Chapter Two: The Hellraiser

Forte de Laclos

Amiens, Former France

The usual round of cannon fire sounded the beginning of the training day at Forte de Laclos. The cadets were being roused from their beds for their morning routines, by their commanding officers, many of whom had graduated from training at the same base only months earlier.

Lines of soldiers, newly awakened, still groggy in their pristine uniforms stood at attention in the foreyard of the practice yard awaiting their lead officers. There was complete silence as General Rene Montalembert rode out onto the field on his horse. The elder gentleman was a stickler for decorum and even years after it had been denounced as a typical protocol of formal address, the old general still insisted on riding out onto the field on horseback and also insisted that several of his hand chosen subordinates do so also. It was an odd vein of action and thinking which had bleed out of the modern military centuries earlier, but one which the old General deems crucial to the success of his troops in battle and also in the civil world.

Chivalry: that was the decompressed vein breathed into life anew.

However, such an abstract and outdated ideal was having trouble rooting itself with any sort of permanence in the Alliance military which was the main reason that the few men who believed in it, including the General Montalembert, enforced the conduct of their men using the behavior of their subordinates and themselves as the example to follow by.

"General." One of two flag officers nodded to him in reminder.

Montalembert nodded his understanding that he knew his duty and turned his dappled grey horse towards the lines of men. Sitting proudly in the saddle in full uniform, the sixty something senior officer cut quite an imposing figure.

"Soldiers! My sons!" Montalembert often used the more personal of the two references more often as he felt it to be partially true. He had trained these men since they were cadets in military diapers, it seemed. "An uprising has risen up near Calais. You will all get the honor to fight with a combat commission and perhaps even prove yourselves. What do you have to say to that, men?"

All at once, a chorus of enthusiastic yells rose high above the lines of men and Montalembert sat taller in the saddle at the assuring sound. His boys would go into battle for the first time and they were excited about it. Poor fellows, he thought, his own ardor of the sight dimming some at the reality of it he knew to be awaiting them, but he kept any and all signs of his deflating notions from showing in the expression on his face.

This was one of the first home grown Specials units and Montalembert, as well as his superiors in the Foundation could not deny their impatience to see how it would perform in battle.

A lot of money was going into the production and utilization of Mobile Suits as weapons of war. It was still a rather new an sketchy practice, having begun only in AC 176 and there were many old soldiers, like Montalembert, who did not trust in this new technology as a way of future warfare.

To Montalembert, all of the usual misgivings were understandable with this new and horrid type of warfare.

It was too impersonal. The battlefield lost its humanity once machines that did the work of men were introduced onto it.

However, old dogs who didn't learn new tricks fast did not live long in the world with other animals who had new and more dangerous rules.

Montalembert was an old dog, but he had learned to keep his opinions about mobile suits and fighting in general largely to himself. Very few people did he consider trustworthy in his profession. Very few, indeed.

"Soldiers!"

Their general's sudden shout, caught his troops off guard and immediately silenced their upraised voices.

"You are of the 46th Regiment of Volunteers of the Alliance Armee de Terre. Conduct yourselves with pride and with honor! For Justice! For Peace!"

The men gave one last 'hoorah' and the staff officers took them over, organizing them back into silence to continue their morning routines. The general moved his horse cordially, riding comfortably around the grounds and watching his men while they drilled.

"You trained them as well as you could I think." A voice interrupted his thoughts as he was watching one battalion tackle an obstacle course, half of the unit lagging substantially behind. "Besides, you always said war was final system that weeded out the men from the boys."

Rene recognized that voice as belonging to one of the first soldiers he had ever trained at the academy and one of his best students.

General Ferdinand Catalonia pulled his black horse alongside Montalembert's, posture tall and square in the saddle, piercing blue eyes staring at his former instructor with an amusing challenge, as if daring him to second guess his old student now.

Instead, Rene smiled and saluted the eldest of the Catalonia brothers, only recently promoted two ranks, "General."

Ferdinand cracked a grin and saluted in tandem, addressing his former commander with his hereditary title to distinguish them from one another, "Marquis."

"At ease, son." Rene shook his head, his expression slightly bemused. "Mon Dieu, lad, how you've aged. How old are you now?"

"I turn twenty nine in early August, sir."

Montalembert's expression mellowed and he seemed more of the thoughtfully well aged gentleman than the austere old general he always had been.

"My, how so much can change in the span of just eleven years. I remember serving with your father in Barcelona almost thirty years ago. Did you know we graduated the Military Academy in the Ile-de-France together? "

The general seemed like a man again or better yet a child still with his humanity intact, not a soldier who had fought through and seen so much.

"How are your brothers?" Montalembert asked with a certain subdued level of excitement.

Ferdinand nodded as he directed his attention elsewhere. "Arthur is a general now too with a family in the Lorraine and Victor is still in field training near Liege with the 20th ground division."

Ferdinand smiled a little to himself. "Victor will graduate in May and the 20th will be redirected to Luxembourg before being given their first assignment."

Montalembert chuckled, a full hearty sound that erupted through his chest, "There's always something to say about you Catalonias. Always the soldiers."

"Yes, sir." Ferdinand turned his attention back to the Marquis raising his chin just a fraction of an inch at the mention.

As the oldest of the surviving Catalonia children, he held an immense amount of pride in his family's legacy.

The Catalonia men, deprived of a hereditary title after their ancestors had been driven out of their native Barcelona, had been forced to find a way to distinguish themselves early on and for centuries had been doing so through serving with distinction in every European and world war since the time of Elizabeth I of England.

There service record in this war would be no different.

Ferdinand's father, Leonardo, had been a general made famous as a founding Alliance member who had distinguished himself in his youth through fighting and winning decisive battles between the quarreling nations of what was then, Europe. Though he had retired from injuries sustained in his 'glory days', Leonardo had hardly lived long enough to sire a family, dying when Ferdinand was just twelve and his two brothers were only children, followed shortly after by their ill mother.

Swallowing, Ferdinand ran a hand distractedly through his thick black hair as he watched a soldier, a recruit no older than twelve stumble on the rope wall, and remembered how it had felt when he had done it for the first time sixteen years earlier.

Smiling to himself, he chuckled at the memory. He had landed face first in the mud somehow looping his foot in the rope rigging in the process so that he was hanging from one leg. Instructor Montalembert had not been so cordial to him in those days as he was being now.

They had raised one another, his brothers and himself.

The three of them who had survived childhood had depended upon one another when there was no one else willing to take them in and they had grown into the men they were today of their own convictions, each pushing the other to excel.

First, he had been promoted to general and then Arthur and one day soon, it would be Victor. Ferdinand was sure of it.

And then perhaps he could retire….

Ferdinand was ever much a military man as any Catalonia, but it is no secret that war takes its toll after a while.

It could wound the human soul and sometimes even kill it.

Ferdinand knew his brothers. Arthur was too much a man of action to ever retire from active duty, no matter how much his French wife prompted him to and Victor would follow wherever he led, but Ferdinand was not like them.

He had started out as a recruit with a strong propensity for war, however, the years had worn down his naïve romanticism into the gritty realism of what combat was actually like and Ferdinand wanted no more of it than he had to see.

He had left his dear Sara and his young children in Reims and that was where he intended to retire at the war's end.

"Why did you come to Amiens, General?"

Ferdinand turned back to find Montalembert giving him a hard stare behind an seemingly inquisitive look.

"I was called here by General Burke, sir. He has yet to detail why."

"Ah, I have a few guesses." Montalembert's mouth turned up in a knowing smirk. "You see General, many of our most able bodied and experienced instructors have been called out to serve under General Septum in space and as such we have been more than lacking in that department here on the home front."

Ferdinand did not like where this was going. He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, trying to adjust his weight. It was not his idea to come to this field on horseback.

"The Foundation have their hands into everything and it is very important to them that we have new leadership so to speak, at least on the training front. Young, strong, men such as yourself who have become accomplished pilots and able bodied commanders to lead discipline the green horns being recruited in the cities and countryside."

Ferdinand tried not to let too much of it show, but a steady stream of anger was growing in him.

Had they just brought him here to be a glorified babysitter?!

He'd been in Amiens for a week already, couldn't they have told him earlier so he could have asked for reassignment before it was too late?!

Typical God Damned HQ red tape…

The idiots. Those dirty, underhanded, ingrates…

Ferdinand startled a bit as Montalembert slapped him heftily on the back.

"Poor lad." The old man chuckled, not in the least bit sorry for him. "Well, take a good luck. They're your men now."

Ferdinand's jaw tightened as he caught sight of the same young recruit snagging his bootleg on an undertow of barbed wire. Gritting his teeth he grimaced, not feeling the same type of the empathy towards the young man he had before.

"Ah, General, meet your new chief of staff here on base, Lieutenant Flanders."

Montalembert gestured towards a young man who couldn't have been older than sixteen tottering towards them on a red sorrel pony, bouncing from side to side in the saddle with no real balance.

How had that scrawny runt made lieutenant so young? Before the gaunt lieutenant reached them, however, he showed his full measure of his horsemanship as he slid off of the slowly moving animal on one side.

What sort of joke was this?

Wait…

"General Montalembert, are you absolutely certain this is why I was called here today?" Ferdinand asked, his overly strict tone leaving no room for error. "I can call the dispatch office, I would be happy to, to confirm my orders."

No alternative motive there…

"Nonsense, my boy, it's not needed. I can't see any other reason." Montalembert returned with the cattiest of smiles Ferdinand had ever seen on any man. "I am being called back to Brussels permanently in a few days time and in my stead, I am sure they could use the help. Take it all in, General, here is your nice quiet assignment. Certainly, beats a desk job."

Ferdinand swallowed and looked down to where his Lieutenant was picking him up off the ground and trying to pull his horse's head up from where it was grazing uncaringly on the green grass with the reins.

This was definitely not what he had signed on for…

When the Lieutenant Flanders had finally remounted and rode up to Ferdinand's side, he paid no attention to his timid excuse for a salute, and leaned in close to him.

"My first act is to get rid of these damn horses." Ferdinand said under his breath when Montalembert was not looking.

"Sir?" The timid lieutenant looked almost hopeful.

"Men don't need statues, they need commanders."

Montalembert turned back to him at the hushed voices, but did not comment on them.

"Well, what do you think, son? Are you ready to take over?"

Ferdinand smiled a stiff smile that did not reach his eyes, "As ready as I will ever be, sir."

"Shoulder Arms!"

"Present Arms!"

It was dawn in Calais, the morning after the uprising against Forte de Crecy and it was still early.

The rise of oranges, pinks, and purples had barely ascended above the shoreline when the lines of recruits, fully uniformed in their dress attire for the special occasion, had marched out of the main barracks carrying long distance rifles.

Lieutenant Halevy too was fully attired as he stood, his shoulders back, chest thrust forward as his short breaths crystallized into visibility as it collided with the frigid morning air.

With Colonel Auber's sudden departure to Dunkirk that morning, Lt. Halevy had been left most senior officer at the base and so it was up to him to carry out the executions of the prisoners they had captured the previous night.

And he was in the process of trying to convince himself that he could do this.

He had almost succeeded…almost.

The prisoners had all been tied to posts at the far end of the shooting range after the uprising and had been left there to stand all night in the pre-winter temperatures until dawn.

Now, the reckoning was here…and the soldiers were ready for it.

Halevy stepped forward. His men had come out promptly, each one choosing to look his absolute best for the event. Looking out across the lines, he recognized many of the faces of the men present and also recognized many of the faces of those who were not and knew they had taken more causalities than they had initially thought, though these were the men Auber had asked for.

Men who had lost a friend, a companion, or a relative. Men who had nothing left to lose and who were eager to get even.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life, it was all fair game and they were about to make a sport of it…sort of like hunting.

The look in the lieutenant's eyes hardened.

Well, the traitors would get what was coming to them then. It was only fair.

Standing taller, Willem Halevy looked out at the long green line and then across the field to where the bedraggled hodgepodge of civilian men had been tied to the stakes. He cleared his throat loudly and then began.

"Fire!"

There was a dulled moist sound as bullets passed through flesh for the first time and Halevy found he could barely recognize his own voice anymore as it shouted orders.

"Fire!"

During the pauses which ensured between shouts, the sounds of gunfire drowned out any other noises made so the echoes of bullets entering and exiting living tissue was spared from all ears…though not from the eyes.

"Fire!"

Non, je ne regrette rien.

Somewhere in Halevy's memory one of his mother's old records was playing.

Henrietta Halevy had been a cabaret singer and many of her songs were those which other French artists, such as Edith Piaf, Daniele Dupre, and Mylene Farmer, had made famous during their legendary careers. His mother had never written or performed a song of her own during her lifetime and all that time, he had never once thought it odd.

Until now.

"Stop, reload!"

In her dwindling years, while she had been dying, his mother used to make the nurse they had hired for her, play old records for her every hour of every day so she could the old songs she used to sing at various nightclubs around Paris and Marseille being performed by the artist who brought them to the public before she did.

The artists who made those songs memorable, not her.

"Present arms!"

Non, Rien de Rien, Non, Je ne regrette rien

"Fire !"

Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, ni le mal

He could almost hear her voice as it ricocheted off of the walls of his mind, so loud now that it was the gun shots he could no longer hear ringing in his ears.

Non, Rien de Rien, non, je ne regrette rien

"Fire!"

C'est paye, balaye, oublie, Je me fous de passe…

When the last man stopped jerking the line of men had stopped firing, not wanting to waste any more ammunition than they had to, though many of them were not and never be satisfied with the small chance at vengeance they had been given.

Halevy swallowed as the tune in his head faded after it had reached its last verse and the ringing in his ears had begun.

"Lieutenant."

Someone was calling him but he couldn't hear them, not anymore, just the ringing. There was nothing else but the ringing. He was blind and deaf to everything else, even to the feeling of cold steel in his hand as he reached for the side holster at his belt for his pistol and raised the handgun towards his own head.

"Lieutenant !"

Non, Rien de Rien…

One of the soldiers who had not put down his gun after the execution, noticed a small bundle of dandelions gathered in a patch of offensive yellow just in front of one of the stakes at the other end of the killing field.

The thought came to him, how the little flowers, so far away and so obscure, looked almost thirsty and he smiled as he raised his rifle to his shoulder; firing one final shot into the corpse tied to the stake above them.

"Damn them all, I have been had, Arthur!"

Ferdinand Catalonia griped over the vidline.

"Oh?" The amused owner of the voice on the other side of the line did not even try to hide his laughter. "Did Sara come down to the base last night and over do it on you or what?"

"Very funny." Ferdinand grumbled in a tone that denoted he was thinking anything but about the last offending statement. "I asked for a 'quiet command' and they gave me quiet alright, it's hell in a shoebox without air holes."

Ferdinand stood in his office, pacing back and forth as he complained to his brother who was not so quietly laughing at him by this point.

He had regretfully confirmed his orders with General Burke and had been given an office for his exclusive use, small gray hole in the wall with a desk and a few bare spots where plaques of honor used to proudly display the efforts of lesser officers.

The blonde man was sitting with his bare feet up on the desk of his study at his family home, where he was on leave for the month, wearing a pair of sweats and a argyle sweater covering is upper half. If anything, Arthur Catalonia had never been a fashion astute man and he knew it.

"I don't know what to tell you, Ferdinand." Arthur said with a shrug of his shoulders. "The longer Septum is out chasing tails in space, the longer we'll all be on dead end assignments. Pray for the day someone is given a two rank promotion above him. Maybe it will be you."

"Not at this rate." Ferdinand grumbled under his breath, but his demeanor soon took a lighter turn. "How's that French wife of yours?"

Arthur sighed and just about rolled his eyes at the teasing drawl leveled on the word. Why was this always a point of amusement for his brother to draw on? "Sara is from Toulouse so I don't know why you are always going on and on about my French wife when you have one yourself."

Ferdinand cleared his throat at the unexpected jab, but recovered quickly with a revitalized smirk. "Not that type of French. Dermail French is a completely different brand of the natural breed entirely; they're almost their own species, really…"

"Ferdinand."

At the verbal warning, Ferdinand's leer raised a fraction of an inch at the verbal victory he knew to be his, but he kept the rest of his comments to himself. "How are Christina and your little girl doing these days?"

"Dorothy is out grocery shopping with her grandmother and Christina is still in bed."

"Tired her out that much last night did you?"

"Not quite." Arthur displaced his brother's good humored comment quite easily with an off handed smile. "Apparently, it's a well known fact that three year olds are high energy."

"Ah, that sort of tired. Don't worry, it only gets better from here on in. Just wait until she's five and wants to crawl into your bed every night." Ferdinand chuckled, remembering those days with his own son and daughter, rubbing his eyes at the renewed sense of morning fatigue the memory reawakened in him. "I think if every married couple were warned about that particular aspect of parenthood before the fact, no one would ever have children voluntarily."

"Amen." Arthur twirled the band of white gold around his ring finger with the side of his thumb absentmindedly. "However, they do have their good points, children I mean. Honestly, I can't imagine what our lives would be like without Dorothy. She just has so much love and energy."

Ferdinand snorted at the sappy turn their conversation had taken, but nodded his head in agreement. As tedious as they could be, he loved his children and he had to admit that his life would be pretty dull without the frequent calls from home in which his son and daughter all but attacked the vidphone to hear from him.

"Alright, I'm done complaining." Ferdinand leaned over his desk as the man on the screen looked up at him in confusion. "Go, hop into bed with your wife and give her a real reason to be tired before someone else comes home first."

With that said, Ferdinand Catalonia disconnected the line before his brother could decide he had anything else to add.

From the tears which bleed into the carpet's threads,

I cry to thee: Drop thy sword, thy spear, thy shield,

I Beg thee, noble love, stop and rest;

And return to a much fairer field.

You say not to worry for you,

But my poor heart is too far gone,

And those whose beginning days are years away;

Kneel and pray for your safety too long.

Beloved husband, soldier dear,

Will the boatman have your soul today?

These cruel days mock me with the loss of you,

For the able mistress Death, I fear will have you leave me too.

But, darling dear, I care not so long as you be at peace, safe and near.

Tuck thee, sweetheart, into sleep,

I lay thee down, rescind thee my memory to keep;

Be not thyself, escape from here, this cursed netherworld.

Take thy comfort in simple pleasures, in places I cannot bear to see.

Sing to our children of their gallant father's triumphant return.

Tell of far away lands, the bedtime stories of great heroes, monsters, and naves,

Of all those things thought once true, but have never been;

Children go to their beds like soldiers to their graves…

One tear dropped onto the creased vellum surface of the dog eared page of the open book in the queen's lap she had been reading from only moments before, turning the small damp circlet on the aging paper a slightly darker hue of yellow than it had been before the salty water hit it.

Katrina Peacecraft took a deep breath in an attempt to abate the light sobs that were beginning to ripple through her delicate frame as the tears slid down her cheeks.

The pages of the old poetry book shook before her eyes, quivering under own its light weight being held in her unsteady hands.

Stifling another inevitable sob, she closed her eyes.

Her poor dear brother…

"His driver said he found him in the garden. Whoever had him attacked, had left him alone there to die. We have reason to believe that the Alliance officials who planned the meeting had been plotting to assassinate our ambassador all along. There was never a plan for any real peace talks. It was all a rouse. I am so sorry, your majesty."

Edward.

Katrina pulled a large frame off of a nearby shelf. Inside of it was a lengthwise picture taken of the queen and her husband. In Katrina's arms, she held a three year old Milliardo, cradling him softly against her shoulder. Next to her stood her usually austere looking husband with a smile on his face and next to him, with even less formality than he usually held, the 2nd Duke Icely was standing sideways towards the camera and laughing with his two year old son, Edmund in his arms.

What had he asked to be defiled in such a way as he had? What had he done to deserve his cruel fate? Her brother, the always kind, philanthropic duke who almost always put his country before himself.

A swift knock came on the door and without even asking permission, Mrs. Nada entered carrying a tray of food.

"It's just me, dear." The elder lady smiled, walking over to set her tray down on a table at the foot of the bed.

"Take that back to the kitchen, Nada, I'm not hungry right now."

"But, my lady, you haven't eaten all day. The king sent me with this tray and told me not to leave you until you've finished everything on it."

"Like a child…" Katrina chided her husband under her breath, but they were not words said in anger.

She knew she had worried the poor man when she had refused to come out of her bed the first day. Even she was willing to admit that this growingly uncharacteristic behavior was a little excessive, but she didn't know how else to react. When she had lost her parents, they had been young, but she had had Edward to hold her up, to help her through it all.

Now he was gone. Where did that leave her?

She loved her husband and children, but they could not take the place of any of the people she had lost. She was the only one left out of her entire natural family now. She had out lived them. At twenty seven years old, Katrina Peacecraft had outlived all of her natural relatives.

How did someone cope with such a thing? How could a soul ever get used to being the last of their line?

It would take a strong person to do that and as Katrina mentally filled in the gaps, she knew she just wasn't that strong.

"Please, my lady." Nada, noticing her pallor as the queen had drifted back into her own thoughts, had come to sit next to her, looking at her worriedly. "You need to keep up your strength, dear."

There was a measured silence as the queen refused to reply. Then, Nada unexpectedly sighed and turned away from her.

"You know, my own brother was killed in Scotland when the Alliance forces took the Great Island in the early 60s" The older woman didn't look at the queen as she talked so she had no way of seeing the dumfounded expression the younger of the two wore quickly turning into a purely sympathetic one. "His name was Edward too. I used to call him Ward back when we were young enough to play in our neighbor's unplanted fields without getting into trouble and in the wild briars throughout Falkirk where we spent out childhood together."

Then Nada turned to face Katrina and the other was astonished to see tears in the lady's speckled hazel eyes.

Not in all of the years they had lived in the palace, had the queen ever seen Mrs. Nada of her husband cry in public, not even when the news arrived that their youngest daughter had suddenly died of tuberculosis; not even then did they lose their public faces. But here, this dignified woman, who had served in numerous countries all over Europe and served kings and queens the world over, was shedding tears for a long ago hurt all over again.

And it broke Katrina's heart to see it.

To see this strong woman broken and completely vulnerable in her remembered pain….it was almost too much.

"Mrs. Nada." The queen reached out and grasped the older woman's hand apologetically. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to reawaken these painful memories in you."

"Oh, it's not your fault, dear." Nada was quick to pat the top of the queen's hand in hers in a reassuring gesture. "You are only coping with the loss of your brother in the only way you can, by showing it. It is not a crime, it's natural. Besides, wearing your heart on your sleeve is a trait you are known for, am I right highness?"

Katrina nodded, a little smile curving her lips upwards as she tried to keep back a fresh row of tears, this time from joy and gratitude that she had been able to keep this fine woman at her side all of these years. There was a reason she had employed her on their staff after first taking notice of her again at the house of the, then, Duke Khushrenada.

"Growing up in my Grandmother Visby's home served as quite the education for you, didn't it?"

Nada snorted, she knew this woman before, had spent some time in her family's employ when she was young watching the entire lot of them grow.

First, the queen's mother and second Katrina herself and though watching people develop through the generations was not something she would like to trade for anything else, the estate on Visby where Nada had been sent by her father to work was not one of her fonder homes.

How could it have been?

She had been only twelve when her father had arranged it all and it had been the first time she had ever left her family's home in Falkirk. Sweden, let alone the city of Visby and its island home, had seemed like an entire world away and it had been.

Quite often, Nada had heard the career oriented men she had worked for throughout the years talk about their jobs and how efficient it had been to hit the ground running and though Nada, knew what they meant, she couldn't agree with them when lining that sentiment up with her own personal experiences.

It had been a shock, to say the least. She had gone from a home where she was used to doing most of the chores to being one in thirty maids in a household under the command, of not a loving mother, but an indifferent and strict matron who made sure everything was done just so and could mead out punishment when it wasn't .

Nada's first real employment experience could hardly compare to moping the floors or cooking for eight children in their moderate farm house back in Scotland.

The two just weren't in the same category. She had been forced to wipe her slate clean. From day one, young Nada was relearning how to do things that had become second nature to her over the years, simple household things such as turning down a bed or dusting a book without driving the dust into the pages and ruining the finish on the sides of the older or more expensive editions.

It had been an experience and unfortunately for her, the majority of her education was garnered at the hands of the then Lady Visby, Katrina's grandmother.

The Lady, who was never above supervising her matron and her staff in their work, seemed to hover wherever Nada was, always correcting what she was doing and once the mistake was brought to the attention of Matron Munk (for she was always present, hovering as well) there was no way for her to escape punishment.

And Matron Munk seemed to enjoy punishing her above many of the others. Looking back on it now, Nada could come to several different conclusions as to why that had been true back then.

In addition to being a sadist (all of the girls on the house staff swore by that fact), Matron Munk was also English, from somewhere in Suffolk they'd heard, and Nada was sure the fact she was native born and bred Scottish hadn't worked in her favor at all.

Oh, how Nada had hated that woman.

There was instance in particular where the matron was concerned, that still made smoke come out of Nada's ears fifty years later.

In the same year she had arrived at the household, the Lady Visby had noticed that she had drawn the curtains the wrong way one late afternoon and had, of course, commented on it. In punishment, Matron Munk had ordered her to mop the hard wood floors of the main ballroom, the largest room in the main house, alone with little more than a rag and a bucket full of suds.

It had been a horrible night. The next day her hands had been so calloused and sore that it made every task she had that much harder to do. It had taken two weeks before her hands had healed properly.

Thank god that wretched woman had drank herself to death.

So, yes, working for the Lady Visby had been quite the education indeed.

"Mrs. Nada." Katrina was looking at her sincerely now and not without a good amount of concern. "I was only kidding. Mama told me how hard you used to have it in that house. She always spoke very highly of you, my mother. Until the day she died, she considered you one of her dearest friends."

Nada nodded. In the five years she had spent at the estate in Visby, she had only ever heard or received kind words from the eldest daughter of the house, Elizabeth, who had been within a few years of her own age. Though Nada had eventually been called home again, she had never lost contact with the future Duchess Icely. The two had exchanged letters reverently, each telling the other about their lives up until the week the great lady had succumbed to her illness.

When Nada had met Otto and one day married him, Elizabeth Visby had been the first one to know about it. Naturally, the good lady wrote back and often she would write about her children and how their characters were progressing with the years.

Whether or not the Icely children knew it or not, their mother had loved them very much. She just had no way of recovering after being beset by so deadly a foe as tuberculosis.

"Your mother was a very great lady." Nada began, a soft smile gracing her middle aged features. "Much like yourself."

"Thank you." The queen retained her composure well as a light blush came at the unexpected compliment. "We were so young when Mama died, I often find myself wondering if she would have been proud of us."

Katrina's smile fell as she thought of her sickly mother, so pale and fragile laying propped up on the pillows in her bed, barely breathing and coughing in violent spasms when she did.

And memories of the private nurses who quarantined her children from her room most of the time and the bowls of cold water they brought in to swab her brow when it grew hot.

By the end of most days, those bowls of cool water would be dry and hung loose with bloody handkerchiefs.

These rituals renewed themselves, day in and day out, week after week, month after month until the day the Lady Elizabeth finally took her last breath.

Katrina could remember the smell of her mother's room, no longer perfumed with rose water and lily powder as she first remembered it, but overtaken, diluted with the tartness of antibiotics and sterile rubber gloves.

After the funeral, no one ever went into that room again. It was too much for all of them, especially their father.

For years afterward, both Edward and Katrina would maintain that their mother's death had been the casual factor leading their father's slip in health a few short years later and his eventual death.

He just lost the will to live.

"It was unfair what happened to her." Katrina's voice was soft, almost inaudible when she finally spoke out loud. "She was only one year my junior when she died, Nada, she wasn't old enough to go yet."

"Most of us aren't, dear, but then, who decides when is old enough? Life runs its course in different measures for everyone. Some people, young and vital, suddenly die." Nada drew in a steadying breath as her daughter's face flashed in the back of her mind, but she did not let it distract her from her conversation with the young queen. "Some don't die until they've lived a long, full life. One's lifespan is not a fair measure of who they were. My point is, death is a natural part of life and we can't anticipate it. Our lives are so short in the first place and then it is left up to us to outlive everyone and everything we care about. We're not supposed to feel alright with it. Your mother would have been proud of you, like your brother was. She was a woman who grabbed life by the hair and dragged it along for the ride, not the other way around like most woman of her station. Oh, she knew how to behave like the obedient, docile creature everyone expected her to be when she was in public, but whenever she could get away, she would raise hell. It's a shame you didn't get the chance to know her that well."

Katrina looked down at her hands where they rested in her lap after she had let Nada's go.

"Edward knew her better." Katrina ventured, stumbling over the few words before finally being able to say them clearly. "He seemed to always know everything better than I did."

"Elizabeth used to write to me about you the three of you." Nada looked down at the quilted burgundy bedspread beneath her, finding the hexagon shapes bordered with thread of the same color somehow interesting. "You, Edward, and Monique. Have you tried contacting your sister in England?"

Katrina grimaced. Her younger sister had always been different, though she loved her, Monique had never been happy in their family, always seeking a way out of it, to far away places and away from those who cared the most for her. She had seized the opportunity when it came and married an English diplomat. Then she moved off the continent and Katrina had not heard from her since.

Edward had been writing to her periodically over the years, but Monique had refused to write him back, almost as if she were glad to be rid of them.

Rid of their father.

Rid of their mother.

And rid of she and Edward and their children, not wasting the effort to know her nieces and nephews in any way.

Monique Icely, now de Laurence, had effectively rid herself of her entire life before going abroad and she had no wish to ever encounter it again.

"No." Katrina looked down at the diamond glittering in the wedding band on her finger as it caught the light from one of the open windows. "Good riddance too."

"Oh, no, dear, you don't mean that." Nada reached out and patted the girl's hand, but she pulled it away quickly, like she had been burned.

"Monique is no more my sister than she ever thought me hers." The look in Katrina's eyes was hard, but not final telling more of what she really felt than she would be willing to figure out. "She turned her back on this family when she left it and me along with it."

"Katrina, she is your sister." Nada pleaded with her. "Dear, we have to learn to forgive and let live. Life's just too short."

The queen sighed, conceding slightly, but not completely.

Nada was right, but the hurt feelings she had against her sister were just as righteous, just as true.

"When she is ready, if she ever is, I will be here."

Giving her a motherly look, Nada patted Katrina's hand which had moved to the bedspread top, this time reaching for it and holding it to ensure the girl would not pull it away.

"Good girl. Now, let's eat something shall we?"

Pain—has an Element of Blank—

It cannot recollect

When it begun—or if there were

A time when it was not—

It has no Future—but itself—

Its Infinite contain

Its Past—enlightened to perceive

New Periods—of Pain.

-Emily Dickinson-

(1830-1886)

A/N: Well after such a sobering note, it is sort of hard to continue in a positive motion, but I would like to take this time to dedicate this chapter in its entirety to my good friend Isis cw. Thank you for all of the help, hope, and inspiration you have given me over the years through your writings and tireless work ethic, you rock Lady! Also as a side note, I have to set the record straight on this. The Forte de Laclos does exist, but not in France. However, I placed it there because of the proximity to other relevant places in the plot line. I figured it would make more sense that way. Thanks for reading and I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter!! :)