Seven:
Dead End

Rain pattered gently against the windows, but inside the parlour it was warm. Biscuits and pastries sat out on decorative plates—more than enough sweets for just the two of them. They were taking tea inside this morning; a necessity due to the rain. She didn't really mind, though. The small room was cosy and pleasant and it was something she'd desperately missed as of late. She carefully stirred her tea and brought the cup to her lips. Hot and sweet.

"You appear to be adjusting to the responsibility well enough," Logan observed. He was reading, attempting to look focused and dignified. It didn't work. He merely looked tired and vaguely annoyed.

Victoria carefully set down her cup. "Does it look that way? I feel like I'm struggling not to drown most days. How did you do it?"

He gave her a sardonic smile. "I didn't. You are aware of that as much as I am, sister. They called me a tyrant and sent you to dethrone me."

"Logan…you know that's not what I meant."

They fell silent—Victoria returning to her tea as Logan returned to his book. The flowers filling the fireplace looked bright and cheerful against the pale walls and the entire room smelled sweet with their fragrance. Outside, in the gardens, the world was obscured by a veil of mist. Everything about this room felt familiar and comfortable; though…the more she tried to think on it, she couldn't remember having ever been here before.

Taking a deep breath, she finally murmured, "It's frustrating at times. They push me and push me…sometimes I think they want me to turn against them. To make things horrible, because they just don't know when to stop."

"And still you love them, regardless of what they may do."

She stared at him, searching for mockery or spite and finding nothing but a distant pain. "So much. I think I understand now why you did what you did. Looking at Albion, I…there is nothing I wouldn't do to protect them. I would die, kill, to preserve them."

Logan's expression softened as though he didn't know how to take this. After a moment he replied: "No matter what you do, it will always be thankless."

"I know. But I don't need their thanks. That's not why I help."

They were silent once more. The rain had slowed, no longer audible but for the occasional tap. The doors to the gardens were open, though she couldn't say they had been a moment ago. Curious, she set her cup down and rose to her feet. The train of her gown whispered against the plush carpets as she made her way to the doors. Beyond them was a pale world; the mist unmoving, everything featureless.

"Victoria?" He waited until she turned to look at him before offering, "You will do better than I have."

She smiled. "I'll be back in a moment."

As she crossed the threshold into the gardens she heard him say: "No, you won't."

Confused, she turned back to ask what he meant and found the room was gone. She was surrounded by nothing but a haze.

"Hello?" she called out. A buzzing like hundreds of whispering voices reached her ears, but she couldn't understand any of them. She started walking, utterly lost. Pale bursts of colour littered the ground, but, otherwise, there was nothing.

And then, in the midst of all that nothingness, she heard it: a slow, thoughtful voice attempting to break through the whispers. She strained her ears but all she heard was "Black?" echoing through the abyss.

"I can't hear you!" she called.

"…of Black?"

Was someone else here? Wandering this place? She started forward and almost immediately stopped. Where was she supposed to look? Was there even anywhere to hide in so much nothingness? With a sigh, she turned back the way she came. A shadow reared up, lunging for her. Surrounding her, suffocating her in the darkness. She had to fight—

Victoria awoke abruptly, immediately sitting up. She was on the floor of a dark, dusty room. The only light came from a candle on a nearby…crate? Where was she? She remembered trees…balverines…running…and then, nothing. How had she gotten here?

We live to endure once more, the Crawler grumbled, not at all sounding pleased.

We do. She reached down to feel her side. The flesh was still tender, sensitive to pressure, but it was mostly healed. Did I take a potion…?

"Finally awake, I see," a dry voice cut in sounding no more pleased than the Crawler had.

Victoria turned to find Reaver seated just out of range of the candlelight, leaning his head back against the chipped plaster wall. His long limbs sprawled out as though he were a child in time out. She stared at him a long moment, trying to find her voice.

"I…did you save me?" she blurted out, internally cringing. Brilliant, yeah.

"And found us a charming hovel to recuperate in. Isn't it lovely?"

"At least it's safe from balverines…for now." She slowly dragged herself to her feet and dusted off her trousers. The room was a cellar, that much she could ascertain. Barrels, bottles, and sacks sat everywhere and the air was heavy with the scent of dust and soured wine. She was fairly certain the mushrooms clinging to one of the walls weren't supposed to be there, but she wasn't about to bring that up. "Are we…erm…."

"In Mary Godwin's cellar? I certainly hope so, for I don't know where else we might be."

She nodded absently. It almost felt like she should say something. Thank him, perhaps, for not leaving her to die. Or for getting them into the manor. At the same time, she didn't want him to assume her gratitude meant her forgiveness. Just because he had been unprecedentedly kind did not mean she had to absolve him of his other sins. Staring at a spider web, she awkwardly cleared her throat and muttered, "We should continue with the quest."

Reaver didn't immediately react, but he slowly got to his feet and together they found the cellar's exit.

Gas lamps lined the hall, filling the corridor with dim light. Victoria's gut clenched. Someone knew they were here, alright. Were they waiting for them? Preparing to attack? They passed through a boiler room—the furnaces silent and cold—and up the tiled stairs.

"How are you planning to handle Godwin? I don't think knocking her down and talking to her is going to work this time."

The coldness of his tone gave her pause and Victoria frowned. "I don't know. I'll have to see what she has hiding here first."

They entered a long-disused dining room. Cobwebs stretched from the broken crystal chandelier like gauzy banners. Dirty plates and empty bottles lay on every surface. Victoria felt herself cringe—it smelled like rot and decay. Dead things and dust. The floorboards creaked with every step. The walls of the next hallway were lined with portraits of the former estate owners, all of them strange and macabre. An elderly woman with antlers sat across from a middle-aged man with decidedly rabbit-like features. At the end of the hall sat the most ordinary looking of the group; a dark haired, tattooed woman with a sly smile. Is that Mary? she wondered, pausing to look at it.

She fades like butterflies in the cold. The words were accompanied by the mental image of the woman shattering, exploding into a cloud of butterflies that promptly died.

I…really didn't need to think about that right now, thank you, she replied.

Victoria pushed open the doors to the next room and immediately froze. The floor was covered with piles of sleeping hobbes. It looked like they'd been having a party. Paper streamers and confetti blanketed everything, clinging to spider webs and giving the appearance of being frozen in mid-air. All the furniture had either been destroyed or overturned. Glasses and bottles lay shattered or on their sides, contents spilling over the floor. The overwhelming stench of sweat and cheap, stale beer was almost worse than the decay of the rest of the house.

"That's a lot of hobbes," Victoria whispered. Hobbes hadn't seemed threatening in…a very long time, to be quite honest. They were small and fast, but they were more dangerous when they attacked someone unprepared. "It'll waste a lot of time fighting them."

"Why do we have to fight them? They're drunk, unconscious. I doubt much will wake them."

She half-shrugged. "If you think we can risk it, fine. I'll follow you."

Reaver tsked and slunk forward, winding his way between the sleeping piles with ease. A few hobbes had sprawled into the path, making it impossible to get through without stepping on them and Victoria drove her knives into each of their skulls. With bated breath and a pounding heart, they finally reached the door out.

Reaver had barely put his hand on the doorknob when a loud sound rang out. It took Victoria a moment to realise that someone was counting.

"Each time you touch my gills, it gives me fishy chills. And when you touch my scales, my little fishy heart fails," a man was singing in an over-done falsetto.

Confused, they both exchanged disbelieving looks as the song continued. Victoria turned her gaze up and scowled. "Oh, you must be joking."

A trout was mounted above the door, flapping its tail and moving its head, and that, she realised, was where the horrible singing was coming from.

"We have bigger concerns than a fish," Reaver warned.

Victoria looked down to find the hobbes that were still living were waking up, stumbling around and grumbling. At the sight of the intruders, one of them began shrieking gibberish to its companions and soon they were all shrieking and running towards them. Right, new plan. Kill them all.

A hobbe had leapt off one of the overturned couches, mostly-empty bottle raised like a club as it flew through the air, and, not a moment later, Reaver had shot it out of the air. Victoria had started to charge a spell and felt a burst of pain sear through her veins as she cut power to it. Can't use fire; there's enough liquor here to set the house ablaze. A pair of hobbes were running at her, dinner forks held aloft like spears. Victoria kicked at a table leg, breaking it off, and batted both hobbes across the room as if they were toys. Three down, thirty to go.

She gathered her Will once more, feeling the air around her grow cold and crisp. Pushing towards the hobbes running towards her, a wave of frost burst from her hands, cascading over the small creatures. Within seconds, they were frozen solid. A bullet each from Reaver sent them exploding into bits of icy flesh and bone. Victoria hopped away from an attempt to hit her in the knees with a nailed piece of wood, flinging a burst of frost at the ground beneath the hobbe. It flew upwards a short distance and another burst of frost froze it solid. A small group of larger hobbes had been creeping forward, pots and strainers on their heads like helmets. The frost wasn't working so well against them and, she quickly realised, was making the floor hard to manoeuvre on. She summoned a cloud of spectral blades instead, unleashing them upon the hobbes as she drew her knives. Soon enough, she was burying her blades in the final hobbe's skull. The battle couldn't have lasted more than five minutes.

Victoria tugged her knife free and wiped it on the hobbe's clothing.

"This thing is ghastly," she heard Reaver complain and she looked up to find him staring up at the now silent trout. "I almost want it for myself."

She repressed a snort, sheathing her knife, and hurried past him. "Come on, we're getting close."

The words had barely left her lips—and she had barely crossed the threshold into the next room—when the doors slammed shut behind her. She tried to open them, but the lock stuck fast. From the other side of the door, she heard Reaver pound on the door. A moment later she could hear him messing with the lock.

"I believe I can get it open!" he called.

She sighed, pressing against the door. It felt…unprecedentedly sturdy. Reinforced, then? It seemed likely. Damn, she thought, cursing their foolishness for allowing them to get caught in a trap. She should have known…should have been prepared. Sighing once more, she replied, "No, I've seen you pick locks before."

"...what's that meant to mean?"

The memory of him spending an hour trying to get one of his own lockboxes open after he'd accidentally dropped the key into a drain—a drain that flowed directly into the Bower River—immediately came to mind. He'd spent the entire time cursing and snapping that he knew what he was doing, thank you very much and she had tried desperately not to dissolve into giggles. Choking back a laugh, she called back: "Nothing!"

"I can pick locks perfectly well, Victoria, thank you very much!" he snapped defensively.

This time she couldn't help herself and a snicker forced its way out. Trying to compose herself, she said, "Listen to me: I need you to go find Milton. He's probably still wandering about out there and he might have encountered the balverines. I don't like it, but we need him alive. I'll go on and find Ms. Godwin. Meet me at the docks."

"That's a terrible plan. You're likely to be outnumbered and you're still injured."

"I'll manage. I always do. I'll see you both at the docks soon."

She didn't wait for him to refute her and plunged deeper into the room. The floor was earthen and coffins were piled around the edges of the room. She almost expected hollow men to burst out of the ground at any moment. When no attacks were forthcoming, she crept deeper into the house. Filth lay piled at the edges of the halls; the paintings on the walls were heavily caked with grime. Laboratory equipment greeted her in several rooms. This place feels like a crypt.

What will you do about the witch? The thief is correct. You are not fit to fight her.

"That's where you come in," she replied aloud, if only to hear something in the dead silence.

Why would we assist you?

"You already have, haven't you? I…it's blurry, but I remember to a degree. You did something. That means you can do it again. Like it or not, no matter how much you fight me, you need me to live."

No.

"Is that your final answer?"

You mistake our ability.

She stopped walking, realisation crashing against her like waves against a cliff. You…you're weak. Drained. She'd had no idea. Absolutely none that the Crawler had been so powerless.

Do not—

You are! Let me guess, you've been using the backwash of my Will to replenish your power enough to attack me.

No, it replied bitterly. Your magic is wasted on us.

And if I linked our powers?

It stayed silent, contemplative. Victoria started walking again. She knew it was unlikely she would ever do so, but knowing if it was an option appealed to her…even if it was only a last resort. A resort she hoped Reaver would shoot her after if she had to use it.

We would not be stopped, it finally replied as she started down a cramped staircase.

The rush those words triggered was odd and she was uncertain whether it was excitement or dread…or even her own emotions. She shook it off, trying to pull herself back together. Ms. Godwin was somewhere up ahead. She needed to be prepared.

The hallway opened up to an underground cavern. In the dim light it was hard to see, but it had been sectioned off into small platforms. Stalactites and stalagmites fought for space alongside scientific equipment and man-sized tanks. Victoria crept up to the nearest one, trying to avoid the puddles of mystery liquid on the ground.

The brass bars wrapping around the tank had been rent open, glass shattered. Whatever had been inside was long gone. Tracing the scratches gouged deeply into the metal, she wondered if the poison balverines had come from here. Had something drawn them from here and sent them to the generator? Had Ms. Godwin instructed them to attack or had they done so of their own free will? She took a deep breath and slipped onwards. More empty tanks met her gaze and all the equipment was silent. Or…most of it. Far ahead, she heard the faint hum of electricity and the clunks and clatters of running machinery.

Victoria broke into a run, not bothering to hide her presence. She met no resistance and only slowed as she mounted a new set of stairs. She'd just crested the penultimate staircase when the last section of the laboratory was revealed to her. Amidst the equipment, a balverine, hollow man, and hobbe were all strapped into shock chairs. Victoria couldn't tell if they were alive or not. A shabbily dressed dark-haired woman stood beside a workstation, raising a bottle to her lips with a grimace.

"Ms. Godwin, wait!" Victoria shouted.

Too late. Godwin had downed the bottle's contents. It slipped from her fingers, smashing on the floor. Godwin followed it. And then the screaming started. Screaming as though she were being tortured—as though her skin were being burned and flayed. And, as she screamed, she changed. Skin greying and ears lengthening like a hobbes before fading to normal. Long, wiry balverine-like hair sprouting in patches and then receding. Muscles shrinking, vanishing until her skin clung tightly to her bones before the process reversed.

Victoria stood there in horror. She didn't know what to do. Would a health potion help or would it clash with whatever Ms. Godwin had taken? What could she do to make it stop? In the end, there was nothing to do but stay and wait until the screaming stopped.

There were no words for the expressions Reaver and Milton both wore when, the sun beginning to rise red over the sea, she finally re-joined them at the docks. Both of them looked unharmed, but Milton seemed blank with disbelief and Reaver had gone cold once more. Victoria refused to let either of them assist her. She'd carried Godwin's unconscious body back through the manor and gardens. Nothing had attacked them, though she'd felt eyes on her all the while. Milton had asked what she planned to do next, but all she'd been able to say was that Ms. Godwin deserved a chance to defend her actions. She had no idea if he approved or not, but she didn't care; she'd continued on and found a place for Ms. Godwin to rest for the journey.

Now, with nothing left to do, Victoria found herself standing on deck—head in her hands and exhaustion in her limbs. Sleep…sleep sounded so good. But she also needed to get her thoughts in order. Needed to prepare for the questions that would come. But what could she do? Was there even a point to defending against questions that weren't going to change her opinion anyway?

She looked up to find Reaver leaning against the safety rail, frowning like she'd just committed a serious breach of decorum. Ignoring her tired stare, he declared, "We need to talk."

"I really don't think we do."

He ignored her proclamation. "Are you really intending to just…let them go?"

Though she knew it would eventually be asked, Victoria hadn't expected the question to come so soon. She frowned, staring out over the waves, and wished he hadn't asked. She bit back a sigh. Perhaps if she ignored him, he'd go away. Give her some time to think. To formulate a strong, convincing argument for when the rest of the court challenged her for the decision.

"Victoria," Reaver huffed, taking hold of her chin and forcing her to look at him. "We may not see eye to eye on how to rule your country, ma petite reine, but they are dangerous. They have attempted to kill you. Perhaps I can, to a degree, understand sparing Ernest, but Godwin? Pray tell, are you going to do the same for Turner? Are you just going to give him a slap on the wrist and tell him not to do it again and then let him go? You seem to be underestimating the amount of risk you're dealing with right now."

She bristled, feeling her Will pulse in response. How dare he, after everything he had put her through, lecture her on the dangers of other people. She was aware that keeping Mr. Faraday and Ms. Godwin alive didn't come without risk, but that was the entire reason she wanted to speak with them when they were in a clearer state of mind. If a deal could be struck…or if she could make them see that she wasn't her brother, then she didn't want to pass up that opportunity. She was aware Turner was going to be another thing entirely. His mind was set and he probably wouldn't want to listen to her, but that didn't mean she wouldn't try to help him understand. She had to try, because the opposite was tyranny. But Reaver? No, he had no right to question her motives. He'd given up that right a long time ago. She slapped away his hand, scowling. "Why do I owe you answers when you never give me any yourself? If Professor Faraday and Ms. Godwin are so dangerous, then what does that make you?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you, Reaver." Victoria straightened up, unflinchingly meeting his eyes. "You want to talk about dangers to me, but they've only transgressed once. So what of you? How many times have you threatened civilians or people who work with me? How many times have you and your friends opposed my attempts to help people?" She stepped closer, repressing the urge to shove him. "While we're on the subject of things that are a danger to me, why don't we discuss how you helped a warlord temporarily gain power because it was amusing? Or, better yet, let's talk about Elizabeth!"

He scoffed, momentarily glancing away from her as he frustratedly rolled his shoulders. "I thought we agreed we weren't going to discuss Elizabeth."

"No," she snapped, jabbing a finger at him. "You decided we weren't going to talk about her, I was just there. Which is another issue entirely! You act like you care—like you have some stake in my life, but you don't. The only person you care about is yourself. Me, my cousin, my country, we're just background details in the play you think your life is! But we're not. You might treat this like it's not real, but it is. So the next time you think you have some sort of high ground to order me around, you might want to keep in mind that the only threat I've had to constantly face these last two years came almost exclusively from you! If you want to start questioning why someone is being granted clemency for their sins, then maybe you should start by asking why I let you walk free despite yours."

Reaver's lips had curled into an unpleasant grimace, as though he'd been force to swallow something bitter. He tsked, trying and failing to appear dismissive, and replied, "Please, Your Majesty, we both know you only keep me near because you want me."

Oh. Why did that hurt? He'd insinuated the same thing before they left Bowerstone, but she'd been too distracted to think on it. Now, however, it almost felt like he'd slapped her. They were close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek. And it suddenly struck home that he was right. Oh, Avo, he's right. Knowing that wasn't supposed to hurt, was it? She couldn't name the emotion ripping into her heart, and she quickly averted her gaze. She felt…odd. Emotions and memories clashing with logic and reason. She had the sudden, inexplicable desire to run her fingers through his hair.

"You're right," she finally said, throat tight and uncomfortable. "I do want you…"

She leaned in, pressing her lips to his before he could reply. She could feel his surprise in the hesitancy with which he responded, light and gentle like he wasn't certain this was happening. And her anger wasn't gone, just simmering under a crushing wave of something she didn't understand. She wanted to understand, to fall into him and drown in answers, but there was none. And she pulled away feeling unsatisfied and…it still hurt.

"…but I don't need you," she finished, unsure if she was trying to convince herself or him.

Reaver flinched as though she'd slapped him. Unfortunately for her, he recovered quickly…and whatever might have happened in that moment was lost. "Regardless of whether or not you need me, that changes nothing. They are dangerous. And you want to…what? Reintegrate them into society? And what happens, your majesty, when they start yet another coup against you? What happens when you wake up one morning to a gun against your head and a revolutionary that will hear none of your promises of change?"

She stared at him a long moment; shame had stolen her voice but anger was demanding her to speak. Even if it was only to keep the lump in her throat from becoming embarrassing tears. "Do you know what I think, Reaver? I think you want everyone to be evil. I think you want everyone to be corrupt and without morals. I think that's what you need. But the fact of the matter is it's just you. I don't know what the world has done to you to make you like this, but you allowed it to happen. You took everything and, instead of learning from it, you let it change you and turn you into something twisted. It was no one's fault but your own. People make their own fate. And Professor Faraday and Ms. Godwin? They still have a choice. I still have a choice. Judge us all as you will, but the only person you're angry at is yourself."

She turned away, trying to force herself to calm down. But, as she ducked below deck, she couldn't decide what was worse her anger or her pity as he murmured, almost too low for her to hear, "Lies."

AN: Why do I even give them a script if they're just gonna turn around and stab me in the heart? I should have mentioned this last week, but I've got a Labyrinth AU for Fable up on my Ao3 account if anyone's interested in reading it. It'll be much darker (probably) than SA. As usual, reviews are appreciated. Cheers.

Dev. Notes: Special thanks to Emily (pouncethehunter on tumblr/ misunfortunatehero on Ao3) for the use of Elizabeth; hopefully Lizzie will be back one day. Victoria has...a lot of cousins. You met Rowan in MoI and her twin, Pierce, was briefly mentioned there (and possibly here? I don't recall, atm) and her elder brother, Alex, was briefly mentioned, not by name, back in chapter one of DoV. Lizzie's another cousin, though not related directly to the Mulches. Great Avo, why is this family so big when most of it's dead? Don't look to me for answers, those notes aren't here. -shrugs-