My Last Amen

[Meraki]

For as much as Fira was suffering, Amadeus' hand against her cheek eased every coiled up nerve in her body. She knew, subconsciously, what this attack meant for them — it meant that the days of playing keep away from Peter were coming to an end and they would have to find themselves in the thick of it. Fira would have to learn how to lead, to stand strong and steadfast, and to ensure that decisions were being made that supported their troops and protected the people. It had to be easy for Peter, just deploying men and not giving a damn who lived or died. But Fira would never want the easy way, she would not let anyone die needlessly.

People would die, certainly, but the least Fira could do was ensure that their death was not in vain. Fighting and dying for a cause was noble, but no life could be easily sacrificed. That would not change — war, she swore to herself, would never change her into the kind of human that Peter was. They would become desperate, but she was smarter than that — more so, she knew Amadeus would never let her do something like that. He never feared giving her his opinion before and she almost came to rely on it sometimes. He may have been a pauper, but he was the most brilliant player in this game.

So many people spoke about how special she was, but they did not understand the depth to which Amadeus Osmont singlehandedly orchestrated the entire operation based on wisdom and a moral compass pointing north.

She could not really make out his words, but she could feel the depth of his voice in her bones. It was easier to hold on when he was there, not because she could not survive alone, but he gave her someone to look for, a north star in the darkness. It was easier to stay awake when it meant she could see him there.

Fira leave.

She could see his lips make their way around the words and her hand instinctively tightened on his shirt. She was in no place to argue and she knew that above all else, she needed to focus on healing, but she knew those words. She didn't have to hear him talk to know that her leaving didn't include him going with her. She wanted to cry out and protest, to tell him that he was not allowed to make decisions for her, but she did did not see the Duke respond. It was his army, his town, she would follow his decision.

But something told her in his iron scowl that nothing was going to drag him from home.

"Ama," she breathed out, only able to manage the first part of his name. It was breathy and tired, but it felt good to speak to him, to be able to say his name.

 

[Nav]

"This is not a fight you can win," Amadeus snapped back with more bark in his tone that he had first intended when the Duke dismissed his absurd notion to leave. He clearly did not understand the opponent he was up against in the same way he or Fira might have. "Even if you walk away with a victory, it will come at the cost of so many lives. Too many, even for war. You're ranks will be ripped apart-- even if you win, there won't be a damn army left for you to rule." Amadeus knew he was out of line, even before the words left his mouth, but he was too pragmatic to realise it until long after he had spoken. The Duke's eyes rubbed into him violently and hot, like a brand seering his brain but Amadeus didn't look away or blink. Instead, he just furrowed his brow further and frowned.

The duke dismissed him without additional comment except for the dangerous side glance he knew immediately to mean that if he opened his mouth one more time, he'd be forcibly removed from the room and Fira's side. There wasn't anything left to argue really. They'd be staying, it would seem, unless he could convince the Duke to at least see that Fira and Calliope got out. Fira was in no shape to do anything, let alone put up any kind of fight and judging from how weak she had become, she'd likely not be well again for quite some time. At the thought, his thumb paused against her cheek for a moment and he glanced down to her. So, he would do what he could to get her out but if the duke refused to budge, then all he had left to do was plan. As soon as he knew Fira was well and restring, he'd go see and discuss further with Roth.

It was the only chance, it would seem. Fight or die, because fleeing and regrouping didn't appear to be an option.

His name was whispered so quietly he had almost missed it, or thought his brain was playing tricks on him but one glance back down told him otherwise. "Hey," he murmured back in response, meeting those familiar green eyes with his own steady gaze. "Don't waste energy with my name." His hand traveled up the side of her face, pushing some of her hair back and away from her face, feeling the familiar smile returning to his face as he did so. Some moisture from his hair had dripped down his neck and onto her bed between them. Suddenly, he remembered how cold he was supposed to be and breathed out a sigh with a small shiver. Now that the adrenaline had begun to wear off, the reality was beginning to set in again-- the cold, the exhaustion, the hunger.

"You just get some rest, alright? Don't worry about anything else except getting better."

 

[Meraki]

This is not a fight you can win!

She heard it, clear as day, as his voice reverberated through the room. It seemed that the Duke did not agree with Amadeus' plan and whatever that meant — she wasn't sure. If they stayed, they were sitting ducks, and as much as she hated to admit it, there was a point to it all. If Amadeus, the Commander and the army could fight with the safety of their Duke and Queen assured, it would be a different game entirely. Fira could not even imagine walking, though most of her pains were internal from inhaling the fumes. Once it was out of her system, it would be a relatively simple recovery with enough rest and water to keep herself upright. But it did not change the fact that had Annemarie not coughed and broke focus, they would have walked into a very different scene.

No heir, no claim, nothing but an army and no united front to fight under.

Amadeus' hand was ice against her skin, but it soothed the fever brewing below. His words were soft and murmured, but her mind seemed to clear enough to understand. He was something else, that Amadeus. His hand brushed her hair back and she tilted her head slightly to feel his palm there, soothing and cool against her skin. He was freezing, shivering, and she let her hand drop from his tunic to his free hand, encompassing his cold one with the warmth of her feverish skin. At least she was good for something.

She nodded gently, more awake and alert than she had been since they found her. Breathing was still a chore, her lungs laboring with every breath, but she seemed to relax enough in Amadeus' presence for her eyes to seem visibly more green. She wanted to help, wanted to plan and find an alternative if the Duke was not willing to leave, but for now she had to do exactly what Amadeus asked. For once in her life, Fira needed to listen. She needed to lie back, try to relax and focus on healing. Dying was not an option and lying in this bed forever was not either.

Peter thought he could manipulate someone to kill her, but he would fail, just like last time. Just like the next time, as she was sure there would be a next time. All she needed was one good, solid night of sleep and some water, then maybe she would be able to find her bearings enough to be of use.

Tensions had rose in the room — Calliope looking on at the scene with her lips pursed as though it physically pained her to not comment, the Duke who was less than impressed with Amadeus' outburst, but Fira just focused on Amadeus. He was there, with her, and that was always more than enough. If there was anything the assassination attempt taught her, it was that she was living on borrowed time.

And she would not take a single moment for granted, not when she was lucky enough to have Amadeus there now.

 

[Nav]

Amadeus had never been a very angry man. He had never been bitter, not even after Rosalie's death because he knew better than to brew on resentment. Instead, he had focused on doing what he needed to do to fix the problem, but in that moment, in that room, it was hard. He wanted to be bitter: bitter that his family had been all but annihilated, bitter at Calliope for that smug and dangerous look on her face, bitter at the Duke for not listening and thinking rationally, bitter at Peter for doing what he was doing, bitter at the former King for what he had done…

It was damn hard to swallow it all down; it sat toxic in his gut, making him feel volatile and angry in a way he never had before. Then again, he had never been so passionate about anything. Horses, sure, but there had never been any reason to let his emotions get the better of him there. Even when he had disguised himself and ventured to the royal palace, he hadn't been as passionate about his quest then as he was now. He would see to it that Fira inherited the throne. Fira's destiny was to rule the kingdom, but Amadeus' was to get her there.

The warmth of her hand stretched out across his own spread through him quickly. Naturally, the touch didn't go without notice and the Duke's brow flicked upwards in surprise. For a while, he had assumed Calliope would not keep any sort of information at all from her husband—but seeing the look on the Duke's face when the Queen settled her hand across his told him that he hadn't a clue there had been anything more to their relationship besides servant and Queen. Had the Duke been unimpressed with Amadeus before, he now seemed to be saddled with the same sort of resentment he had seen burning behind Calliope's eyes when she gazed upon Fira.

Birds of a feather, he thought to himself idly, glancing between the pair, though he couldn't blame the Duke for his reaction. They didn't belong together—someone like him with someone like her. At any other time, he might have hesitated or faltered, but that moment wasn't about the Duke. It was about Fira and ensuring she was on a path to getting well.

For now, at least, the estate was secure, though he didn't know how long… at least through the night, at very least.

Sighing, he shifted his weight on his knees and rested his chin back down on the edge of the bed, his eyes closing tiredly. There was a lot he wanted to say to Fira, but feeling the eyes of Calliope and the Duke burning through him, he decided not to say anything at all. No one was saying anything at all—it was entirely, and utterly silent.

 

[Meraki]

There was silence for quite some time, but she kept her attention on the feeling of Amadeus' hand in hers. She did not sleep, necessarily, but she rested for a good while with her eyes shut — her fever ebbing only to spike again, but the fact it had broken at all was a godsend even if only for less than an hour. She shifted a bit uncomfortably, as she could not help it. Each breath was daggers in her throat and chest, so she tried her damnedest to rest as Amadeus had asked. It was an interesting thought that only twenty four hours prior they were wondering about what kinds of attacks were imminent, never did they think that one of the handmaidens would be carrying out Peter's will.

No one had spoken of the girl, Fira assumed she was dead. Either killed by the poison or by the guard. She would have asked but it did not seem proper conversation nor a good use of breath when hers was so limited. In her feverish haze, Fira dreamed of her family — long before her brothers passed and before Peter showed any true malice towards her. She remembered the climbing tree out in the forest on the edge of the land, and how often she got stuck up at the top. She remembered snow ball fights and etching her height into the kitchen wall. It was still there — Fira growing far taller than her two late brothers ever had. She wondered if it was still there, just beside the cabinets. It was the cook's idea, just to remind them of who they used to be.

All of her mothers old letters to father while he was away were stashed in the bottom drawer of his desk, her favorite chess set under her bed. There were still paintings of them on the wall, one of her father, brothers and her that had long since been hidden away. She remembered finding it one day and realizing that in the grief of death, her father tried to erase the pain.

When Fira finally came to again, she could still feel Amadeus there. She was not sure what woke her until she noticed the figure in the doorway speaking with the Duke. "The entire estate is secure, you may move around with an escort if—"

"Finally," Fira heard Calliope's voice as the slender, beautiful woman stood and shot her eyes back at the young Queen in the bed. Funny how Calliope made Fira feel unsafe far more than any handmaiden did. Fira shifted and let her eyes flutter open, a bit more than slits this time, but they were still muted compared to how vibrant they usually were. She looked to Amadeus and then up to the Duke who was busy shooting scolding glances at Calliope for speaking in such a manner to the Queen.

"I require some of the material from my boardroom," the Duke spoke with certainty, "Tommen, you will see to it that water is tested and brought for the Queen. Master Osmont, I assume we can leave the Queen's wellbeing to your care?" His words were sharp, almost doubtful, though Fira knew that there was no better person in the world to leave her with. She had probably unveiled a bit more of their relationship than she cared to, but if she was going to face death and come out on the other side — she was not lying to herself.

 

[Nav]

It was a long, drawn out silence and Amadeus steeped in it like tea that had been brewing for too long and had grown bitter and cold as a result. The air was stiff that even he was beginning to question whether or not it was poisoned as a result. He knew it wasn't, but even he was beginning to have trouble breathing in it. His eyes fluttered close and he rested a bit himself. His clothes had dried and so had his hair, falling in deep, dark perfect ringlets around his face and down the back of his neck, gleaming with health in the low light.

No one said anything, not even Calliope, which was a tall order for her but the intensity of the environment tamed even her. She wished not to speak as it seemed she was bound to be either disappointed by her husband or Amadeus, and neither Amadeus nor the Duke wished to speak because they were currently at odds with one another… but having to deal with each other all the same. Had the situation been any different, Amadeus was almost certain the Duke would have seen him out of the estate for his outburst, but the situation was a bit more precarious than flinging any ally one could find out into the dirt.

Like it or not, the Duke must have known that Amadeus was fiercely loyal to the Queen and by default, him and his estate, as well. In a time when no one could be entirely trusted, any shred of trust one could find was valuable and that put a pretty price on Amadeus' presence. As such, he was allowed to stay, though he could continue to feel the discomfort spanning between them. Calliope had resorted to picking at her nails and sighing dramatically up to the point it was announced she could leave. In a fuss, she practically threw herself out the door with all the grace of a dove, and Amadeus only watched her leave before turning his eyes back to the Duke.

"Quite," Amadeus replied curtly when the Duke questioned his ability to care for Fira, "Sir," he concluded for politeness. He didn't really want to push any more buttons than he already had, so Amadeus did what he had to do to keep his tongue at least somewhat polite.

Still, he had to admit nothing was more delightful than the moment both the Duke and his wife exited the room. Never before had he endured such tension for so long and when they finally left, Amadeus physically reeled with a heavy sigh that took the weight off his shoulders. His free hand swept through his hair, pushing back the curls away from his forehead and letting his eyes close to relax for just a moment. The unfortunate reality was that it had only just begun. Once he knew Fira was well, he'd begin to work more closely with Roth to figure out the best plan to keep the estate.

Soon, he would have to do that soon. His eyes glanced to the window. It was dark, but morning wouldn't be far off. The storm outside continued to blot off signs of the coming day.

 

[Meraki]

All at once the tension dissipated.

Fira did not even need to be fully conscious to feel it. She could hear the door shut, the lack of presence in the room, no one but Amadeus who seemed to take all his tension and breathe it out in one, powerful sigh. Fira moved slightly to push herself up just a bit, though it was pathetic with how slow she was moving. She shifted her weight and glanced up at him, her green eyes fluttering for a moment before they focused on him. The image was clearer now, his strong and handsome jawline, the perfect black ringlets that fell over his neck. It felt like ages since she had seen him last, though she had only been unconscious a short while.

But even with a fever, Fira could not be entirely brought down. She was too damn stubborn for that.

She breathed in shakily, her lungs still laboring, as she tried to form the words. Calliope was gone, as was the Duke, and the two of them were left alone for the first time since the previous morning. So much had happened. So much. "E-every…thing ok?" she managed, bit by bit. It was hard, but she knew that if she didn't try, she would never get better. She knew that nothing was okay, but maybe there was one thing, anything that was going well. She would have sat up to speak with him, but she could not seem to manage that much. Soon, though. Soon enough she would.

Part of her wanted to joke about how good of an idea it was to not make plans for yesterday afternoon. She figured they never knew what would happen, but the last thing she expected was to be laid out, body struggling through the poison, and looking up at Amadeus. It was probably for the best — not really a time to joke — but that was just Fira. She took everything seriously, but she knew that sometimes a laugh alleviated so much pressure.

A fit of coughs took over, her head turned to the side as the painful sounding barking coughs erupted. They hurt the worst — maybe everything pulsated with a deep rooted pain, but the coughs set everything aflame again and she could not help the way her eyes watered. Once it subsided, her breathing was ragged and rough, but she turned her attention back to him. The ghost of a smile on her lips as she looked at him. He was really here.

She was afraid that Calliope had taken him from her -- especially with her words earlier.

 

[Nav]

"Hey, hey, hey… easy, sweetheart," he frowned as he watched her struggle to sit up just a little. Her eyes strained as they landed on him, her brow furrowed with the effort as she coughed out a few words. Instantly, his hand was on her cheek, brushing his thumb across the sweaty, but smooth, skin. "You don't need to talk if it hurts," he leaned forward over the bed and his lips met the center of her forehead that was stained with sweat and fever. There wasn't a fiber in him that didn't wish he could steal away her pain and take it for himself, but there was nothing he could do.

There was nothing he could have done. He couldn't follow her everywhere. He couldn't be there with her every waking moment and he still wasn't entirely sure he was the best man for the job of trying to protect her. Surely, a team of guards would be better equipped to care for her and ensure her safety. Amadeus was good with an arrow—great with an arrow even—and equally talented with a sword. There wasn't an enemy in the world he feared facing in hand to hand combat, but protecting the life of someone else? He wasn't sure he was capable of the task.

His eyes softened as her words became coherent. Silly Fira—always worrying about him when she was the one lying out in the bed racked with poison. "Everything is fine," he assured her, doing his best to maintain even confidence, though he was still uncertain about the hold of the estate. "It seems like we'll be digging our heels in and staying here," he explained tenderly, his thumb brushing across her forehead in a circular, soothing motion, "I can almost promise we're going to be facing our first big fight here and I need you to promise me something, okay? I need you to promise me that no matter what, you will stay safe, okay? I know you don't want to miss a single fight in all of this… but there will be lots of fights, lots of battles, and you need to sit this one out."

"Once you're asleep, I'm going to go talk with commander Roth and we're going to try and figure out how best to defend this place, but don't worry, alright? I'll always carry a piece of you with me, remember?" he reached over with his one hand, tugging back the sleeve on his tunic to reveal the hair ribbon she had once tied around his wrist several long months prior. It was dirtied now—stained and the color had faded from the rain, sun, and elemental exposure it had endured, but it remained snuggly there all the same… just about as strong and stubborn against coming off as Fira herself.

"I love you and it's going to be a pure honor to fight for you."

 

[Meraki]

She did not want him to go, but if there was one thing that Fira learned about love it was that it could endure. Whether they were next to each other or a million miles away, real love — the kind of love worth fighting for — transcended those boundaries. If Amadeus found his purpose at the battlefront, calling command of the calvary, she had to trust him and support him. None of this was easy and her rise to power had put him through so much, but they had to do this. She did not want to let him go, and she would never, but Amadeus had to have his own aspirations and desires. He would be great, the best fighter she had ever met, and he protected her so many times before.

If they were staying, she new that his hands needed something to do. They always did and she could think of no better man to help than Amadeus. So against the painful pang in her heart, she knew that he would come back to her. He had to and she was not going to fill her mind with terrible thoughts when Amadeus deserved her faith and support.

You need to sit this one out.

He was right. He always was. Fira could not breathe and this was the closest she had ever come to death. Even when she had been shot, it was just about physical rehabilitation — but there was a battle on the horizon and she was still fighting through the poison that had filled her lungs so entirely. She needed to focus on getting better because no matter what, she was going to stay safe. For the people, for herself, for Amadeus — she had to be safe.

When he gestured to the tie on his wrist, a smile stretched across her tired features. "I h-hear…" she managed slowly, piecing her words together, "a p-princess' f…favor is g-good luck." Echoing the playful words she had given him when she first gifted him the ribbon, she looked up at him and swore she could have drowned in those eyes. She reached up to take Amadeus' hand in her own, pressing a soft, tired kiss to the skin she could manage. "I…promise," she whispered, her eyes glancing up to catch his eyes. It was so exhausting to speak, but she would not let him go without knowing.

"C-come back to…me," she managed through labored breaths, "I love you, Ama."

It was probably the clearest statement she had made all day, but it burned terribly to speak. Almost immediately her eyes clenched shut for a moment to let the wave of pain pass, but her brilliant green eyes were right back on him, looking up at him with the greatest love and admiration. He was a remarkable man, too remarkable for words, and he had never been just a pauper to her.

 

[Nav]

"So it has proven to be," he agreed when she mentioned how it was said to be good luck to have a princess' favor. Whether or not that was true, Amadeus was inclined to believe that it was. After all, they both had made harrowing escapes that they probably shouldn't have survived. Maybe that was good luck, maybe it was fate… maybe it was nothing at all and just chance, the luck of the draw, a good toss of the dice. Whatever the reason, Amadeus could only hope it would continue for the next few days… or however long the battle raged. Some men were still arguing whether or not there would be a battle at all, but Amadeus was not so blind.

Peter must have known by now that Fira was alive. He must also now know, or at least his highest generals, knew where she was… and with the Duke refusing to move his stubborn self from the estate, there was no protection for Fira outside the walls. If she left, she would forfeit her deal with him. It was unfortunate and Amadeus could have cursed the Duke out all night long—but to what end? It would win nothing.

She took his hand and pressed a kiss to it. It was tired and labored but sweet, and his thumb trailed across her bottom lip and down to the groove of her chin with a soft smile of his own. "I will do what I can," he assured her. He couldn't promise her to come back because the future was too uncertain, but he would do everything he could to survive and see her another day. If that battle was to be his last though, he couldn't honestly say he'd find any regret. This might have been Fira's war, but this was Amadeus' fight.

"I know you do," he stood up to his feet, leaning over and pressing a kiss to her forehead, frowning at the sensation of the fever burning against his lips, "Get rest, get well, your reign will live another day." His lips dropped from her forehead to her lips, sealing their conversation with a small peck. He was about to turn off but he paused, sliding his coat off his shoulders and adding it to her pile of blankets.

"The commander says I best wear his colours," he said with a half-hearted smile, "So why don't you wear mine for a while then, hm?"

 

[Meraki]

It was the sweetest peck she had ever felt.

Fira tried her hardest to keep her composure. It was hard for her to know that he was going to walk out that door into a battle she could not be beside him for. There would be plenty of battles, but she wanted down in her bones to stand by him. She could not even move from bed, so there was no possible way for her to help directly, but maybe by staying safe and working her way through the sickness — she would help keep his mind off of her. He needed to focus if he was going to run headfirst into this fight and she wanted to be the woman who brought him home at the end of it all, not the woman who held him back from the fight in the first place.

He draped his jacket over her and she curled into it. His colors. She remembered the way he draped that very coat over her shoulders after he pulled her from the floorboards during Peter's search of Inverness. It was so long ago now, but so much had changed. She was not running anymore, but she still was not the woman she needed to be. What did not change was her love for him — it had strengthened, certainly. She knew that she would do anything for him, even if it meant staying behind this once.

Because if she was well, if she was capable of standing up on her own, she would be by his side. They just had to deal with the cards that they had been dealt by the universe. And who knew? Maybe this was just what Amadeus needed in the whirlwind of everything to bring that sense of wonder back to his eye.

She tried to speak, but it seemed she wasted all of her energy on her firm I love you. Instead, she mouthed a gentle I'll be okay and smile, just enough that it brought life back into her eyes. tHe last thing he needed was to worry about her and while she knew it was natural to worry, she would not be what held him back. All her speaking made her a bit lightheaded, though, and she could feel the fever burning on her skin, sending chills up and down her spine. The only consolation was the scent of Amadeus on his jacket, easing her into a state of relaxation.

She hadn't intended for it, but her blinks became slow, labored until she slipped back into unconsciousness. It was not quite sleep, but soon enough it would be. Once it was, she would begin to heal and once she could heal, she would be back on her feet.

If Amadeus was fighting for her, she would too.

 

[Nav]

Every man in the army was trained to obey orders for even the most unconscionable acts. They were less man than weapons on legs, as unnatural as it was possible for a human to be and still breathe. Nobody in the top brass, let alone commander Roth, cared that should their consciences ever return they would end up to be likely shattered and drunk old them. They needed unquestionable obedience from their soldiers in that moment and to hell with the consequences.

For the first time since the Duke's personal militia's inception, the soldiers moved almost entirely as one—a sea of green, as if they were just one brain instead of many. The right legs moved in unison, then the left legs. Men on horses pooled behind those on foot and with each step the sound of boots on cold, hard earth was like a warning. Even over the cracks of thunder, they could be heard. Slung about their shoulders were blades; each face was grim against the frigid wind and on every hand was a black, leather glove.

"Osmont, good to see ya," Roth cracked a toothy grin, his eyes glowing and dangerous as rain pierced his hair and ran down his face in rivers. "Welcome back."

"Seems you've done quite a bit in my absence," Amadeus commented idly. They were standing on the top tier of the estate house—which served as a look out so they could see almost every inch of the estate. Cautiously, his eyes checked all horizons. They were too dark to make out except in flashes when lightning streaked the sky, but Amadeus saw nothing but the shadows of trees.

"I have, I've been looking a lot at our options, here. From my predictions, we have too major weaknesses here—this side and the Western side of the estate. They are the least fortified and would prove easy to conquer by siege towers, catapults, and scaling ladders."

"And that's why you're building trenches."

"Aye, keen eye," Roth clicked his tongue, "That ought to slow them down quite a bit. Unfortunately, they're bound to be bringing heavy mortars and equipment with them. Their cavalry easily doubles the size of ours, but that's where we're going to trip them a little bit. We're going to pretend we don't have a damn cavalry. They don't know any different."

Amadeus' eyebrows rose for a minute, but quickly relaxed into a neutral position when he finally understood. "So, you're going to have the cavalry ride out and what? Swing around behind the royal army to pierce them from behind their ranks?" It was a quick, gritty, ill-thought out plan, but they didn't have much time for strategy. Minutes were slipping away faster as time went on, so it felt, and he couldn't imagine Peter's army was lagging behind. After all, they had spotted (and engaged) scout soldiers, meaning their central army, or at least a division of it, lagged only a day or two behind.

"Precisely, that's where you're going to come in. I have already organized you're horse."

"And how many head exactly do you have in your cavalry, if you don't mind me ask?"

"Ehhh," Roth flipped his hand back and forth, sending water shooing out of it, "Three hundred, more or less."

"Three hundred…" Amadeus snorted, glancing back to the front of the estate that was now encroached in soldiers. They quickly spilled out into the surrounding village—building trenches, organizing, fortifying.

"Three hundred."

Amadeus scratched a hand through his hair, pushing the locks away from his face and slicking them back. "Hiding three hundred horse and rider and wrapping them around an army isn't easy."

"Never said it was going to be easy. You'll do fine. You'll ride out at daybreak. I have sent scouts out to survey the direction from which his army should be approaching."

"Then we sit and wait."

"Precisely, then we sit and wait."

 

[Meraki]

It was a slow process to move toxins out of your body.

Fira was feeling the worst of it, fever raging and lungs constricted at the break of day. She thought, at first, that she would vomit but instead she just ended up coughing pathetically — the barking noise drowning out anything else in the room. No one stayed with her, except Tommen moved in and out sometimes to refill her water and test it in front of her. He placed it with haste far enough on the end table that Fira could not reach it. After cursing quite audibly a few times, Fira moved to try and reach for the glass.

She nearly had it when the sound of yells echoed through the halls. she accidentally knocked it over, sending the glass shattering against the floor and the adrenaline she had felt during her near-assassination came back full force. She slipped Amadeus' jacket over her shoulders and placed her feet down on the cold floor, stumbling and falling before managing to muscle her way up. The movement took all of the wind out of her lungs, leaving her near gasping for breath as she moved, but the door was not locked. She promised Amadeus. She swore to him that she would be safe.

Fira was just to the door when she heard yelling, screaming, and she recognized a voice in the mess of t it all. Calliope. Fira moved to open the door, the image of Tommen slain on the floor of the hallway sending her stomach to wretch. she was barely able to stand, barely breathing, but Calliope was there, only strides in front of her. "C—" she tried to call out, knowing how important the woman was to Amadeus, and yanked her with every ounce of strength she had back towards the room and slammed the door — pulling the lock down.

Calliope was yelling something, trying communicate something, but Fira's heart beat in her ears so violently that she felt nauseous. What was happening? Men in the estate. That much she could figure out from Calliope's words and Fira crumpled to her knees, back against the door for a moment as she caught her breath desperately. She was near heaving. "Your Majesty!" Calliope snapped at her and broke her out of her haze.

Fira looked up at her wide eyed, "Ama—"

"He isn't here!" she called out and suddenly Fira had the worst headache she could imagine. Of course hew wasn't damn there. He was out fighting the actual war and they were in here hiding from a few men. If she just had her two good hands, she would have — ugh. Fira unlocked the door and opened it just slightly enough to look out and see that there was no one there, and she near crawled over to Tommen to get his sword.

Calliope followed out, but as Fira tried to move them back to the room, yells could be heard and then the sound of skin being sliced. A sickening deep sound that made her sick to her stomach and in a moment, she saw the Duke's form fall from around the corner, his bloodied expression still as his blood pooled beneath him. Calliope's screams shook Fira to the core but she pushed the woman towards the safe room, slamming the door and dead bolting it.

She couldn't do anything. God, she couldn't do a thing about it.

And as Calliope cried out in rage at Fira, she just collapsed over exhausted against the door and felt the fever overcome her. The Duke was lost. He was dead. She could not die too, as much as she hated herself for slamming that door. She had promised Amadeus — she promised the Kingdom the day she left the castle. She could not die, but tears welled up in her eyes, never falling because she was not the widow in the room.

Calliope would never forgive her and she shouldn't. She brought these men here, but she needed to protect them. So she sat with the sword in hand, despite being nearly unconscious. The way Calliope gripped at the fabric of Amadeus' jacket was vicious and predatory.

You, she just kept hearing Calliope say, you did this.

And it broke her heart.

 

[Nav]

Men screamed in pain, clutching their grievous wounds as bows twang sending snakes of death into the never ending army. The estate walls stood high, defiant in face of such a ferocious siege weapons. Its proud back remained straight against every onslaught. The siege towers lumbered on slowly at a snail pace. Fire! a commander would yell and suddenly catapults unleashed waves of death, destroying siege weapons and burning men alike. The rain had continued through the night and into the next day. It was only about noon, Amadeus figured, just in time for lunch. The rain was unaffected by such chaos.

Catapults and trebeuchets fired from both sides furiously trying to gain the advantage. Rams battered the gate as oil ran down the feet of men who ran and fought in anguish—they screamed until they rested into nothingness. The battle continued.

Early that day, at sunrise, Amadeus had mounted Bo and with the help of squadron leaders, had successfully made a cavalry of six hundred men and horses vanish. They rode North mostly, swinging up and around the direction they had come from Calliope's estate. The ground was flatter that direction, easier for horses to work over. Their hooves gripped the rocks as they trotted—thunderous in their movements. Naturally, it was only after they departed that Amadeus began to wonder if they had been wrong. If Peter's army came from any other direction, they would have been royally defeated. Even if the plan went perfectly, Amadeus wasn't convinced they had the guts and power to pull off a victory. Still, they marched on well into the morning.

It had been the sound of the battering rams that sent their trajectory to the West. The battle had begun and the cavalry swung around, heading back to the estate. The breadth of Peter's army was impressive—the numbers staggering as they engaged head-first against Roth's ground troops. Roth's ranks had been badly splintered in the process, struggling to keep their hold against the much larger, much more powerful foe, but as Amadeus trolled the cavalry straight through the heart of Peter's ranks, the royal army began to fall apart.

The division of their troops caused confusion and disorientation. One half of the army began to cripple and swing around into itself until Peter's troops found themselves tripping over themselves in the chaos. One would have thought that it was a battle the Duke's men would lose right away, given everything that had been set up against them, but without even really realizing it immediately, they were gaining ground. Peter's troops were being shoved from the Duke's estate, sending them scattering in small groups. They lost their central command and in a frenzy the men, unsure of what to do, began to flee the battlefield.

In the swell of men, horses, and clashing armor, Amadeus had been lost. He had dismounted from Bo at some point, the horse injured. At some point, he couldn't even tell where his blood ended and the blood of his opponent's began. He was soaked… in rain and red warpaint.

Through the entirety of the day, the battle raged on… well into night, but eventually the clangor of swords had died away. The shouting of the slaughter was hushed; silence lay on the rest-stained mud. The pale bleak sun that glittered so blindingly from the ice-fields and the snow-covered peaks of the distant mountains to announce the arrival of morning struck sheens of silver from rent corselet and broken blade, where the dead lay in heaps. Peter's men, the Duke's men… they looked all the same in death. Just on the break of morning, the remaining royal army's commanders issued a withdrawal. It wasn't an entire defeat as they recoiled back from where they had come to regroup. They'd return soon, of that Amadeus was sure, and wouldn't be fooled by such fire and brimstone guerilla techniques. All he knew was that Fira must leave the estate… immediately.

Roth's men were just as divided and were scrambling to get themselves together. Amadeus' hand came up to his chest, standing about two miles away from the estate. He could see the house, but it was buried still in the rolling hill of the garden out front. He pulled his hand away, looking down at the red hand print.

He was hurt.

 

[Meraki]

Fira would have passed out, if not for Calliope's harsh words.

She pounded on Fira, gripping Amadeus jacket and her screams were broken and full of rage. She hated Fira, with good reason. None of this would have happened if Fira had just let herself die at Peter's hand. Calliope would not be suffering, the Duke would not be dead, she would have never walked back (fell back) into Amadeus' life and he would be in Inverness with his family. Houses would not be burning, the fields would not be drenched with blood, and as much as she tried to convince herself that what needed to be done was being done — it weighed so deeply on her heart that poison or not she could not breathe.

Instead, she just let Calliope rip her apart, belittling her until Fira felt about as small as an ant. Would things have been different if she fought? If she trusted no one and hardened herself like Peter had? She felt hands grip her before she was thrown down to the ground, her lungs reacting with a series of painful coughs. Calliope broke past her, opened the door and looked down at the young Queen who was sputtering up blood with every overexerted cough.

Good, was all Fira heard.

Fira was about to react, to call for Calliope, to bring her back but she could see the forms of the Duke's men who survived having secured the estate once more. Calliope left, and Fira was abandoned on the floor, unable to breathe and clutching whatever she could to help ease the pain. The guards rushed to help her immediately, unsure of what to do or whether or not to pick her up. "C-Call—" Fira started but she could not finish and immediately some of the guards went for the Duke's wife.

"Breathe, Your Majesty," one of the guards instructed kindly but a tad bit desperately, "I will take you back to bed."

"I'm s—"

"Get her water!" he called out and scooped her up, "You protected the Lady Calliope and kept yourself safe, Your Majesty. There was nothing more you could do."

Even if that were true. Fira could not find its in her soul to believe it. And for once, she did not fight the feverish haze as it overcame her. She needed rest, she just needed rest.

 

[Nav]

He wanted his horse. He wanted to ensure Bo was OK, but he couldn't pick out the grey in the haze. His eyes searched up and down as he moved, slow and pained, looking for the grey—fallen or upright. There were dead horses scattered amongst the dead men. There were living horses, too, some standing frightened and panicked amid what was left of the battle. Their saddles were stained, their coats too. A few remained calm, still being ridden, as the long process of shock began to undulate through the men. It was too early to begin the clean up. They just stood and shook in their boots.

He looked over every horse he could find and not one was Bo. Desperate, he wished to stay out longer to find him, as the horse had only seen battle because of him, but there were more important things on his plate. His hand continued to apply pressure to his chest, trying to fight the blood seeping through the wound with tightly clenched fingers, but the red syrup oozed through the cracks all the same. The blood flowed like lazy rivers below his feet. It flowed so much red gravy across the earth and down into the stone gullies that every seemed to have a red tint to it. The rain could not rain hard enough to wash it away.

He still felt no pain though. He knew he should, but he hadn't even assessed his wounds. He looked a mess—his face caked in dirt and blood, but he felt nothing, only the numb tingle of awareness at every inch in the extremities of his limbs. He stumbled up to the estate house and slipped inside. No one paid him any mind for a bit; they were too busy. He looked… barren. He felt distressed but was too much in shock to understand what had happened. He had seen war before. He had seen battles before, but this was unlike anything he had ever seen. This was a slaughter. This was the inferno.

"Master Osmont!" a familiar voice rang out and his eyes darted up, seeing Roth approaching him in his pressed uniform and sterling brass. Not a spot of blood had touched him; his hands and body were clean of the blood of the battlefield.

"Commander Roth—" Amadeus breathed out and straightened his spine, wincing with a soft grunt.

"The Duke has been killed."

"Wait," suddenly Amadeus snapped up to attention, "And what of Fi—what of the Queen?"

 

[Meraki]

She dreamed of blood.

It was a dream she had more often than she cared to admit. They had finally made it to the palace, finally ready to face Peter, and Fira was in a dress. One of those flouncy and proper gowns her father always insisted she wore, her hair long and tied up in intricate curls, her hands soft as though nothing had changed. The countryside was red, the snow covered in the blood of the people who fought back against a King who would not lose. She was alone against him, standing on a balcony, his hand on her lower back, and he would always lean in and say the same thing to her.

What a mess you've made, Princess.

And then it would start. Images of her father, of Morgan, Henry and Rosalie. Amadeus' staring back at her, his head nothing but a post on a spire outside of the castle gate — and she was unchanged. Useless. She did not need to dream of their defeat to know that in the end, Roth would leave her for last. A final offering to the people as a sign of their complete surrender. He would kill her, slowly and deliberately. She would suffer.

But it felt like nothing compared to the pain of watching someone die and knowing that you were entirely powerless to stop it. Choice could not be unmade, Fira could not control the woman who poisoned her, but she wondered when the world would give them a break, when they would feel ahead for once. Unless this was not their fight to win — no, it had to be their fight to win.

Fira woke with a series of painful coughs and found herself in the company of far more guards than she anticipated. Some were seeing to the wreckage, others fetching her water and taking orders, and one sat by her bedside and tried to uselessly wipe the droplets of blood from her pillow as Fira could not control it. She had kept herself safe, but saving Calliope had taken a lot out of her. They tried to get her to drink some water, but she was falling in and out of being coherent.

Water just sounded like an incredible painful endeavor.

 

[Nav]

Roth talked like a man of action: curt, blunt, to the point, and without concern for what all just happened. He turned briskly on a heel, leading Amadeus who was struggling to keep up through the estate that was ripped apart in a frenzy. The few bodies of the soldiers who had made it through were now being dragged out back and dumped with the rest. The maids were making haste to clean away the blood. Somewhere, Amadeus could hear Calliope crying. He knew it was her—the sound of her wails were clear and distinguished in his mind.

"Is—" he paused, "Is Lady Calliope well?"

"She's safe," Roth replied, "The loss of her husband is a grievous burden to bear. She is… as you know, a woman does not fare well without a man. They struggle to understand things, they struggle to operate alone. She'll come around, I'm sure."

Amadeus wasn't even sure what was happening anymore. So much was happening and it seemed like everyone was doing their job merely because they were scared and didn't know what else to do. He could see the maid's hands shaking as they violently scrubbed blood stains from the carpet and the walls. Finally, Roth stopped, gave the door a knock, before swinging it open. There, rested back in bed (but not the bed she had been in before and Amadeus frowned at that), was Fira. Her skin was pale and fragile and ignoring the tugging in his own chest, he stepped forward.

"Fi?" His hand fell across her forehead, feeling the heat, then slid down her cheek and neck, feeling the familiar rise and fall of her pulse in her throat. She was alive, but sleeping, but in a moment a cough had gripped her and she awoke in a terrible cough. It was worse than it had been before he left and that worried him. He hadn't gotten the story out of Roth as to what happened—only that the Duke was dead and that they had won… narrowly. Amadeus would have argued that they hadn't won at all. Their forces were ripped apart. Men were injured or dead, horses too, and much of their equipment had been lost or damaged. They had driven back Peter's forces, but for how long? How long before reinforcements arrived from the royal city?

They had barely beaten the first wave; they didn't stand a chance against anything more.

"Hey," his thumb trailed up her cheek again, trying to soothe the coughing fit out of her, "Hey, easy there." He had ignored the maid sitting at her bedside trying to hastily clean blood away. The Duke was dead and no one seemed to care who was at Fira's bedside, so long as they were a friend. No one blinked twice at Amadeus, even if he was caked in blood and smelled of war.

 

[Meraki]

All it took was his hand and she was there. Her eyes managed to focus back on him, her heart and body aching, but they were alive. He was really there. God, Calliope — the Duke — how was she supposed to explain? How could she…

Fira was alive, the coughing a terrible, awful sound, but she was very much alive. Her coughs were not from the poison worsening, but from overexertion and would simply require rest above all things. It just seemed impossible with so many dying and the fight — did they win? She opened her mouth to speak but an intake of breath caused more coughing fits to roll into one another. His thumb moved to soothe her, to ease her pain, and it did. It took a few moments, but Amadeus managed to ease her to a point where her adrenaline was more or less out of her veins and her heart was beating again evenly in her chest.

It was so much easier to breath when her nerves weren't trying to constrict her lungs and throat. "I—" she breathed out but that was all she could manage. It hurt to talk, so much in fact that her eyes started to water and her hand gripped his jacket together to her, despite the pile of blankets they had brought to try and sweat out the fever. "Ca—"

God. She was so frustrated and it showed in her eyes.

"We found the Queen collapsed in here. The intruders had broken in, killed the Duke and would have killed Lady Calliope and the Queen had she not moved to barricade the both of them in here. I am unsure where Lady Calliope is, when we found the Queen, she was alone and having trouble breathing." The guard who had tended to her informed Amadeus, his tone more informative than anything, perhaps hoping that by Amadeus' closeness he could, in fact, get Fira to drink water and breathe the way she needed to.

If she had tried, could she have saved the Duke?

Fira let her head lull tiredly to the side, her eyes fluttered up to him, almost apologetically. She had done what she could to abide by her promise and she was alive, safe, if not slightly worse for wear. What really ate at her was Calliope, but Fira knew that bridge had been burned. Calliope had said good because she did not care whether Fira lived or died. Fira wished she could loathe Calliope back, but she did not.

She was not capable of it.

Her hand reached out for him and she was surprised to feel a wetness on her skin. At first she thought the red was from her own coughs, but when she pulled it back she looked helplessly up at Amadeus. "No," she whispered, unable to process the idea that he was hurt. God, what hadn't he seen someone? Why wasn't it taken care of. "Ama—"

 

[Nav]

Fira tried her best to get out what she wanted to say, but could not. Instead, the guard stationed at her bedside did, but Amadeus passed him only a fleeting glance before looking down to the Queen. Her brows were knitted in pain and apology, but Amadeus' expression didn't change. He wasn't angry; he had nothing to be angry about. He had already told the Duke that this was a fight they could not win—and he was right, to some extent. They hadn't won, not really. Perhaps Roth claimed they were the victors by driving their opponents back, but they were not. They lost. Everyone lost.

Fira had done everything she could and more, Amadeus knew that. He was proud of her bravery and gumption, but he knew the look of guilt on her face. He understood now why Calliope was wailing, as he had found it odd earlier. Once, Calliope had told him she would never shed a tear over the death of her husband and she wasn't. She wasn't crying because she lost him, she was crying because she was angry. Angry at Fira, mostly, but it was more than anger. She was boiling in hatred so deep-seated Amadeus didn't think she'd ever see her way out of it.

"We'll worry about Calliope later," he assured her, "you need to take a deep breath. Can you do that for me?"

He hadn't slept in two days. How long had it been since he had last seen her? Since he had draped his coat over her, the same one she was currently wringing in her grip? Two days ago? It felt but a blink of an eye. Time was incoherent in his head. The battle had gone on for longer than he had believed, because it felt like a strike of disaster… all at once, impossible to avoid. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off and the pain was beginning to settle in. The physical pain, the emotional pain, the trauma. He physically winced when Fira's hand found his chest. He had already forgotten about it. He couldn't even remember what had happened. He didn't remember much.

He looked to her hand at the same time she did, her pale skin coated in a thick shine of fresh blood that meant something was still bleeding. He didn't feel lightheaded, though he couldn't decide if that was because he hadn't bled enough or because his body was still feeding on the rush.

"It's okay, I'm fine," he said, though he didn't know that for sure. He could have been run through with a sword and he wouldn't have been able to tell. Instead, he slipped his fingers through hers, closing their hands together and pressing the layer of blood between their palms. "I'm right here." He was bleeding into his coat. The forest green fabric was now staining dark, until it almost looked black. There had been medics in the group, but they were busy… busy with worse wounds, much worse wounds.

He probably could have been seen, but he had wanted to find the last two living members of his family. One down, one grey horse to go.