Here starts the second part: League of Outcasts… or something. As always, thanks for everything. Have an automaton hug.
Noon30ish: thankee! I didn't know people read the endless drabbles in my A/N's (they're there for future reference mostly). I think you're right; Hiccup is ambidextrous and born left-handed. It seems unusual that someone in that case would consistently write with the left hand, as they are, as you said, usually encouraged by society to write right-handed. But then, maybe the fencing aspect is more important for the Vikings, which is why Hiccup was forced to swordfight with his right hand… most likely I'm just overcomplicating it. Ah, I'm jealous ;) I can't at all write with my left hand (I can do most other things equally well with both hands though, courtesy of high-level training as a musician). Aw, glad you enjoyed the fluffy stuff. I got a little bit too carried away with writing that kiss…
faisyah865: as usual, thanks loads. "Did Anna and Hans to [sic] the deed?" It is heavily implied in the limit of the story rating and how many words I am willing to throw away writing about it. As a writer I am not into detailed adult themes. I mention them because they exist in real life between real people and somewhat affect the plot. I find the lengthy fanservice-type descriptive scenes rather boring to read myself. As to fluff fanservice, as you all know it is up there as a part of my writing sins. Argh, fluff, grrrrr.
Enough chatting, getting on with…
Chapter 17: Wyvern's End or the importance of being Ernest.
CW: implicit racism, mild violence
The wyvern looked far from its best. Beneath the garish dark green and bright red paints, the rust that covered its iron scales was visible. Its clockwork legs dangled lifelessly in the faint evening breeze. Its once proud horns and floating whiskers were covered in a thick layer of soot from the chimney above. Its eternally open mouth, doubling as gutter for the slanted roof, oozed water, sputtered electric sparks and coughed wafts of fetid steam. Each of the painstaking twists of its long, narrow mechanical body rang with a creepy squeak of deformed metal against deformed metal. The constellite light in one of its googly eyes had died away, leaving it with an oddly asymmetrical indigo gaze that weakly lit the narrow blind alley below. The painted runes of Northern Porcelanie on the wooden sign hanging off its legs were long gone, washed away by the years and the salty oceanic winds, while the pitiful robot dragon stayed. To all, the cul-de-sac remained known by the infamous name of Wyvern's End.
A silhouette caped in black was hardly an unusual sight in the insalubrious district of Providence. The Cornucopian Crown's initiative had been to build a sector in the insular town for the migrants brought from Western Extremesia to work in the small port. After a couple of decades, the Spaniards bought off the small island for a handful of millions from the Queen of Cornucopia, and the construction work on the ghetto was abandoned to favour the assimilation of the Western Extremesians into the motley colonist population. The district had quickly turned into one of the harbour's most ill-famed slums, where contraband and criminality were the only consuls. Beneath the mess of slanted gutters, entangled cables of all thicknesses and light embroidered laundry drying in the crepuscule on the busy balloon and zeppelin backdrop, amidst the smoke drifting at all levels from holes in the ground to chimneys on uneven rooftops, the smell of the day's leftover fish, flour, rice, fresh paint, tasty stew and jasmine incense, the cheers of children in ragtag embroidered linen in bright tones of gold and purple, the ebb and flow of steam vehicles of two, three, four or six wooden or metal wheels, the cloaked figure navigated its way throughout the riffraff crowd.
Under that hood were too many strands of white through the curly ink-black mane, according to the stranger herself, a certain woman who went by the name of Mother Gothel. Holding tight to her cloak as she stepped over a sewer that happened to be full of baby pink paint from the nearby textile factory, she made her way into Wyvern's End. She eyed at the golden wristwatch carefully concealed under the lace frills of her dark scarlet dress. She was hardly early at all. She blamed the jetlag, that bloody jetlag. She wiped her sweaty palms against the dark fabric of her cape. Her heavy velvet dress and its tight corset were more adapted to the Cornucopian weather than the colonial one. Upon receiving news of the recent chaos, she had been forced to fly by herself to the New Continent to fix things. At least, those stupid Stabbingtons were alive. They had been seen trying to leave for Centralesia unnoticed through Providence. She had been in touch with them through a selected list of intermediaries. She had paid them to bring Rapunzel and Eugene safely to Jerome Corona in Plant Alpha, to give both of them a lesson of prudence. However, their zeppelin appeared to have crashed, and no trace was left of the heiress and her pretentious little suitor.
No trace was left until that morning, that was. An unknown source had reported the sighting of Miss Corona in the mainland, north of Providence. The note, inconspicuously introduced into the cotton handkerchief she had purchased in the port, suggested a meeting in Wyvern's End at sunset. Mother Gothel was well aware she was at her indicator's mercy. Alone in a foreign land, with nothing but the garb on her back and a purse at her belt, she was rather helpless… or so she would hope they believed she was.
"Good day, M'dam," called a voice in a thick Porcelanian accent.
She turned around to see a man of lean stature, bent over a soot-covered walking stick, his long and smooth black and gray beard dangling at each of his steps. Unkempt dark hair sprinkled with maddened silver streaks sprouted from his scalp, covering most of his face. His thin shape was concealed by a stained patchwork of loose cotton in pale tones of rose, blue and white, embroidered with vegetal and meteorological motifs. All she could see of him was, circled by cobweb-like wrinkles encrusted in dirt, a pair of intelligent green eyes staring right at her.
"Sir," she spoke simply. "I believe we have more guests."
And releasing a tiny spring-loaded blade from the delicate mechanism of her wristwatch, she slashed her own purse open, spilling a mass of golden coins onto the uneven stony ground and the dye-filled sewers. In the cacophony of Wyvern's End, such noise was hardly an event. Actually, it only attracted the attention of four ears that had been waiting for that very kind of sound. Four ears that reckoned themselves – or rather whatever was between the ears reckoned – as extremely well-trained at their jobs as mercenaries. So well-trained, in fact, that they had picked up that very morning the rumour that Mr. Fitzherbert was in Providence and meeting some matchmaker in Wyvern's End at sunset to arrange his wedding with Miss Corona before flying back to Cornucopia. They had even recognised his face on pamphlets raising a price for his head in the dirty alleyways of the Porcelanian district, despite the fact that his nose had been pictured comically deformed. Of course, they were far from knowing that the pinned pictures, hastily cut off the pages of some Wellis Pamphlet of Camford, and the discreetly spread gossip on Eugene's presence had been the doing of one person, no other than that cunning Mother Gothel. All that mattered for the rather deficient heads between those ears was that their sworn enemy, that common thief that believed himself a gentleman, that smoldering scum called Flynn Rider who had dared escaped them was there, for them to catch. No one knew better than them that Rider was a master at pickpocketing and pretense, such that they immediately intervened at the sound of scattered coins and offended screams.
The Stabbington brothers, to whom the four ears belonged, appeared around the corner and immediately spotted the bearded man before the robbed woman. Spotted with their three eyes, that was, for they had four ears and three eyes between both of them since Rapunzel had burned one of their irises with her Frying Pan of Doom. That left Not-Ernest with a black eyepatch, breaking the perfect symmetry between the twins, disfiguring the powerfully intricate machinery of the world and suddenly giving a mass to the universe. Fortunately, the Stabbingtons were too simple to worry about such existential concerns. Within seconds, they seized the old man by both arms and pinned him against the wet, greasy wall. They might not have been the most competent or intelligent henchmen, but the Gothel had to admit that their hatred for Mr. Fitzherbert made things much easier for her. Whatever the mysterious man looked like, she knew they would have attacked by professional reflex. Mercenaries were mercenaries; they did anything for a handful of coins and for grudges old and new.
"Let me go, I haven't –" begged the Porcelanian man.
"Think you can hide from us, Rider?" Ernie snapped in response, roughly yanking at his beard.
"Don't," intervened the matron before they had time to unmask him and realise he wasn't Eugene… or was he? "If other people recognise him and get him, the price of his head might escape us."
"What do you suggest we do?" asked the one-eyed Stabbington, as docile as a lamb.
So that there she was, with two mercenaries at her beg and call, holding her indicator in submission. She wasn't so helpless after all.
"There are a few questions I would guess both you and I want the answer to, and we know he has the answers," she said. "First, is Rapunzel Corona alive?"
"M'dam, she is, I saw her with my own eyes."
"Where is she?"
"In safety, in a cotton plant near Bartolomé. The Andersens took her under their wing. She is well-dressed and well-treated."
The Andersens of the Company of the Southern Isles? The rivals of Corona & Sons?
"How do you know that?"
"I work on the railroad that connects their plantation to the Weselton estate on the coast," he gasped, his emerald eyes full of fear. "I direct operations at the mainland end. I see Mr. Andersen nearly every day myself."
"What do they plan to do with her?"
"How should I know? Mr. Andersen doesn't talk about fair maidens with me…"
The Gothel's dark eyes gleamed menacingly. She held his life within her fine fingers. With a single glance, she ordered Not-Ernie to expand one of the many blades of his gauntlets, in a lethally precise game of cogs and pistons, and brandish it right beneath the man's pale throat.
"So, what do you have to give me? What use should I make of you?" she whispered, each syllable sounding like another knife resting upon his skin.
"M'dam, have mercy, I haven't…" he gasped in a weak breath.
"Yes, you have," she murmured in an even lower tone, as calm as the late summer air before the storm.
"I do, I have… I have lots of money!" he yelped, tossing an enormous ruby-studded ring onto the floor from his hand under his sleeve.
Both siblings stared dubitatively. That man they were threatening, whoever he was, was infinitely rich. Meanwhile, the woman had nothing more but the coins scattered across the floor. But then, they could pick up the trinket and just run away. Even though one ring was slightly small for two brothers.
They held grudges new and old, but they would do anything for a handful of golden coins. Mercenaries were mercenaries.
"And that's nothing, there's a lot more on my zeppelin at the quay! Put that blade away and I'll take you there."
The three eyes consulted each other. In an instant, the brothers let go of the frail man who heavily fell into the dirt. As he painfully helped himself up with his walking stick, the Stabbingtons positioned themselves behind him on either side, as if to protect him. Heavens be damned, that Porcelanian-sounding man had outsmarted her and deprived her of her henchmen. She would have to do with it. She would have to do with him. For there was no good, no evil, and if she chose to they could well be on the same side. She liked the idea.
"So, Mister Lots-Of-Money, what are your plans?"
"Peace," he spat. "In times of peace people ride ironhorses, and my job is useful. In times of war, they melt the steel to make weapons, so I've got no work and no money."
"The Coronas and DunBrochs attacked the Company of the Southern Isles and all businesses that depend on them. The gears of allegiances and alliances are turning, and the Colonies are at war. How do you suggest bringing back peace?"
"Use Miss Corona as a bargaining token. I can convince the Andersens to reveal she's alive for her father, and propose a cease-fire in exchange for her freedom."
"You want her to be a hostage, for real this time," she understood.
"No violence will be used on her. One of my… many sources, which I bought with the ludicrous amounts of money I have, reported that you were close to Mr. Jerome Corona himself. He will trust you if you persuade him to accept the peace."
"Is that all?"
"Aye, M'dam."
It sounded so simple it could actually work. She would have her Rapunzel back and her father's trust back for bringing his daughter home and killing the conflict in the womb. Maybe she would obtain even more from Mr. Corona, or so she hoped. And that mysterious railroad worker attempting to bargain with her would get his business to flourish. She knew she could hardly trust him. She knew her was hiding something behind that silvery beard and inside those clever eyes. However, there was no right, no wrong, just many tones of compromise.
"If you need me, I have my conditions. First, you will give me a proof that Rapunzel is alive and with you. I want a letter from her own hand signed by the date of tomorrow, starting with the words 'dearest mother', I can recognise her handwriting. Second, you will give me a zeppelin to fly to Plant Alpha and make sure we are allowed in. Seeing that all the DunBroch mercenaries are away wreaking havoc at the Weselton Exposition, that shouldn't be hard. Third, those two Stabbingtons are mine. You will pay them to come with me as bodyguards, and no one else will be with us. I don't want to be publically associated with any of your men. Am I clear?"
"M'dam, that's fine, but right now these come with me," he said, gesturing at the sibling mercenaries. "A room has been booked for you at the inn above the carpet shop, south of the docks. They'll come tomorrow at dawn collect you with their own zeppelin and unaccompanied. Good night, m'dam."
Before she had time to respond, he vanished into the labyrinth of sinister streets, both Stabbingtons following in his steps. She hardly knew the area at all well enough to be able to follow them. Slowly, she bent down to collect her coins, one by one, in the ashes and the paint. Oh, that taste of bittersweet victory. On the one hand, Rapunzel was alive; she knew her new associates would not be able to lie to her on that since she had requested proof. She would bring her back with the peace. All she had to do was speak to a man who already yearned for her presence and the sound of her voice. On the other hand, she was working with an individual whose motives were more concealed than she would have liked, with a powerful organisation, a pitiless engine grinding its cogs and gears in darkness, ready to shred her to bits once it was done with her. And there was little she could do about it. They already had Rapunzel, her Rapunzel.
Her own little Rapunzel.
Her own blonde little girl with clumsy feet, artist's hands and a way with constellite. After all those years looking after her in exchange for the protection of her father, she had to admit she had gotten to care about her. Oh, all those who dwelled around Rapunzel fell victim to that same curse. Flynn, Ella, her parents and even herself, the good old Gothel. Like automatons in a carrousel, they rotated until their heads spun and their little clockwork parts move up and down obliviously. They danced around her in the golden light until all they could see was her, Rapunzel everywhere, Rapunzel endlessly. There she was, and there they were all meant to be. The heiress was so… innocent. Not that she was pure in body or mind, the Gothel knew her well enough to recognise the selfish destructiveness that clouded her large green eyes like summer storms. But Rapunzel had a lifetime before her, a future clear from stains and shadows, and the destiny inside her being was still a blank page. She had so much potential, that little Punz, and that was what attracted all of them towards her like electrons in constellite excited by sunlight. She was a universe of possibilities of her own, and Mother Gothel could not wait to seize it and sculpt it after her own image.
Oh, and even the Crown of Cornucopia, the most powerful empire in the known world, called for the heiress of Crownsworth. A letter from a certain viceroy had reached the Camford manor a day earlier. Oh well, the Gothel was too busy to deal with that, but at least she had some idea.
Meanwhile, the Stabbington twins followed the Porcelanian man through the streets of Providence. The port was a messy patchwork of districts, colourful slums separated from high-walled bourgeois residences by makeshift terra cotta barriers covered in different tones of ochre tiles, as well-aligned as kernels in an ear of corn. The temple to the Man on the Moon, standing proud with its pale lunar domes and its fractal spires backlit by the crepuscule, was buzzing with whispers from the evening masses and markets. Modestly the adepts of the Man in the Sky made their way in between the black and white columns to reach that one ornate alcove dedicated to their god, forever ignorant of whether both celestial figures had ever been distinct. Regardless of who they worshipped, the falling sunlight and the rising starlight descended over all, enveloping the harbour in a mysterious haze of purple.
Eventually, they reached the zeppelin port that lay opposite the docks. Gangly towers of wood and steel sprouted from the jetties into the sky, carrying busy platforms covered in travellers and tradesmen, rotund hot air balloons and dirigibles of all sizes and sigils anchored onto them, slowly oscillating with the winds and the nocturnal tides. Gutters spat silver steam, constellite warily glittered, helices quietly spun and gears repetitively scurried the one against the other. Amongst the late evening agitation was a small, battered zeppelin with a half-faded crest on its flank. Following their guide, the twins jumped aboard a wicker lift cabin, elevated by emancipated slaves through a solid system of pulleys. As soon as they reached the level of the man's airship, a small dark-skinned servant ran to greet them on the deck, garbed in loose sepia linen and a white cap. The bearded old man simply gestured with his cane, causing him to run inside and come back with a large purse full of gold for each of the siblings.
"I almost forgot," said the Porcelanian with a tone almost too casual for a tradesman of his rank, before handing out the payment.
And before anyone had time to react, he knocked one of the heavy money bags onto Ernest's foot. With a yelp, the mercenary leaned onto the lift's door to catch his balance. The bearded man swiveled it open, using his walking stick as a lever. The Stabbington fell through into the port's shallow waters with another scream. His brother lunged at him, but he was too slow against the old man's fluid attacks and solid defense. An iron fist met his chest. A slipper-wearing foot hit his knee. A palm closed onto his wrist with a sickening crunch. He could not even catch his adversary. Releasing him, the Porcelanian man stepped aside to let him tumble into the lift, drew a blade concealed somewhere on his outfit to slice off the cabin's rope tie and let him tumble to join his twin into the sea. He caught the first purse with the tip of his slipper just before it was about to fall.
"Mr. Stabbington, Mr. Stabbington, a new zeppelin exactly identical to your old one will get you here tomorrow. Have a restful night!" he called from above with a mockingly courteous gesture of his cane.
The mercenaries, desperately clinging to the floating wicker basket, watched as he disappeared, engulfed by his helium-filled vessel. Promptly dismissing his lackey, he gave a heavy sigh. At that point, he sarcastically reflected that what he was about to do appeared as a stereotypical villainous action, but the heat was just unbearable in the tropical weather. Relief filled his sweaty pores as he discarded his heavy wig.
Fun fact: [in-universe history] Providence was the first island discovered by the Queen of Cornucopia's corsairs. The archipelago, originally thought to be the easternmost end of the Continent of Extremesia, was called the Southern Isles of Eastern Extremesia (where Porcelanie and Rosalba are both part of Western Extremesia). Even though this land was later revealed to be part of a new continent, the names remained, such as that of the Company of the Southern Isles. [/in-universe history] That creepy squeak is just crepe-y (where crepe is the long-term deformation that makes iron gutters sag, amongst other things). Of course, you can have a guess on who that guy wearing a wig is… wait, do I know that? (I think I do... wait...) Tell me in the reviews!
Announcement: I am currently interning, which means three things. One, I have more time to write than previously, but I'm not home that often and also try to spend time with actual real life people (yes, for real), so expect one or two chapters a week. I have most of this fic plotted out now. Mostly. Two, I live somewhere where I have access to that amazing piece of technology called a scanner, so brace yourselves for sketches of characters in costumes! That is, if I get around to doing the scanning, the editing and the colouring… right. They may well be linked to on my profile, I'll see about that. Three, I want to finish this story. To be honest, I never finished off any serious writing project I'm doing on my own, and I really do want to write this till the end. I plan to get it done around September-ish, which means that most my other fics will likely be on hold until then… unless my inspiration betrays me. Okay, please R&R, F&F, constructively comment, stay awesome xxx