Summary: A desperate monarch makes a pact with another king that will one day force him to give his headstrong daughter to the king's harsh son. Within the castle walls lay many secrets, including a deadly curse with one year to break. Let the fairytale begin.

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Chapter Sixteen

"A war, Your Highness?" Edmund asked, disbelief coloring his tone. The other eleven men stood, shock still, as they waited for the queen's answer.

The immortal group had found themselves in this position many times before; after living for thirteen generations, war was a commonplace event in their lives. And eventually, the battle-hardened individuals actually learned to take it in stride. Usually the wars were brief skirmishes over land, wealth, stolen princess, etc. etc., but never before had a war over an individual occurred. Well, at least not since the Greeck war of Troy—but that had been empires ago.

The men knew that something dire had taken place in the castle. They were never unaware of what was happening under that roof, with the exception of the meeting of the monarchs. The queen had ordered them to stay put in their own quarters and not interfere. To put it mildly, the councilmen were disgruntled, but she was their sovereign and they obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

Now as the dust cleared and the other royalty were gone, the councilmen were left in a sea of confusion. Less than an hour after Cesario dragged his court and children away, Marguerite called a meeting to explain to her advisers what had taken place.

"All of them?" Franklin's voice trembled a moment when Marguerite told them about the departures of all of the princesses and ladies. "All of them are gone? They all were dragged away by their families?"

Marguerite's eyes hardened a moment. "Yes," she said briefly. "Most of them fainted in horror at the news. One of them- a Lady Keleigh- apparently was so distraught at the news that she left immediately, leaving naught by a note behind."

"But a war, Your Majesty?" Edmund repeated.

Marguerite sighed. "Gentlemen, as selfish as this is, I am only a mother. No longer am I a wife, and despite my title, Derek has been running this kingdom for a while now; no longer am I a queen. The only thing I have left is my maternal instincts; Derek is all I have left. Going to war for him is not even an option in my opinion. There are people out there who want to kill my son, and I will not have it so. You can disagree with me on this, but this war is not just about Derek, it is about all of those who are different and cursed with situations they cannot control. If we cannot fight this battle in the name of them, we have done a disservice to our people."

"My lady," chuckled Franklin, "that is a manipulation of the truth if I have ever head one. This war is for Derek and solely Derek."

"Perhaps I am manipulating the truth," conceded Marguerite. "But it is Derek's situation that can be fought over, can it not? And his situation is no different than the man who broke his leg cutting down timber or the helpless woman with child who can hardly move about the house; in time their situations can be improved, but without any help or guidance they cannot survive on their own. And if that is a manipulation of the truth, so be it; whatever the public needs to hear in order to fight in this war for me. If they do that, I will do whatever I can in return to help them." It had been a long week for the queen, and it was as if finally she had regained her old sense of leadership and strength.

"My lady," said Gregory, "you are certainly a unique species of woman."

Not at all offended by this comment, Marguerite gave her advisor a cat-like smile. "Thank you, Gregory," she said. "Now," she addressed the rest of her group. "Does anybody have any idea where to begin in the upcoming war preparations?"

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"We don't have the funds for this."

"Or the men."

"Or the funds!"

"Or the weapons."

"Or the funds!"

"Yes, godammit, Percutio, I realize that we have no funds!" roared Cesario. "But does it look like I care? Gentlemen, the honor of Italle at stake."

Percutio, Benvolio, and Iago, Cesario's chief advisors, of finance, militia, and population, respectively, glanced at each other. Although they greatly respected the king, ever since the last war, they feared greatly for his sanity. The obsessive lengths he went to protect his daughters were admirable, though rather frightening.

"I'm not backing down on this," snarled Cesario. "We need to get rid of the monster that plagues Fraanc!"

"With all due respect," drawled Iago, "Prince Derek is Fraanc's problem, is he not? I understand that he and Princess Cecilia claim to be in love, but why not just separate them? Is a war really necessary?"

"It is!" His vehemence seemed to echo throughout the room.

It was fall, then, and it was bitterly cold already, from the weather and the tension. The return to the castle was quiet, subdued. Cecilia said not a word the entire trip, not to him, anyway. The only thing he saw her do was pet that damn pup of hers, and while Cesario was tempted to throw the thing out the carriage window, he was hypocritically aware of a line he was not to cross. Despite Cecilia's silence, Cesario assumed soon she would forget about Derek, her child's love fading with it. But it had been two months, and she neither forgave nor forgot the events that took place in Fraanc.

It was mid-September, and instead of delighting in its jewel-tone leaves, crisp sunshine, and wine festivals, the castle took on a dreary, wary air. The people knew something was going to happen. The stiff airs of the castle servants and guards gave it away, made people whisper and titter and be frightened. Cecilia couldn't stand it. She hated the thought of her people suffering any shape or form. And she hated the thought that it was because of her.

Cecilia hated the thought of placing the true blame upon her father, but there it was. There was no need for a war. If he would just stop being so narrow-minded, perhaps the issue would be settled. He had acted to tactlessly and irresponsibly she briefly wondered if perhaps he and Derek wouldn't get along after all.

But mayhap that was the problem. Two beings, so pig-headed and headstrong, seemed destined to dislike each other.

"I tell you, gentlemen, this war is going to happen whether I get your permission or not!"

"The Fraanc army is very well trained, milord. The only way I can see us having any sort of a chance in this war is if we have even more powerful allies," Benvolio reasoned with a grim set to his face.

"Oh," Cesario said, a ghastly, inhuman grin trailing up his face, "I can take care of that, I should think."

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To Lord Adrian:

I cannot thank you enough for your services in revealing the true nature of Fraanc's Crown Prince; you saved me from the heartache I would have suffered from losing my eldest daughter, Cecilia, to that monster.

That being said, I have a proposition for you. I feel it only right that you help me finish what you so generously began in eliminating the threat of Prince Derek once and for all.

My proposition is simple: an alliance. An alliance of funds, loyal men, and weaponry. I realize that your liege may be supporting Derek, but do not think you are committing treason. Your king, though a generous ruler, is, I think, blinded by Derek just as my Cecilia is. I feel that we would be acting with everyone's best interests in mind, even if they do not appreciate it at the time.

Whether you accept or not, I would prefer your reply come back through the same hands that deliver this letter. I am wary of the many spies that Marguerite and Derek may have released.

Should you accept, we will discuss the details at a later date. The time and place will be, of course, at your own convenience.

In short, I hope you will consider this letter and accept the offer. You are a good man, Lord Adrian, and I feel that we could accomplish something great together.

Sincerely,

King Cesario of Italle

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Derek—

While I was researching some things in the library yesterday afternoon, I came across some interesting information about one of my subjects which I think you, too, will find intriguing. Sending it to you would be too hazardous. May I come for a visit?

Tristàn

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Your Highness,

I accept your offer. Let us meet in my manor in two weeks, if that is acceptable for you. I agree entirely with your sentiments and feel that this would be a good opportunity to meet, as the king has been called away on an emergency meeting, or so my sources say.

Your humble ally,

Lord Adrian

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Tristàn—

Of course. Come quickly. I have a bad feeling you're right.

Derek

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The eve of winter found Derek standing miserably at a large paneled window. Tristàn was due to arrive that night and everything was ready for him, so all there was to do was wait. And so he did, with his back ramrod straight, his legs spread to the width of his shoulders, his wrists clasped behind his back. Although the inner wolf in him urged Derek to pace around the room, implored him to move or do something, Derek could not move. Unseeing eyes watched a light snow begin to descend upon the small village below, as fireplace smoke rose up, fighting its way through the impending snowflakes to be seen, to ascend into the crisp night.

There were only a few months left until his birthday and Derek felt as though nothing was meant to go the way it was supposed to. He had never anticipated finding his True One, and now that he had, he had foolishly thought that things would be easy for them. How wrong he was!

He was tempted to give up, to quit—but then he thought of Cecilia. She was something worth fighting for. And besides, he had promised her that he would come. And he would do well on his promise.

"Your Highness," came Priscilla's voice. "His Majesty King Tristàn of Spainne is here."

"Thank you, Priscilla," he responded without turning around. Focusing his eyes, Derek saw the carriages of Spainne. While he expected perhaps one or two, he was vastly surprised to see at least five.

"Good God," muttered Derek. "What the hell did Tris bring, a library?"

"You couldn't be more correct, my friend," said a voice from behind him. Whirling around, Derek saw Tristàn, standing cool and composed, with a small, amused smile on his lips. "We will be conducting some research, I'm afraid."

Derek scowled briefly. "Fabulous. Ah, well. Thank you for coming; I dearly appreciate it. You may tell your servants to bring your books into my library. Would you like some rest first or shall we start in right away?"

Tristàn smiled. "The latter, I should think. I've been sitting far too long for my comfort."

"Very well, then," Derek said, leading the way. "I'm quite curious to see what you've dug up."

"Well, it's quite simple, really," Tristàn said in a false, overly cheerful tone. "I fear that someone has cast a few spells over my kingdom, as well."

"Excuse me?" Derek sputtered, looking sideways at his comrade.

"I was looking up some history books of the Royal families and their courts, trying to see if there was any information on Lord Adrian's family. To my surprise, there was none. That I found odd immediately, considering that, to my recollection, his family is one of the more ancient ones. I put the book back, blaming it on a faulty record keeper. But all of the other books I researched through also said nothing. I like to think that Spainne's record keepers are more competent than that, so I knew that there had to be another explanation. I went to some of my trusted advisers, who researched with me. It was inexplicable; how had Adrian's family come into being? I suppose one could always lie about such things, but a commoner pretending to be royal is tricky business. I casually began to ask people if they knew anything about Lord Adrian and one comment piqued my interest. Someone wanted to know if it was true if Lord Adrian dabbled in magick.

" 'Magick?' I wanted to know.

"They assured me that it was a common rumor, actually; that Lord Adrian and his family practiced magick—most notably the dark arts. It seemed farfetched, but I suppose with everything that I've encountered in the past few months I didn't dare rule it out. And the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. What if there was a way that he could cast a spell on all of Spainne to make us believe that he was part of a noble family? And yet, if it only affected our memories, then it wouldn't write itself into book, obviously. His family probably bet on us not checking record books of all of our noble families of Spainne, and if we did, it would not be on his family."

Derek thought about the notion for a few minutes. It was farfetched, to be sure, but Derek wouldn't put it past Adrian or his family to do such a thing. After all, the slimy bastard had pretty much ruined Derek's attempts at happiness.

"It's a good hunch," Derek finally said firmly. "I'm willing to look more into it. It's the only lead we've got. But what else are we looking for?"

"I don't know," Tristàn shook his head. "I had my servants pack any books they could that might help us in our search."

And so they began. Pouring over books over history, lineage, magick, and more, the two monarchs worked far into the night and into the next day, pausing briefly for necessities.

The third day found Derek going through the motions of researching. His movements were slow and he found himself drifting off to sleep…

PLOP!

Startled, Derek looked up. A book had dropped onto his desk from Tristàn's table, which was just above him, on the second level of the library.

"S'ry about that," murmured Tristàn, his mouth feeling dry from lack of use. "You all right down there?"

"Perfectly fine," Derek said, his eyes focusing on the book for the first time. Unlike the others, this one had elaborate pictures. Turning to the cover, he saw it was titled simply, "Fairy Tales." Turning back to the page, he realized with a start that the picture was of the Enchantress. He had never seen her in person, but each member of his family knew her, instinctively, carrying a picture of her deep in their souls.

The embodiment of light, the Enchantress seemed to glow in an eerie and ethereal way. Long, white gold hair framed a pale, luminescent face that had hauntingly gold eyes. Elegant and graceful to a fault, she seemed to glide everywhere she went. Her power seemed to crackle off of her in lightning bolts.

Intrigued, Derek began to read. "Once upon a time, there were two siblings," he murmured to himself, "The Dark Mage and the Enchantress of Light…" The tale was long—much longer than any normal fairy tale.

"…The Dark Mage begged his sister to bring back his dead wife, but she refused, telling him it was a mistake he was meant to learn. The Dark Mage took his son and lived in secret in the heart of Spainne. Growing up, his son swore revenge upon the Enchantress and all who were under her protection, learning the dark arts until one day, victory would be his," finished Derek. He frowned deeply, recognizing immediately that the son in question was Lord Adrian.

This was much more than either of them imagined, Derek realized with a start. It wasn't a simple game of petty politics—it was a rival between two of the most powerful beings on the earth.

"Tristàn," he called, his voice tense. "Come read this." Tristàn, hearing the tone in Derek's voice, went to the younger man and perused the story over his shoulder.

After a long time, Tristàn cleared his throat and said, his voice gravelly, "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"What?" Derek turned to face the Spainnish monarch. "What's there not to understand?"

"If this story is true," Tristàn said, "then how recently must this have been written? The war only ended a few years ago and Adrian is surely mortal—or at the very least isn't immortal. Who could have written this without me knowing?"

"I did," said a low, melodic voice, and the boys whirled around to see the Enchantress of the Light herself, looking very calm and at home in Derek's library.


Last Edited: 6/29/10