A/N: Sorry this took so long, I've been gearing up for my first slam poetry competition and it's taken up a bit of my time. But as an apology I post two chapters tonight! First up the tourney, followed by…naughtiness. Tee hee…
As always, thanks again to KatDancer2 for being a lovely beta who "nit picks" (her words not mine). You are amazing.
There was a resounding crash and wood splintered through the air as the two combatants met in a pulse pounding rush. One man was quickly unhorsed and Elissa clapped merrily as the crier called the match. It was the opening games of the tourney, and the stands were packed with spectators calling out wagers and good-natured jibes. Alistair sat by her side, his eyes bright with joy and naked envy as he took in the sport.
"People will talk you know," she said softly as the pages rushed to clear the field of debris.
"How is that?" Alistair asked distractedly.
"The way you're gazing at those men on horseback…I fear the nobility will think me your beard," Elissa replied wryly.
"I…what?" Alistair asked, finally deigning to give her his full attention.
"You seem awfully transfixed by those men's lances," she said pointedly, a grin spreading across her lips.
"How very droll you are, Elissa," Alistair said with a shake of his head. "If you must know I am transfixed by the game itself, wishing to hell I was down there on the field."
"And why aren't you, husband?" she asked as the next pair of knights hefted lances into their arms, muscles bulging with the effort to lift the massive poles.
"Eamon," Alistair muttered, as he turned his attention once more to the games, "Jousting is far too dangerous a sport for a King to partake in. According to my chancellor, I could lose an eye."
"As if anyone would dare try to unhorse you," Elissa snorted as the horses set off, "they would all be too afraid you would cry foul. I doubt a single lance would so much as glance you. The tournament would be yours, my king."
"And where would the fun in that be?" Alistair countered, "You should be on my side in all this. I think you would quite like to see me take a few blows."
"If I cannot do it myself, I find it far less amusing," she teased. Alistair spared her a wry grin before a servant quietly climbed the stairs to the royal box and leaned down to murmur something in his ear. Alistair's face lit up with undisguised joy for the briefest of moments and he nodded before dismissing the man.
"Forgive me, but something has come up," he said hurriedly, rising to his feet.
"You're leaving?" she asked in astonishment, "but it is but the first competition! You'll miss the archery and swords!"
"Duty calls, you shall just have to watch closely and recount every detail," he replied before taking his leave without further explanation. Elissa watched him go, irritation and relief warring for supremacy inside her. On the one hand, she was all too aware how it appeared to be sitting next to the empty throne, her husband so painfully absent. On the other, it afforded her just the opportunity she needed to see her plan for the afternoon through.
Two matchups later, it was Ambrose's turn to joust and Elissa felt herself scoot to the edge of her seat, eager anticipation fair dancing within her. Both he and his competitor approached the stands, and Ambrose gave her a wink before lowering the mighty lance to rest before her.
"Your Majesty," he said regally, though his eyes betrayed his trademark wickedness, "as your husband has declined to compete, I beg the honor of wearing your favor this day."
"And you shall have it, good sir," Elissa said proudly, rising to tie the bit of lavender ribbon about the lances tip. She leaned far closer than strictly necessary, pitching her voice low so as not to be overheard. "Is everything in place?" she asked.
"Yes," her friend murmured, "you'll find everything you need in the alcove near the kitchens."
"Excellent," she whispered happily before straightening once more, a smile lit upon her features. "Wear it well, my friend, may it bring you luck."
Ambrose gave her a wink before wheeling his horse about and galloping to the end of the rail. Out of the corner of her eye, Elissa caught sight of Shianni tying a ribbon of her own around the other knight's lance, a scowl on her lips and a scarlet blush upon her cheeks. This was the third knight of the day to ask for her favors, and the elf grew more flustered with each occasion. Elissa's meddling had turned the woman into a vision, one the participants could barely tear their eyes from. Gone were the messy ponytails and the simple woolen dresses and in their place was a gown of delicate silk and her hair had been pulled into an alluring chignon that set off the graceful curve of her neck beautifully. Forget the bloodspot playing out before her, Shianni's transformation was the true challenge of the day, and Elissa had no qualms in claiming her victory. As she let out a laugh at the elf's discomfort she caught Eamon glaring daggers at someone just behind her. Following his line of vision, she turned to find Ambrose testing the weight of his lance, face unusually serious, her favor fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Elissa rounded back to meet the chancellor's steely gaze, matching it with her own fierce expression. It was a battle of wills and Elissa was going to be damned if she was the first to look away. She was getting rather tired of the old man's suspicions. Each day she endured thinly veiled "suggestions" that she distance herself from the guardsman, and each day she coldly reminded him that she was queen and as such could spend time with whomever she chose, chancellors and gossips be damned. Moments ticked by, neither bending, until at last someone called for the former Arl's attention and he was forced to tear himself from her ire.
A horn sounded and Elissa forced Eamon's meddling from her mind as the contestants kicked their horses into a gallop, lowering their lances with every bit of ground covered. Ambrose was magnificent and managed two strikes to the head before being claimed victor. Elissa clapped madly in support of her friend, whistling like a common bar wench when he raised his helm in triumph.
The rest of the competition continued on in much the same fashion, and as each minute ticked by Elissa could not help but wonder where her errant husband had run off to. When he had still not returned by the end of the joust, she briefly thought of seeking him out, but realized she had not the time to do so, not if she intended to see her plan through. Having spent the past two weeks sneaking out whenever she was able to prepare for this day, she refused to see all her hard work amount to nothing. As servants rushed to clear the field, dismantling the rail and setting up a wooden pen in its place, Elissa gracefully slipped away, disappearing into the crowd of spectators seeking to stretch their legs.
When the crier announced the beginning of the weapons tournament, the crowd could not help but notice the empty set of thrones within the stands, both monarchs conspicuously absent from the event.
~oOo~
Alistair shifted in the unfamiliar armor, trying to find a graceful and easy way in which to move. His helmet hung heavy on his brow, his breath echoing through the steel frame as he strode out into the sparring ring. His heart was pounding a mile a minute and the familiar adrenaline began to course through his veins. True, it was not a proper battle, each blade was tempered down to dullness so as to prevent unnecessary slaughter, but the opportunities afford him to actually engage in arms were few and far between. Eamon would have ten different kinds of fits if he knew the king was about to test his mettle against an unsuspecting opponent, but Alistair could not quite bring himself to care.
His opponent was announced, a name unfamiliar to his ears. The notion wasn't all that odd, however; with Anora's recent attempt on his life, quite a few members of the nobility had revealed themselves to be less than loyal, and the subsequent shuffling of titles had left Alistair's brain a confused mess as he struggled to remember the new list of banns and arls that had sworn fealty to him. Besides, he wasn't one to cast stones, having entered under a false name himself. The man bowed his head in a duelist's nod, features obscured by a simple helm and Alistair returned the gesture, hands gripping his long sword tight. A trumpet sounded and he leapt into action, eagerness evident in his every motion.
The fight was extraordinary, exhilarating, and everything Alistair had been craving for months. His opponent was green, moves rushed and hurried, but filled with a passion and determination he had to admire. He could have easily put the man in the dirt within the first minute, but he wanted this to last, and so he had held back, drawing out the match as long as he could. Through luck or divine intervention the man managed to land a few scoring hits upon him, even denting the borrowed armor with the force of one blow. Eventually, Alistair realized he had been going far too easy on the combatant, and the score was too close for his liking. Letting out a joyful roar, he pressed his attack, forcing the unknown knight on the defensive. Moments later his opponent lost their footing, falling to the ground with a painful thud. Alistair rode the momentum, dropping to straddle the man and bring his sword down hard against the battered chest piece. A muffled scream rose from behind his opponent helmet, and Alistair panicked, realizing he had struck with far greater force than he had intended. He immediately tossed his blade to the side and inspected the point of impact, noting with growing agitation that he had cracked the steel of the man's armor, edges curling in to press against flesh. Before he could fully gauge the seriousness of the injury he found himself being bucked off his opponent, rolling head first into the ground. Scrambling to get his wits about him, he was quickly over powered and the man he thought so gravely injured was now straddling him, sword hovering above the king's neck. Alistair laughed despite himself, fully admitting defeat as the crier called the match.
"That was quite sneaky of you," he muttered as the pair stiffly rose their feet. The man simply shrugged, turning to walk away, but Alistair snaked a hand out, fingers bidding him to remain. "You really should get that looked to," he said nodding to the cracked armor, "you may have won, but I'd bet that blow did a fair bit of damage."
"No!" came the man's panicked reply, fists rising to bat the king's hands away, "Leave it!"
"Removing it will offer some relief," Alistair argued, reaching to unclasp the chest piece.
"Damnit it all I said leave it! Infuriating man, are you incapable of listening?" Alistair stilled at the words, hands hovering over the armor as his brain struggled to make sense of what just what was happening.
"Elissa?" he ventured hesitantly, sure that he was mistaken. The knight next to him froze, chest rising and falling with labored pants, and remained deathly silent. It was all the answer he needed and he sighed wearily, hands rising to gently remove the helmet that hid his wife from view. Her rich, mahogany hair tumbled to her shoulders, strands plastered to her face with sweat. The fierce scowl on her face was a welcome sight, and he figured she could not be too badly hurt if she had the energy too look indignant about the situation.
"Care to explain, my queen?" he asked patiently, removing his own helmet. Gasps from the spectators filled the air, followed by immediate silence.
"What is there to explain?" she replied, voice indignant, "and before you get all huffy, may I remind you that I was not the only royal competing in secret."
"Yes but you were the only female to do so," Alistair growled, realization dawning on him, "This! This is why you wanted me to throw a tourney, so you could sneak in and participate!"
"You are so smart, Alistair, I can't seem to put anything past you," she hissed before turning on her heel and exiting the ring. Alistair fumed and stomped after her, catching a positively purple Eamon roughly making his way through the stands.
"This was beyond stupid, Elissa," Alistair snapped, "did your brush with death in the market teach you nothing? You could have been seriously hurt. You were seriously hurt! By me!"
"Calm down," Elissa said through clenched teeth as the pair made their way to a secluded area framed by willow trees, "it's a paltry little bruise. And I could throw the same accusation at you, dear husband. If I have no place in these games, then neither do you!"
"I'm a trained warrior, you are a spoiled brat; do enlighten me as to how that qualifies you for blood sport," Alistair countered, rounding on her in anger.
"If that had been Harlow in that ring-" Elissa argued, her chin held high in defiance.
"Harlow wasn't in that ring," Alistair said fiercely, hands rising to cage her face, "and if she had been, she would have set me on my ass in less time than it takes for you to insult me. She is a fighter, born and bred, to her very soul. You do not have even the fraction of the talent with a blade that she has. But she wasn't the one who took a beating from me, you were. If you had wanted glory and fame you should have stuck to politics where you belong."
Elissa stared at him hard, eyes watering up against her will as she took in the vicious tirade he spewed at her. Never had he been so harsh with her, so blunt. Every insult up until now had been tempered with humor, but there was no trace of his sarcasm or wit to be found. He truly meant those words, and the knowledge cut at her, wounding her far deeper than she was willing to admit.
"My apologies, your majesty," she said numbly, shaking out of his grasp, "I shall leave you to your weapons and sport, and return to my throne…where I belong. I can see there is no place for me here."
"Elissa," he sighed, shamed at his behavior, "I didn't-Shit…that's not what I meant."
"I thought you would understand," she said, voice cracking, "you loved a warrior woman once, so it cannot be because I am female. Why then? Why could you not let me have this one thing, this one moment I could look back on and hold close to me?"
"I do understand, and I'm a right ass…really," he muttered, "It's just…Maker's breath, look at you. You're hurt, and it's my fault…I'm really quite tired of the women in my life taking a beating on my behalf."
Before Elissa could respond their privacy was interrupted by a contingent of guardsmen rushing past, their faces grim and set. Ambrose followed suit a moment later, his features a mask of pain and disbelief.
"Ambrose!" Elissa cried out, stepping forward to intercept her friend, "What is it?"
"On the steps," the man muttered, eyes wild, "A head…one of the elven guard. I don't…Torin…"
"Go," Elissa urged, pushing her friend away. Ambrose didn't even bother to acknowledge Alistair presence before he was once again off, tension and worry spurring him on. Once out of sight, Elissa spun about, reaching for Alistair's hand and tugging, "Come on, I have a feeling this will not bode well for our relations with the elves."
Alistair nodded, mouth grim, and the pair sprinted off, each dreading what they would find when they arrived at their destination. If Ambrose had spoke true, and there was indeed a decapitated head of an elven guard placed upon the castle steps, it would spell disaster for the tenuous peace the reigned between the two races. But who was to blame? Humans or the elves themselves? The answer was immediate and clear upon their arrival.
"I'm going to kill him," Alistair said through clenched teeth as he stared down at the note hammered to the poor bastard's skull. Elissa fought against the rising tide of bile that threatened to spill from her as she stared at the gruesome scene, forcing her eyes to read the hastily scratched out words upon the blood soaked parchment.
Traitors to their race will not be tolerated.
He is a lesson, the next will be a promise.
"I'm serious," Alistair fumed, "I'm going to gut the bastard and hang him with his own entrails. There are not enough words to describe the torture-"
"Alistair, hush. There will be time enough once we apprehend him," Elissa soothed quietly, a hand rising to rest upon his shoulder. When he sagged in acceptance she sighed, turning away from her husband to begin the unwelcome task of delegation. "Ambrose, go to the-Ambrose?" Her faithful friend was nowhere in sight, conspicuously absent from the crowd that had gathered around the carnage. Elissa's heart pounded a deadly rhythm in her chest as she rounded back on the head, scrambling to tear the note from its flesh and drink in the features. She could think of only one reason her friend would not be present, and she prayed fiercely that she was wrong.
"It's not Torin," a sorrow filled voice murmured quietly from behind her, and Elissa spun about, gaze falling on a grieving Shianni, her fingers locked in a death grip on a plain canvas bag. "I came as soon as I heard."
"How did you hear?" Alistair asked, voice dreading the answer.
"We got a message of our own," Shianni sneered in answer, tossing the bag to the ground. "Cyrion brought that to me only moments ago. It was delivered to his doorstep." Elissa swallowed hard, every instinct inside her screaming to run away, but a morbid, twisted part of her had to know. She knelt on the stones, fingers shaking as she pulled the flaps on canvass open. Clamping her teeth hard on a scream that threatened to bubble from her throat she rose to her feet and met the elven woman's cold and grief-stricken gaze.
"I want him brought here. Now," Elissa demanded, unable to wipe the image of the bag's gruesome contents from her mind.
"Trust me, if we could find him, he'd be at your feet, broken and bloody," Shianni said, a feral look in her eyes. "But it seems he has disappeared, and not a single elf admit to knowing his whereabouts."
"What is in the bag, Elissa?" Alistair asked, kneeling to inspect the contents in an effort to satisfy his curiosity.
"Hands," she said softly, eyes still locked with Shianni's, "If they refuse to turn him in, while their kinsman lies dismembered on the palace steps, then they will all be treated as accomplices."
"Elissa-" Shianni growled in protest.
"No," she snapped, temper fraying, "I have attempted to play nice, I have loosened the stranglehold on your people and this is how I am repaid? Body parts left like bread crumbs across my city! I will not have it. If your people will not step up to the line, then by the maker I will draw it for them."
"Elissa, please think about what you're saying," Alistair pleaded, but the words seemed to have little sway on her.
"The elves have twenty four hours to produce the criminal known as Mortain. Should they fail to do so I will authorize a raid on the Alienage, and every elf found to be in connection with the bastard will be taken into custody and tried for treason," Elissa commanded, voice ringing clear and regal through the air. Shianni blinked at her, expression betraying nothing but stoic injustice, and Elissa met that stare with calculating indifference.
"I thought you were different," the elven Bann deigned to murmur at last, "but you are just like the rest of them. A spoiled, selfish shem who gives less than a shit for my people."
"And I thought you smarter than your knife ear companions," Elissa shot back, lashing out in anger. Shianni stumbled back, as if the words had physical weight and looked at the queen in astonishment. Elissa felt her eyes water, immediately regretting the words, but unable to find her voice to offer apologies. Shianni shook her head and turned to leave, back straight and proud as it always was, but Elissa swore she could see the lines of regret and hurt etched into every bone of her spine.
"Elissa…" Alistair breathed, disbelief and compassion echoing in every syllable.
"I have to see to Ambrose," she muttered, fair fleeing the scene, refusing to look back on the carnage, both physical and emotional. Her steps slowed as she sought out the barracks, sure that her friend had gone there to seek out his lover. As she rounded a corner she almost collided with Eamon, her vision so blurred by tears that it took her a moment to recognize the man.
"Your Majesty," he said stiffly, scorn evident in his tone. Elissa opened her mouth to relay the dire news of what had just befallen the castle when she noticed a lavender ribbon clutched tightly in the Arl's hand, the very same bit of fabric that had graced Ambrose's lance only hours before.
"Why do you have that?" she demanded quietly.
"I believe that is a discussion best left for His Majesty and myself, my lady," Eamon said smugly, "Did you truly think your little dalliance would have no repercussions?"
"At it again, Eamon?" Elissa said with a weary chuckle, "Divorce is such an odd hobby for a man to have."
"I only have Alistair's best interests at heart," Eamon snapped primly.
"You are such an insufferable prick," she hissed, words far less refined than usual due to her emotional upheaval, "Fine then, go…run and tell the king of my 'betrayal,' but if you think that man is going to give a flying fuck about a piece of ribbon then you are sorely mistaken. My sexual exploits, in no way, compare to a bloody head deposited on our very doorstep."
She pushed past him, not even giving him a chance to respond, her heart breaking with every step. Idly she wondered how a day so filled with promise could end in such dismal ruin. Not only had she broken her friendship with Shianni irreparably, her fragile relationship with Alistair, one she could have sworn was climbing slowly towards something more than tolerance, was crumbling before her. And now, with that oily bastard Eamon whispering poisoned lies of infidelity in his ear, she had a feeling that come that evening, it would lay in nothing but tatters at her feet.
Wallowing in self pity and despair she approached the barracks, seeking solace in the one person left to her in this cursed place she could claim a friendship of. Her heart leapt at the sight of Ambrose and she hurried towards him, but was brought up short when she saw he was not alone. A lithe, and very handsome elf clad in chainmail gazed up at her friend with such love and possession that Elissa could not help but assume it to be the elusive Torin. She watched as the two conversed in hushed tones, hands rising to unconsciously seek the other out, as if the couple drew strength from the very act of touch. When Ambrose raised a finger to trace the delicate line of Torin's ear, eliciting a shudder of pleasure from the elf, Elissa turned away, shame coloring her cheeks. The naked longing and tenderness in that one action had hit her like a fist to the gut. Never did she think Ambrose to care so deeply for the man, thinking it was a torrid affair and nothing more; but what she saw in that delicate gesture was the physical embodiment of adoration and it almost had hurt to look on such a private moment. So she had turned and fled, tears welling up anew, though she could not have said why.
Later, when she was dressing for dinner, she replayed the scene in her mind. The image of those fingers so gentle and loving ghosting over the elf's ear caused something low in her belly to clench in longing and desire. It was only then that she realized why she had fled from the pair, tears stinging her eyes…she wanted that. Not with Ambrose…but with someone, and stuck as she was in an ever confusing and volatile marriage, she wasn't sure she'd ever get such a thing.