So, in the original chapter 9 I said I felt like something was missing. I think that perhaps this was it. Hope you like it. Absolutely loved the season finale by the way. Such a perfect villain. I want to marry him.

As always, thank you for reading!

ACT II

Lawlessness

Part I.

Psalm 119:30

She had a list. The Queen Mother had a list, stating all the qualities the future Queen should possess. In bold, cursive script she had written noble born, Duchess Slant, a master's degree – not in Art – and so on and so on. Robert still couldn't believe it.

The three empty beer bottles and the fourth in his hand hadn't made the non-believing any better. Not worse either, though.

But honestly, truly, Mother. Have you finally gone completely mad?

What drugs had she used? What made her think she could tell him - His Majesty Robert the First, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of His other Realms and Territories King, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith – what to do? Who to marry? How dare she order him around?

He groaned and Poppy chuckled, so he growled some more.

'I hate you,' he muttered. 'You know that, right?'

'Sure.'

'And this is all your fault.'

'Sure.' The amusement in her voice mocked him. He growled again; she smiled and shook her head. 'Stop that growling, Robert. You're not an animal.'

'Then stop acting like this is funny.'

But probably to her it was, banjaxed hellion. He shouldn't be surprised she was feeding off his misery. She was an Impundulu and someone should just shoot her now. Or him. Perhaps Cyrus would be willing? Most likely. The man would jump at the opportunity to get rid of the rightful King. Would then crown himself or the spare. And the Gods knew both Cyrus and Liam were terribly unfit for any sort of throne. Fatally lacking several Kingly traits. They were too ugly anyway.

'Have you even read the rest of it, Robert?' Her voice pulled him back to the present and he narrowed his eyes at her. Of course he hadn't. He hadn't continued after the master's degree – not in Art – because that entire list was farcical and he wasn't about to waste any time on reading it. He had people to do so.

Poppy rolled her eyes at him.

'You should read it,' she said. 'It's hilarious. There's a rule that your future wife cannot have any male friends. And she should be humble in her achievements, but at the same time your mother wants her to have achieved basically everything.

'Oh. She's also not allowed to eat anything but salad. So I'm guessing I won't make the final cut.'

He wasn't smiling and he could tell she had no idea how to make him. He appreciated her efforts, though.

I appreciate you.

And immediately he drowned the offending thought in a mouthful of beer.

She slid the insulting piece of paper towards him, but he stuck up his nose.

'No.'

She smiled at him, assuasive, and he shook his head.

'This list might be funny, but the Queen Mother demanding my engagement in less than five months is no fucking joke. I don't know if you noticed, but she was bloody serious. Threatened to dethrone me. And she's mental, completely disordered, so I know she will do it. This is the woman who declared her own children illegitimate just so they would not have the throne. She is out of her damn mind.'

And suddenly assassination didn't even sound that bad. Or illegal. Because worst of all was that he knew. Deep down he knew his mother was right. The Gods curse her.

Poppy reached for him, for his hand, and gently brushed her fingers over his.

'It's going to be okay, Robert,' she said kindly. 'We got away with parading forty girls around under the pretence that it was the Biblical way and the Kingdom loved it. So we'll figure something out for this as well. I'm Poppy. I always figure your shit out.'

He wasn't impressed and it burned. He snatched his hand back, away from the fire that the touch of her skin ignited.

She frowned, but said nothing. Her hand was left resting awkwardly on the table. She looked at him pointedly and he stubbornly stared at the wall.

'Fine.' She dragged her hand and the paper back. 'Be like this.'

'Fuck you.' As unexpected as the words were, even to him, he enunciated them clearly, spoke slowly and with clarity. 'Fuck you, Poppy.

'You don't figure shit out. You get me into shit. You're a thorn in my side. If you'd just kept your mouth shut at the garden party, none of this would've ever happened.'

She scoffed. 'If you really believe that, you're an idiot. Your mother wants you to get married. Needs you to get married and make babies. My big mouth and I were mere tools she used to put the wheels in motion. I'm the scapegoat. You get that, right? This ultimatum she has given you would still be here regardless of me. She would've found another way. You need to get married before the end of the year. That's what the Queen Mother wants, that what the Queen Mother expects she'll get. So don't sit here and tell me to go fuck myself, because this is not my fault. I did not do this. So don't blame me and instead of sulking help me find a solution.'

There was fire in her eyes but he could only shake his head.

'There is no solution, Poppy. I had my Kingdom, my life and my woman taken away from me. And in all honesty, out of those three, it is the Kingdom I value the most.'

He took another swig of beer – yet another testament of Poppy's influence, because when had he foregone whiskey in favour of illiberal and uncultured beer?

'I will not lose my Kingdom again, therefore I have no choice but to abide by my mother's wishes. And she is right.

'I'm trying to fill a void left by a great King before me and everything I do should be in service to my people. It is time I set aside my pride. No matter what my father thought, my hubris shall not be my downfall. I will rise.

'I might hate it and might not be ready for it, but my mother's wishes are those of the people as well. There is no solution, Poppy. There is only easing my suffering.'

'You sound like a Shakespearean tragedy,' she smirked and he groaned.

If only you knew.

And maybe she should.

Know.

Even though not even he himself really knew.

'You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?' He sighed, threw his head back. Anguish. 'Absolutely fucking crazy. And the weird thing is… I kind of like it.'

'I can't stop fucking thinking about you.' He chuckled, mirthlessly. 'It's ridiculous. I wake up and you're bloody there. I go to sleep, you're there. I hear your voice in my head, telling me what to do, what to say, how to feel. And it doesn't matter one single fuck.'

He sighed. 'It doesn't matter.'

He looked at her, steel. She stared back, grit. And maybe she was stronger than he was, because he looked away first.

'I think about you.' She had gotten up from her chair, was walking around the table. She smiled. 'I don't hear your voice in my head, because that's just crazy, but I think about you too. All the time. So I think it does matter.'

She neared him, reached out as much he leaned towards and when her hand touched his cheek, they both felt it.

He leaned into her hand, closed his eyes. That fire. Her warmth seeped into his cold skin and there was nothing that made him feel more protected than her touch. He placed his hand over the back of hers, applied more pressure, and perhaps he wanted her fingerprints to burn themselves into his cheek. Because who else would want him then? With such an obvious mark of another scarring him.

'It doesn't matter, though,' he murmured. 'This Kingdom needs a Queen. And I need a wife. So it doesn't matter.'

She was quiet for a while. Her hand still cupping his face. Still hot on his cheek.

'It doesn't.' She agreed.

Her other hand ran through his hair and he felt her step closer, felt a stray curl touch his face. And then her body was there and he, without hesitation, let her draw him into her arms. Let her wrap herself around him. And suddenly her comfort surrounded him.

The shiver that ran down his spine told him it was more than just comfort, but he wasn't ready to admit that much. Wasn't ready, didn't want to, couldn't.

I'm so screwed.

His hands ran up her legs. Slipped around her hips and pulled her closer. Impossibly closer until there was him and there was her and where one ended and the other began he didn't know.

He breathed out and relaxed against her.

I could stay like this forever.

And he could learn to forget.

Forget that you crawled out of the depths of Hell to make my life miserable.

He could pretend she was born somewhere rural, in a grand castle near the coast, the youngest of six little Lords and Ladies, her parents descendants from some minor house of aristocrats, but noble born nevertheless. Because when she held him like that.

Anchored, at peace, satisfied.

His voice was low, barely discernible, but with his head resting on her chest, her hand massaging his scalp and the other still burning – burning – into his cheek, his being, his everything, he knew she heard him. He breathed in the scent of her, deeply, and there were too many thoughts and feelings, too many to discern, but he didn't want to figure it out and he didn't have to. Not now.

His voice was low, but he knew she heard him.

'Never let me go.'