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exquisiteserotonin · 1 year ago

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Footsteps to Follow

Part 3: Something Between Us

Series Summary: The loss of a loved one lasts forever and every person finds different ways to heal.

Pairing: Alice York x Foodtruck owner! Joel Miller

Warnings: MATURE, this chapter is mature simply for the use of expletives. As always this series is strictly for adults and will feature violence, sex, and other mature themes. If you are UNDER 18, please DNI. MDNI!!! AU Joel Miller where there is NO outbreak. Also there is roughly a 15 year gap between Joel (42-43) and Alice (27-ish)

Word Count: ~2.3K

A/N: My little Dave York adjacent universe/Alice York's Wonderland (TM) is growing. So much character and relationship building. This is part is pure romance and fluff, mixed in with the tiniest bit of angst. Thank you for everyone who is encouraging me on this series.

So much love to the Collective. 🧃💜

@youandmeand5bucks @magpiepills @pink-whiskey-woman @legendary-pink-dot @arcanefox207 @sparklefarts38 @redhotkitchen @imalrightllama

Taglist: @drewharrisonwriter

Also if you would like to be added to the taglist for updates on this one, please let me know!

The morning sun began to take her respite as the moon began to rise gloriously to the sky. The last beams of sun danced with each wave of the river, their lights shimmering against the dusky sky. City lights zoomed past Alice’s window, becoming colorful neon streamers as she drove. The muffled rumbling of her car’s engine along with the zooms and swooshes of the traffic were the soundtrack to the backdrop of the city skyline. In one place or another along the Eastern seaboard, people were winding down from long workdays, some sitting down to dinner alone, some with significant others, and some with families. Still others were coming alive, freed from the shackles of their 9 to 5 grind, indulging in conversation, drinks, and overnight rendezvous.

Alice was awake and alive by biological standards, well-rested enough from her “excursion” to France to confidently meet her duties at her “day job” as a nurse at one of the biggest hospitals in the city. As far as jobs were concerned, it was the perfect cover for her “contract” work. She was at the hospital less days than she was at home during the week. Her medical knowledge came in handy for any injuries she might suffer in the field. The sharp and painful memories where she had to stitch her own injuries were sparse but unforgettable. She had even worked out that in the unthinkable event she got stuck after finishing a job, she could easily pass herself as a passerby with first responder medical knowledge.

After arriving in the parking garage, Alice walked in through automatic sliding glass doors. Her sneakers squeaked against the clean, beige colored floors of the hospital. The bright lights, tall windows, and light-colored walls stood in contrast to the darkening sky. She made her way to the women’s locker room of her department, tossing her purse and backpack in her locker before making her way to the nurses’ station.

“Hey Alice,” greeted Joanna, a pretty, blonde co-worker with kind blue eyes. “How was your visit with your family?”

“It was…brief,” she answered, carefully choosing the word to describe her time with them.

“That bad, huh?” Joanna grimaced.

“Well, family isn’t always blood, is it?” Alice mused as she rubbed her thumb along the pen in her right-hand pocket. “Anyway, any interesting patients I should be on the lookout for?”

“Nothing terribly interesting,” Joanna replied, but her eyes quickly transformed and glimmered with excitement. “There’s one patient in 512 with a head injury from a bar fight; he’s kinda cute.”

“A head injury from a bar fight?” Alice asked, raising her left brow. “Sounds like a real winner.”

“Ok, Miss Judgey!” Joanna teased. “No wonder you’re single.”

“It’s a valid lifestyle choice,” she shrugged her shoulders with nonchalance. “I’m going to start my rounds.”

A lightness lived within Alice whenever she worked at the hospital. It carried her along to each patient in her care. It often perplexed her how she could so easily flip from one side of a coin to another. Trying to reconcile her violent acts with her duty to treat, save, and comfort patients, some who were even facing death, was a heavy process. The tight feeling of anxiety squeezed at her shoulders and chest, in response she took a few cooling and cleansing breaths in and out through her nose as she walked in and out of patient rooms.

Like her contract work, Alice never knew what one shift would be like from one day to the next. There were days that were more intense than others. Keeping a needle sized focus on treating her patients was the easy part. The sea of emotions that ebbed and flowed, sometimes crashing like in a storm, was the most challenging. There were days when patients wailed out in pain while family members cried, and still others took out their frustrations on her and the other nurses with anger, anxiety, and fear. And then there were the doctors and older nurses, who somehow believed that by mere virtue of their years of experience and so-called ‘seniority’ that they had the right to bark out orders and belittle her. Yet it was the quiet moments that filled her: the simple touch of a patient’s hand as she held it for as long as they needed, the desperate hug a family member fell into when they had no words for their despair or relief, or when she and her coworkers quite literally had to lean each other because the stress was just too much. Truthfully, she’d take this stress any day over her contract work.

Alice tucked her pocket-sized notebook back into the deep, front pocket of her wine-colored scrubs and moved onto the next room, 512. The patient folder was tucked safely into the wall-mounted box just outside the door. The patient’s name was clearly printed on a label on the outside of the file: Miller, T.

Alice read the notes inside his medical record, noting he had been transported to the hospital due to injuries from a bar fight. The scribbled, but legible notes indicated trauma to the head, ribs, and back. The inner monologue in her brain took note of things that she needed to look out for, but walked in with the knowledge that she needed to make sure that the patient was recovering well from his concussion.

The room was mostly dark as she stepped in save for the lights of the monitor her patient was connected to and a dim light behind the bed. Hearing some light snoring, she stepped quietly inside, calling to her new patient from the door.

“Mr. Miller?” she called, “Mr. Miller, are you awake?”

She stepped fully inside, looking behind her as she closed the heavy room door. As she turned around, she heard shuffling and noticed the barely illuminated form of someone in the reclining chair next to the bed. A family member, significant other, or friend she surmised.

“Hi, don’t mind me, Mr. Miller I’m just doing r—rounds and---” Alice’s voice vacillated when she saw a man turn towards her, “oh my goodness---Joel? It’s Joel, right?”

He stopped himself in his tracks, hands smoothing down the back of jeans. His eyes squinted at her in recognition while his mouth dropped open in pleasant surprise.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting,” she stammered. “I’m Alice; do you remember---?”

“‘Course I remember you,” Joel nodded as he stepped towards her. “You’ve got that kinda face---sorta hard to forget.”

Alice looked up at him with half intrigue, half suspicion. She moved past him and quietly approached her patient’s bed, “I’m assuming this is your---”

“Brother,” he answered quickly, with a cough to clear his throat, “Tommy’s my brother.”

The temptation to focus on Joel dangled before her like bait hanging from a hook. Much like her activities in Paris, she dodged it deftly as she lightly pressed the pads of her fingers to Tommy’s wrist to count his pulse. On his face, his injuries weren’t so bad except for a black eye and a lumpy bruise on his forehead. She examined him with gentle touches, brushing a wisp of his black curls from his forehead. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled a temporal thermometer and held it just above the center of his forehead until it beeped.

“No fever,” she related to Joel. “That’s a good sign.”

She looked at the vitals on his health monitor, scribbling in her pocket notebook as Joel watched her intently from the other side of the bed. His hands gripped the handles of the bed so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“How has he been?” Alice inquired, her voice remaining even and professional, leaving Joel noticeably flustered. “Is his head doing OK? Any lingering complaints about headaches or nausea?”

“Uh--um, no ma’am,” he continued politely, “so far, so good.”

“Obviously, concussion is our biggest concern,” she informed. “I was reading the notes, looks like the injury was from a fight?”

“Yeah---it wasn’t his fault, for a change,” he replied, a twinge of frustration rattling his voice. “Some guy took a swing at this waitress. Tommy, dumbass that he is, stepped in and got the worst of it: a punch, a chair to the head. Coulda been worse, somehow me and another fella were able to break it up.”

“It’s a good thing you were there,” Alice stated as she moved in closer to look at him through the stubble on his rugged and handsome face. “Somehow, you managed to get out relatively unscathed. I hope you don’t mind.”

Alice pointed to his cheek bone, and he nodded in acquiescence to her request. She stepped closer and brought the same gentle hand that had just touched his brother’s face to the bruise that colored the left side of his own. The touch she gave him was so soothing that Joel found himself instinctually closing his eyes. Through the quiet examination, she could hear the deep, constant inhales and exhales that came from him as he breathed. It reminded her of evening waves at the beach rolling in and receding. For a moment, their eyes were compelled to meet.

“Is he gonna be alright?” Joel asked as he opened his eyes, wide and almost pleading.

“It’s a good sign that he hasn’t complained much, and he has no fever,” she answered with an informative but comforting tone. “We just have to keep monitoring him, wake him up maybe every two hours to check on him.”

Joel placed his hands at his hips, breathing out a sigh composed of equal parts hope and fear. His eyes moved to his brother becoming glassy with the inevitable onset of tears. With a long deep inhale through his nose, he fought to stifle their arrival. Alice looked carefully into his eyes, sensing a sudden familiar feeling within her. His eyes glimmered with the familiar memory of loss. She walked towards the foot of the bed as she reached into her pocket to retrieve a tissue for him. As she handed it to him, her fingers brushed lightly against the palm of his hand in understanding.

“You’re a good brother, some of us aren’t so lucky.” Alice declared, looking up at him through her lashes. “I’m on this shift until the morning; so, if Tommy, or you, need anything just buzz me.”

“I really, really appreciate it, Alice,” he said with a deep and grateful nod.

She stood in front of him, her feet moving to the side a few centimeters as they both looked at each other in an awkward silence. It was the kind of silence where the words from two people fought to fill the space between them, instead they flitted around like two birds chasing each other. A low, rumbling groan filled the space where their words wouldn’t.

“I swear to God, Joel.”

It was Tommy, speaking with exhaustion roughing up his voice,

“If you don’t fucking ask this girl to go with you for a coffee during her break, I will personally kick yer ass.”

“Mr. Miller,” Alice smiled at his interjection nearly jumping as she parted from the closeness of Joel. “You’re awake! I’m Alice, one of the nurses. How are you feeling?”

“Well, his mouth ain’t broken that’s for sure,” Joel grumbled, but at a volume loud enough to hear.

“Don’t you listen to a thing he says about me, ma’am,” Tommy sighed, grogginess still overtaking him, “it’s all a lie.”

She met Joel’s eyes with a smile and then looked back at Tommy, letting the warmth of their banter fill the air.

“Is he always this charming?” Alice asked Joel, her laugh ringing out like a melody.

“Well, that’s a helluva way to put it,” Joel replied as he rubbed his forehead.

“This conversation is a good sign,” she affirmed with a comforting nod of her head, “Mr. Miller, I already told J---I mean, your brother, that if you need anything that you can buzz me.”

“Just give him your number so he can do that, all right?” Tommy added as a grin formed on his sleepy face.

Alice laughed with a scrunch of her nose as she tucked the blanket tightly at Tommy’s sides, looking back to see Joel rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. After ensuring Tommy had everything he needed, she quietly made her way towards the door, Joel following behind her. A polite, southern sort of thing to do, she assumed. He opened the door for her, both lingering for a moment.

“So, um, coffee---,” Joel started and then squeezed his eyes closed, “shit, I’m no good at this sorta thing.”

“Ethically, I really shouldn’t,” she spoke, almost laughing at the ridiculous juxtaposition this request posed against her life itself.

No distractions, no distractions, no distractions. She heard her own voice trying to remind her, to convince her to protect herself.

“Since your brother is a patient,” she added, “some people might say I have a conflicting interest.”

“Well, my brother ain’t asking you out,” he added with a charming smile revealing itself to her, “and technically we knew each other before this; that’s gotta count for something, don’t it?”

“Ok, well, there is that loophole,” Alice entertained his thoughts with her words.

With a tenderhearted sigh, Alice reached into her pocket for her notebook and opened it to a blank page. She looked to her left and right, assuring herself that no one was observing them. The last thing she needed was a nosy nurse or doctor writing her up for an ethics violation. Quickly, she wrote her cell phone number inside along with her name before tearing it out and pressing it to Joel’s chest.

“Don’t lose this, Joel Miller,” she teased, her smile soft, refreshing, and authentic.

He watched her walk down the hall as he leaned against the doorway, “I swear on my life, I won’t, Alice York.”

#juice collective #pedro pascal character fanfiction #dave york #equalizer 2 #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #alice york's wonderland #alice york #murder daughter

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ricardian-werewolf · 3 months ago

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Take Me to War.

Chapter 1: If not to heaven, then Hand in Hand to hell.

Gwayne Hightower X Original Female Character. (slow burn, Medieval perceptions of marriage and womanhood)

Sunne in Splendour x House of the Dragon.

Word count: 3.48k words.

AN| This is the first time the author has written for Gwayne Hightower, so please be kind! The author also only has a surface level knowledge of House of the Dragon/Game of Thrones, so please be courteous when making comments or suggestions. The Author is a history student with a special interest in the Wars of the Roses and Ricardian sources, so knowledge of that period will be largely correct.

Summary:

Reeling from the battle of Bosworth Field, fifteen year old Cecily-Anne is a princess without her throne, family, or hope. Forced to play her hand with both hands tied; a seemingly mystical intercession forces her into a world that is shockingly similar to the England she knows, yet also drastically different. It is there as a mere lady in waiting, that she is forced to pick a side in a war that has been played over in her England for decades. It remains to see as to whom will come out from this "Dance of Dragons," unscathed and whole.

Tws: Brutal violence, implied sexual violence, sexism of the medieval period, religious mention, brutality.

Taglist: @lordbettany, @rmelster, @portiaadams, @mihrsuri

If you liked it, please reblog and comment! Every kind word keeps more of them coming!

Blood flecked Cecily-Anne’s face, her skirts and hands. She stared down at her palms, running them together as if she wished to clear the mess. Raising her head, she could only stare in wide-eyed horror as Henry Tudor’s sword drove its tip into her father’s chest. The crunch caused her to flinch visibly. No one had bothered to remove her from the camp, to put her into sanctuary. All of the chaos of the battle had left her here. She was supposed to have only observed the preliminary actions and then been swiftly retired to the nearby Grayfriars priory in Leicester.

But now she stood at the hands of the most likely man next to kill her.

Or wed her. He could wait, for certes. She was only ten-and-five years, not even yet showing signs of womanhood. But to a country teetering blindly towards anarchy, this was the only movement forward to solve so many problems. However, as she shifted uneasily from foot to foot. With her skirts turning soiled with the still-warm blood of her father, Cecily remembered Elizabeth Woodeville’s many daughters. Maybe he would choose one of them, and leave her well enough alone. Maybe clemency would work with this…. Bastard of a prince?

She would refuse to bend her knees and acknowledge him as the god-chosen king. No. The rite of the crown would go to Teddy. Or passing him, Meg. She would need to make arrangements, seek out Johnny and Kathryn. They would need to know of Richard’s death.

Suddenly, a hand clenched around her upper arm and she shrieked, blindly lashing out.

“My lady, please!” A voice hissed. Female, french sounding. Véronique de Crécy. Cecily looked up into the lady-servant’s face and caught the tears forming on her lashes. “Do not cry out. You have been granted the right of sanctuary with the nearby nunnery. They are doing this out of the mercy of your womanhood, Chérie.”

“Mercy?” Cecily hissed as Véronique dragged her from the battlefield. She could only watch silently with doe-wide eyes as her father’s corpse was stripped to the flesh. Then, it was dumped over the back of a steed. “No-” She began to scream, thrashing in her mother’s servant's arms. Another hand clamped over her lips, silencing her.

“Do not make a sound, Princess. Keep very, very quiet.” Francis Lovell hissed. “It is horrific, yes, but this is what Tudor dictates, and we must bend the knee or be slaughtered.” He effortlessly dragged her through the leagues of white-tented campsites to a waiting horse and litter. Mistress Burgh, who had tended to her since infancy, examined her skirts silently.

“By the holy mother-” She began, then looked into Cecily-Anne’s whitened face. “Come, lovely. We must be getting you home.”

“My F-father-” Cecily jerked her head up as she watched the white rose being put to the torch. Suddenly, the fight drained from her and she fell to her knees, the veil of her hennin swimming about her face like gossamer wings. “No, please, No!” She sobbed, wrenching off her hennin and veil with a firm tug. Her hair fell from its pins, spilling about her face.

“What is the meaning of this?” A voice sneered. “I find it most…” Cecily looked up into the face of a man who she would forever remember. Standing over her, clad in plate armour of pure silver with work of ferns and ivy was Thomas Builder, retitled Thomas Melbourne. A minor lord, he had backed her father until the end, and then revealed his hand when Tudor had taken the advantage. His eyes gleamed like emeralds in the watery sunlight shimmering overhead, and he bent down to lift her chin.

“Unfaithful to your late Father, Princess.” His voice was velvety, meant to be soothing. But it merely made Cecily more vicious, more angered. She whacked his hand aside and bared her teeth. She raised her hand, and formed a fist. Her father’s knights who had served him now formed a Testudo around her.

“Ah, princess.” Melbourne sneered again. “These men are traitors. They ought not rush to thy defence.”

“They shall.” Cecily rose on unsteadily feet, but squared her shoulders. The moment of grief within her was pushed down deep inside her, and she shut it away. She would not allow herself to show how much she hurt. He would not see how much she longed to lie down in the blood-splattered grass where her father had fallen, and implore God and his saints to take her too.

Please, Holy Mother, protect me from this man’s aims and evils. She prayed silently, her fingers sliding to the crucifix around her neck. Suddenly, she gasped as Melbourne parted the Testudo around her, ignoring the pike-axes grazing his cheeks. His hand snaked up and grasped hers. His eyes blazed with pure hate, and he grabbed the crucifix in hand. It did not burn him, which Cecily hoped it would. She could only sob as Melbourne yanked the chain forward, dragging Cecily along with it. She was pulled from the safety of her knights and thrown roughly to the ground.

Around her, a cheering and jeering group of Tudors’s soldiers had gathered. At their head was Margaret Beaufort, clad in mourner’s black. Briefly, Cecily was reminded of her mother’s poisoned words against the mother of Tudor. She flashed her teeth again, snatching out a hand to grab something. But her hand was pinned under the black-metal foot of Count Adhemar’s boot.

“There she is.” He crowed as Tudor pushed through his men and raised his visor to regard her. “What a wonderful wife she would make for you, Your grace.”

“You deem him your king?!” Cecily snarled, crying out as Melbourne grabbed her hair and pulled her head back with a sickening crack. Looking up at him from below, Cecily was able to see his lengthened canines, and she shuddered in horror. It seemed as though not only was Tudor ungodly in his mortal affairs, he consorted with demons to win him victories.

She crossed herself, murmuring the lord’s prayer under her breath.

“She should be killed, Henry.” Margaret cried. “If she is not, she is a threat to your legitimacy. Any son she bears and the blood of the Yorks remains stronger than ever.”

“There is still the matter of those two boys. Tell me-” Tudor turned now to Cecily, and stepped over her so that his legs were on either side of her hips. She looked up at him even though she couldn’t look him in the eye. Her breaths came in heavy, rapid gasps as Tudor grabbed her by the chin and lifted her head.

“Did your father kill the princes, girl?”

“No!” Cecily cried instantly.

The smack of his ringed hand to her face made Cecily cry out again. Around her, even some of Tudor’s knights were making murmurs of discontent. No one struck a princess, or made a movement against her. Yet, Cecily knew easily how vulnerable she was. With no strong woman such as her grandmother to speak in her defence, she was powerless. Véronique’s words were as good as naught.

“Then where did he put them?”

“I have no knowledge of where-” Cecily sobbed again as Tudor rained down another blow. She was saved a third as Margaret’s hand reached out and pulled Henry’s fist back. “Please, no. Do not taint your victory with such sin. God will find it distasteful.”

Please, Holy Mother, protect me from this man’s aims and evils.

Tudor glared at his mother and then Cecily. His thumb stroked her thrumming pulse point, and then he spat in her face. “Be glad that my lady mother raised me to be merciful. If I was not, I ought to put you in your place as you deserve, wench.”

Cecily shuddered.

She watched with widened, fear-filled eyes as Tudor’s men departed with their king at the head. Atop Tudor’s head was the crown of King Edward, the very crown that had been affixed to her father’s helmet. A sob burned through her lungs and she pressed her knuckles to her streaming eyes. Wrapped in the spanish silks she had been gifted as part of her engagement to Joanna of Portugal’s younger cousin, Cecily-Anne Isabel Plantagenet knew that without a doubt that she was a marked woman.

As she was helped into the litter by Véronique, Cecily watched as Tudor’s men took down the White Rose of York. Her breath hitched as the Whyte Boar of Gloucester was unpinned from her father’s command tent. His squires who’d survived the battle were lined up in order of age. She watched with wide eyes devoid of all emotion as a barber surgeon and priest went about taking confession. Then, they were beheaded in front of the spot where her father had taken mass just that morn.

The battle of Redmore Plain had lasted a scant few hours, but the impact would fester for weeks. As the wheels of the litter began to turn and Cecily’s few knights fell into step beside the litter, the princess pressed a hand to her mouth and wept without shame. She clung weakly to her mother’s crucifix and the ring on her finger that had been the coronation ring of her father’s. Tudor would forge another ring, another crown; another state.

All of the work her father had done would be ashes and cinders. The North would not go quietly, which brought her some level of comfort. But their refusal to bend the knee would bite them soon enough. Sin had come over England with the miasma of plague, and it would stay thus until either the Tudors were ousted, murdered or ran out of heirs.

Pressing her hand over her eyes again, Cecily sighed deeply.

“Write to Manuel and please inform him that the wedding is…” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Annulled. Ensure the Church knows also. I am certain they will be flooded with requests of dispensations for Tudor and whomever he chooses as his lady wife.” She looked to Véronique, who gave a quiet nod of acknowledgement.

“And you, cherie?”

“I believe I shall take a night in that nunnery you inquired for me. In the morn, we shall see where I am going. Whether it be the Tower Greene or the wilds of Bruges, I shall be excited to know.” swirling the cup of wine handed to her, Cecily drank deeply. Grief and shock had made her caustic. She would not wish to be anything other than that. As she drank more, she turned to debating in her mind how she would subvert Tudor’s wills for her execution.

She should be killed, Henry.

She is a threat to the crown!

Was that same thing not spoken of about her Aunt Elizabeth? The very woman who had seduced her uncle to the bedchamber and made him a father to several children of health and vigour? Had that not been said of her own mother, whose wealth of lands in the north along with Aunt Isabelle set up a bloodless war between her father and mad uncle George? Had the women not birthed two sickly children for both sets of parents? Had fate not delivered her brother to God’s embrace far sooner than expected? Then a scant half-year later her own mother?

Cecily smacked her hand against the wooden screen, and screamed low in her throat. She was well and truly alone, left to shoulder the burdens of a crown cracking more with each passing hour. The lords of London would throw the gates wide to the invaders, burn Crosby Place and Baynard’s to the ground. She would be bereft of a husband to-be, left to rot in a Court that would not place her in a position of honour. She would have to bend the knee to play favour, but her actions a few hours earlier would drive that thought from Tudor’s mind with the swiftness of a spring breeze.

Compline found Cecily-Anne kneeling before the altar of the Blessed Virgin Mary, her mother’s crucifix chain in her fingers. She had always found solace in prayer, not for the religious aspects, but the simple acts of running her fingers through the beads. The easy recitation of her prayers and catechisms soothed her. She always had a list in her mind of who to implore on behalf of the Father for His favour - the poor, sickly, needy. Her family members who suffered more than most came second. As part of her selfless devotion that some saw as frenetic, while others viewed it as a sign of true humility, Cecily wore a long veil and forgoed a prayer kneeler. Her heavy skirts of velvet and stiffened brocade did well enough. The order of Augustinian Canonesses had taken kindly to the young princess and put her at once into sanctuary. As an order of 1337 nuns confined to the limits of the priory’s property, they were over-delighted to have a guest. After supping in her rooms, Cecily had gone with the younger initiates to pray Compline before retiring.

As she turned her face upwards to Mary’s figure with her arms spread out in a gesture of welcome and warmth, Cecily prayed to one woman only.

Her lady mother.

“Maman, I implore you. Please, let me know that I am not in vain to ask for you. Let me know that my pain is not all I shall feel. T-there is no way forward for me that I see. You always spoke to anyone who asked that I could solve my way out of any problem the Lord put before me, and now I find myself without.” Tears dripped down her face and she angrily shook her head, slamming her fist into the floor. The nuns who prayed quietly behind her stilled in their prayers at the sound of her fist.

Cecily shot them a look and made the sign of the cross without breaking eye contact. Her devotion would be unshakable. The chapel at Middleham bore marks of her nails in the soft stone as she had poured out her grief in the days after Ned’s death. Now, she drew her nails once more down the expanse of stone. One scratch for her mother, one for her father, and another for Ned.

“Please, Maman. I beg of you, do something. I cannot live in an England that is without the security of your light, of Father’s judgement. I can only implore the Lord for why he chooses to test me.” She bowed her head again. “I beg that Father is at peace, for some knowledge that he is safe, that he is happy to be reunited with you and Ned again. Please, do not worry for me. I am as well as I can be.” She wiped a tear from her eyes. Yet, they seemed to not stop, even as she forced herself desperately to not cry in the Lord’s house.

“Child…” The Mother Superior murmured. Cecily jerked her head away. She hated to be touched, to be perceived. She brought her hand up, to quieten the woman. The blood froze in her veins suddenly as the Mother Superior grabbed her hand, and then she heard a harsh voice that was her mother’s hiss; Open your eyes!

Cecily’s eyes flew open, and she recoiled. For where the statue of Mary had stood was now a cut. A cut in the space of the room, that through it showed… another space - a field with trees in the distance. It was unheard of. No miracle such as this had ever been written of in a canonical history or court romance. Cecily’s head jerked up and she looked at the Mother Superior.

“D-do you see that?”

“Yes.” The Mother breathed, her hands clammy around Cecily’s. Her skin itched painfully and longed to tug her hand free. Yet Cecily stayed in that woman’s grasp as the Mother pulled herself up from a kneeling position. Cecily’s fingers instinctively closed tight around the crucifix chain and she ran it over her lips.

“Speak to me again, Maman.” She whispered, her lips barely moving.

Go forward. The cut will not hurt you, child.

Cecily shuffled forward, her skirts swishing as she moved. Her skirts, the ones still caked with her father’s blood. The deep blue was stained a runny wine-dark purple and caked in a scent so foul that the other nearby nuns had their noses pinched. In the flickering candlelight, they looked like demons sent from the very brimstone and fires of Hell she feared. Somewhere deep in the back of her mind, Cecily was half conscious of the fact that her mother never called her “Child.” Yet, the grief of so much loss…. Made her feel the exhaustion within her more sharply.

Crossing the nave before the altar, she stared up at the cut with widened eyes, and reached a hand out to touch it. Instead of the pain of burning or the cold of snow on a winter’s night, she felt merely warmth. Through the ugly gash, she could see waving grasses in a stiff breeze, and squinting, making out the forms of men waiting amongst the trees. Some of them were on horses, and she wondered if they could see her. What a shock they’d get!

The cut will not hurt you, child. She remembered her mother’s words spoken just moments before, and looked back at the nuns. They had gathered together in a small grouping at the back of the chapel, and amongst them she saw Véronique gripping Francis Lovell’s hand tight in hers. What stilled her suddenly was the expression on Véronique’s face - pure, unadulterated fear.

Go! Go, and do not look back, child!

Cecily’s head turned to look back at the cut and she stared once more through it, her hand still stretched out in front of her. The crucifix dangling from her hand caught the sunlight filtering through the trees, and she smelled the scent of freshly hay. Distantly, she felt as though she was back at Middleham, playing with Ned and Kathyrn and Johnny. Tears filled her eyes again and she closed them as her mind wandered.

Yes, child. Step through. You are almost home. Just another step-

Cecily could feel the sunlight on her hands; her face, and she turned her palms upwards towards the light and warmth. Yet, suddenly, the sounds of screams filled the air. Looking down, Cecily’s face turned to horror as she stepped not on freshly cut grass but blood-stained earth. An earth-shattering roar split the air as she looked up to the sight of a dragon armed with a rider opening its maw wide. A column of liquid fire flowed from its gaping jaws and set the forest before it ablaze. The men under it, clad in deep green tunics with a silver tower were swiftly enveloped in the flames and a horrific screaming sound met her ears. Throwing her hands over her ears, Cecily turned back to look for the cut.

She found it gone.

“MAMAN!” She screamed. “What is the meaning of this?!”

A test, child. You implored for my judgement.

“A TEST?!” Cecily shrieked.

I am the holy mother, all who worship me are tested in some way or another at some point. This is yours. Take with it what you will.

The warmth she’d felt turned shockingly cold, and Cecily cringed back, fear filling her veins with cold sand. Around her, men screamed, crossed swords and brutally massacred one another. Stumbling blindly, she turned whatever way was quietest, and began to stumble across the battlefield that would later be called Raven’s Rock. As she reached what she hoped was a line of tents consisting of faces who would be willing to listen to her tale, something sharp and long embedded itself in her leg.

The ground tilted dangerously under her, and Cecily’s face smashed into a jagged rock. Atop the rock’s surface she felt soft lichen caress her cheek, and barely had time to fist the crucifix more tightly into her fingers. The next moment, the darkness of injury and exhaustion washed over her with the strength of a tide, and she was dragged into its swell.

Over her head, two soldiers bearing the same uniforms she’d seen earlier discussed what to do with this princess in a tongue she didn’t know. After a few moments more, a knight with ginger hair and emerald green eyes came to survey her chaining up. He took his helmet from a squire and left at once to take up arms against a foe who was merely his sister’s closest friend and the supposed former heir of the Iron Throne. The false Queen Rhaenyra had made war against Alicent Hightower’s chosen son and it was unto this war that Princess Cecily-Anne was dragged unwillingly into. A war that was set to shape a generation and dynasty had merely changed time and space, but the rules were the same - a woman’s place was not upon the battlefield.

End of Chapter 1.

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