred for him gives me strength," she hissed, her eyes narrowing into a glare as she turned and walked towards the table where her crown sat. She stared at it for a moment, almost with loathing, before placing it smartly upon her brow. Then, without sparing them a glance, she marched out of the study and away from the two concerned men. "Keep Logan and Elena from entering the throne room."

She couldn't see them, but she knew that they were exchanging worried looks. She didn't care. Today she was a different person-she was no longer Maegan Monroe, loyal wife of Dean Monroe and doting mother of six. She was little Sparrow, vengeful Sparrow; angry widow and despondent mother of three.

This burning hatred, this thirst for revenge was distantly familiar to her. Memories flooded her mind of the crazed Lord Lucien holding a gun to her head as he casually told her that he had killed her family, of the sight of her sister Rose falling dead at her feet, and of the wish that brought them all back. It had all been for naught. Her family, or at least half of it, had been torn from her again. It was like whatever gods out there had decided to see how many times they could rip out her heart and put it back in before she went insane. But she had gotten her revenge on Lucien with one, faithful bullet. She expected no less this time.

There was a hush within the throne room. Even the townspeople who had come to observe her decision were in black either out of personal mourning for her loss, or simply out of respect for the dead. She herself still wore the same muddy and soot-stained clothes from the night before, having been too over-come with grief to even think about her appearance. No one seemed to care or take notice.

Richard stood beside the throne, his face stern despite the fact that he had obviously been crying, and his princely attire had been dyed a somber black for the occasion. At the foot of the steps leading up to the royal seat were two soldiers, their rifles pointed at the hunched over, chained individual on the floor.

He had dirty mouse-brown hair and his clothes-once clean and pressed-were torn and soiled by mud, blood, and other unclean things. He had been beaten pretty badly, so told by his swollen left eye, broken nose, missing front teeth in a mouth that hung open as if a door on one hinge, and his fingers having been bent in directions they most certainly were not supposed to go. He raised his head as soon as the queen stepped into the room, and immediately he began to babble and beg, as if he knew his life would soon be cut short. Which it most certainly would be.

His words came out slurred and broken due to a jaw that refused to work properly, but the gist of it was, "No-please-I beg you! I didn't want to do it! I-I-I-I'm sorry-I'm sorry-"

"Shut it!" the left-hand guard snarled, and he bashed the blubbering man's face with the butt of his rifle. The killer reared back and then fell forward, soft sobs escaping his lips.

Feeling no sympathy whatsoever for the man that lay bleeding upon the carpet, the queen continued walking passed him and up to her throne, pausing to kiss Richard comfortingly on the cheek before sitting down. It wasn't long before the man started up again.

"Please, I-I'm Arthur Wellington-"

"You're the man who killed my husband and three of my children. I could care less what your name is." She leaned forward menacingly. "I honestly don't know why this silly little trial is being held. I would much rather just kill you and leave it at that, but I suppose that would make me a murderer like you. You see, when I want someone dead, I do it the legal way."

But Arthur continued on, "There's a conspiracy against you, m'lady-I got dragged into it, I did. Unwilling, I was, had no reason to kill you! But they threatened to kill me if I didn't-"

"So four people, one of them only twelve years old," her voice cracked at the thought of little Angela cut down in the flower of her youth, but she plowed on, "died to save your sorry arse, is that what you're telling me?" He fell silent at her words, staring up at her with an unreadable expression on his face. "IS THAT WHAT YOU ARE TELLING ME, ARTHUR?"

He squeaked as she rose from her chair. "I CAN GIVE YOU NAMES! LOTS OF NAMES!"

"You are a coward and a dog, Arthur Wellington, and you'll die like one!" she seethed, blood rushing to her face as she howled at him. Her hatred for the man had doubled-no, tripled since the moment she'd seen him. How dare he beg for forgiveness? How dare he try and bribe her with names? "You can keep your bloody names!"

Name after obscure name tumbled from the man's mouth as the guards began to drag him away. It was as if he was shouting the alphabet. "JOSEPH ABNER, PENNY BENSON, JIMMY CARLTON!"

"Wait," Richard said, then more loudly, "WAIT!"

The soldiers came to a halt, and Arthur quieted, staring hopefully up at the young man. Every eye turned to regard the prince with curiosity and even slight suspicion, until he said, "Tell me the name of the one who ordered you to throw that bomb."

The bloodied man hemmed and hawed for a moment, as if trying to judge whether or not it would be wise to give such precious information, or in the more likely case, trying to come up with a convincing name to give. "He…he calls himself Matthias. Able Matthias."

"That name is unfamiliar to me," Richard replied after a short pause.

"It should be," his mother growled. "Because he probably doesn't exist."

He spared her a glance before nodding towards the guards. "Proceed."

Arthur's face, once so filled with hope, crumbled at that one, single word. He howled and screamed, ranted and raved like a madman. He was giving the soldiers so much trouble, Maegan half expected them to shoot him right there in the hall. But then the doors slammed shut, and eventually his cries faded to nothing.

The crowd murmured softly as the onlookers dispersed, and some bravely gave their condolences to their queen and future king before swiftly shuffling out of the large room through one of the side doors. Neither mother nor son moved or spoke until the last of them had left, at which point Richard lay a hand on his mother's shoulder.

"It's over-he's gone. The soldiers will be burying him soon."

She stood, chewing her lower lip. "I was… expecting him to be… different."

"More of the evil sort?"

"More of the… revolutionary sort."

"Me too. I think there might be some truth to his story about this…Able fellow."

She frowned. "The man was a fool, a coward."

Her son shrugged half-heartedly. "Fools and cowards tell the truth when faced with death, more often than not. If they think there is any chance they might be spared, they'll say anything. At any rate, it can't hurt to look into it, right?"

"I…suppose not." At least it would get his mind off of things, to a point. At least he would have some form of hope to hold on to, unlike her. "I am going to lay down, try to get some rest." She felt so… drained. Like all life had bled from her and left her body a withered, dry husk. And something told her that no amount of sleep would fix it.

The rest of the day passed on at a crawl. The castle, which had been so full of laughter and warmth, was now silent and cold, unbearable. Logan never said a word, Richard shut himself up in the study, and Elena came to her mother to lay in her arms, and quietly cry herself to sleep. It was like an out-of-body experience-nothing felt quite real, and yet it was painfully clear that this was no dream. Sometimes, Maegan would collapse into a sobbing fit, and other times she would silently stare at nothing in particular. She felt as though she were slowly losing her grasp on reality, and that by the end of the day she would have gone completely insane. Jasper took on the task of preparing for the burial, knowing full well that her majesty the queen was in no condition and hardly possessed the will to do so herself.

And now, she somehow found herself standing in the garden, watching her loved ones' coffins as they were interred within the family tomb. The sun shone and the birds chirped, unaffected by the tragedy that had turned four souls' lives a dismal shade of gray. It seemed as though the world was unfeeling; no one really cared that the sky had come crashing down.

"I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry, Logan."

The boy stared up at his mother for a moment, as though he did not fully comprehend what she was saying. Then little Elena's hand snuck into his own, and she sniffed, "I still love you, you know." She buried her little face in his arm as if to cry, though she continued very evenly, "So…Please stop thinking it's your fault."

He surprised his mother by turning his back on the funeral and gathering his little sister into his arms and holding her close. He mumbled a soft "thank you" into her curly black hair, let her go, and then turned back to the ceremony, his hand gripping Elena's tiny one. The moment was so small and insignificant that it went unnoticed by most of the small crowd, but the queen smiled inwardly.

Yes, this was the reason why she had to stay-her three remaining children were the light of the future, each a shining beacon of hope for the other. It was time that she lived by their example.