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leiawritesstories · 1 year ago

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1778 (My Soldier Boy)

Rowaelin Month, Day 28: Wartime Sweethearts AU

A/N: this might just be the most American thing i've ever written lmaooooo 😂😂 so here's the context: the fic is set during the American Revolutionary War, which took place from 1776-1781. Rowan is a soldier in the Continental Army (the American side) and Aelin is the only daughter of a Loyalist (sympathetic to the British) family. and they're star-crossed lovers, yay!! posting this partially as a lil birthday treat to myself but mostly for you, hope you enjoy :))

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: archaic language (i'm a nerd lol), mentions of war, old outdated traditions, mentions of battle, brief mild angst, flirting

enjoy!!!

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16th July 1778

Heart of my heart,

I write this in secret, barely able to make out my letters by the faint light of this single candle. I apologize for the sloppiness of my script; my governess would have a fit if she were to see this chicken scratch. Of course, I would then retort that she ought to have taught me to read and write in near darkness, as that is the more useful skill these days.

A few words, my love–we are leaving in three days.Yes, leaving! Mother has only said that it was what she and Father thought best, given the current…unrest. I am perfectly capable of reading the unspoken words. We are leaving because they fear what our neighbors might do while we sleep. We are leaving because the English are so hated here. We are leaving because nobody has seen or heard from my brother in months. Nobody save me, that is. I know where Aedion went, and I know what he is doing.

If you love me, Rowan, please send word that my brother is safe, that he is well clothed and has some form of roof over his head. Please. It will calm my nightly worries at least a small bit.

I do not know where we will go, only that we cannot make a scene of our leaving. We must pretend that we are only going into town like we typically do, except that our cart will be full of our belongings, rather than grain and butter to trade. I suspect we shall attempt to head east, towards the port at Baltimore, and from there we shall attempt to book passage on a ship. Father seems convinced that returning to England is the best course of action.

I do not want to leave.

They do not know that, nor do they care. It breaks my heart to admit it, but they do not. They expect me to keep quiet and obey. I have heard them discussing the possibilities of our lives once we return to Mother’s family estate in England–marriage. My marriage. To some titled landowner’s spoilt son, who gives not a whit what I want or who I am as long as I can give birth. I refuse to subject myself to such a fate.

Rowan, my love, I write this both as news and as a warning. I will not silently accompany my parents in their hasty retreat. I cannot abandon my brother in the middle of a war, nor can I leave you, the other half of my soul.

I will be waiting for you, my love. I swear it.

To whatever end,

AAG

Heart in his throat, Captain Rowan Whitethorn marched in step with his regiment up the muddy road leading into Baltimore. The bustling port city was largely unmarred by the war that continued to rage on, continuing to serve as major sea access for traders and soldiers alike. As he and the men that called him their leader entered the city proper, Rowan breathed a short, soft sigh of relief. They had two weeks of leave, unless they were called back into battle, and he fully intended to use those two weeks to the fullest.

“Enjoy your leave, men.” He saluted. “We shall regroup here in two weeks.” The blue-jacketed men broke ranks and ambled into town, most of them probably dispersing to the nearest pleasure house for a good strong drink and as many hours with a woman as their few remaining coins could buy. Rowan didn’t begrudge them their pleasure.

After years of war, they all needed whatever solace they could find. As did he.

Fingers instinctively wrapping around the small, precious bundle of letters in his jacket pocket, Rowan strolled towards the calmer part of town, the residential section not so crowded with soldiers on leave, traders, merchants, shouting vendors, and all the rest of the noise, chaos, and diverse cast of characters that populated a thriving shipping town like Baltimore. He glanced at the street markers as he walked, searching for the one with a blue stripe painted around it.

There.

Pulse hammering louder than gunfire, he turned down that street and walked past tidy clapboard houses interspersed with the occasional grocer, butcher, baker, and seamstress. He was certain every single one of the handful of people he passed could hear his thundering heartbeat, but none of them had said anything to the young man whose ragged blue jacket marked him an officer in the Continental Army who was walking up their quiet street like it was perfectly normal for him to do. One motherly lady had simply offered him a smile and a “thank you, son,” which had struck him right to the heart.

He emerged into a busier street, full of shops and taverns and public houses, the businesses bustling but not crowded with soldiers and sailors like the cheaper taverns down by the wharf were. Eyes scanning the signs, Rowan walked up the side of the street. The building he was looking for appeared suddenly in front of him. A brightly painted kingsflame flower adorned the pub’s wooden sign, its carefully wrought petals the work of a singular artist. An artist Rowan knew as well as his own heartbeat.

With his heart in his throat, Rowan walked into the pub. Immediately, a peal of soft, faintly raspy laughter caught his ear, and his attention snapped to the bar at the back of the softly-lit, cozy space. Behind the well-worn oak bartop, her golden hair tied back with a blue rag that he recognized as his own old shirt, stood the woman who owned every last shred of his heart.

Aelin Galathynius glanced over towards the door, and the whole sky lived in her vivid eyes.

Tin clattered against the bar.

Surprised grunts arose from a table full of stocky, gray-haired farmers.

And with a rush of air and a strangled gasp of his name, Aelin was in his arms, tears glittering in her eyes, warm and solid and real and clinging to him as if her life depended on it.

He was here.

Rowan was here, whole and healthy and standing on his own two legs in a much-patched blue jacket and dirt-stained trousers and battered boots, and his eyes were on her alone.

Aelin flew across the pub floor and all but leapt into her soldier boy’s arms, clinging desperately to him as if he would vanish unless she held him tight. She buried her face in his shoulder and drew in a deep lungful of his scent, the faint trace of mountain pines clinging to him even beneath the layers of sweat and grime. Hot, salty tears of joy leaked into his shirt through a tear in his jacket’s shoulder.

She felt his deep, familiar chuckle rumble beneath her ear. “Why are you crying, my love?”

“I’m crying,” she sniffled, raising her head to meet his adoring gaze, “because you smell so bloody awful that my eyes are watering.”

He tipped his head back and laughed, loud and unrestrained. “God above, I missed you.”

“I missed you more,” she returned, tracing her thumbs along the sharp juts of his cheekbones. “Every day felt like the longest one yet.”

“I’m here now,” he murmured in the soft voice he only used for her.

With tears pooled in her eyes, Aelin leant an inch forward and kissed him, her soldier boy, with all the pent-up fervor of the last several months. She’d been so terrified when her parents announced that they were leaving the Colonies, afraid that she would be uprooted from the life she’d come to love and forced to marry some stuffy lord and shut away in a manor house forever. The very idea that she would be forced to leave Rowan, her love, and Aedion, her brother, without knowing whether either of them would make it back to Baltimore unharmed was enough to disrupt her sleep. She had hardly dared to hope that her desperate escape plan would work until she stood on the pier and watched her parents’ ship depart without her on it.

Every long day of pouring pints of beer for rowdy sailors, handsy soldiers, and disruptive drunken no-goods was worth it to have her soldier boy back in her arms.

“Where–ah, Rowan!” Breathless, Aelin poked him in the ribs, pretending to disapprove of the promising way he kissed her throat. “We’re in public.”

“Let’s fix that, shall we?” He set her down onto her feet, caught her hand, and grinned. “I believe I need a bath, my love. Could you help me with that?”

“You are incorrigible,” she laughed. She pecked a quick kiss on his lips and led him out of the pub and down the streets, turning into a quiet neighborhood and leading him up the front steps of a tidy little brick cottage with a blue front door. “Please be kind about the mess.”

“I’ll show you a mess,” he whispered into her ear, far too tempting for his own good.

She flushed, her cheeks staining bright pink. “Rowan!”

“Aelin,” he mimicked. They were safely inside the house, so he looped his arms around her waist and pulled her flush against him. “I’ve been dreaming of you for months, love.”

“And you’re going to bathe before you act out any of those dreams, my love.” Giggling, she ducked out of his embrace and led him down the short hall to a washroom. “The tub is full, but it might be cold.”

“I don’t care if the water is cold.” He shrugged off his jacket and stepped out of his boots. “It’s a hell of a better bath than we get in the army.”

She sighed fondly. “I’m still going to boil some water.” He made to protest, and she placed her fingers over his mouth. “Ah-ah, soldier boy. Let me spoil you. Besides, the hot water is half for your filthy clothes.”

“Fine,” he acquiesced. He shed the rest of his dirty, worn clothing and climbed into the tepid bathwater, groaning quietly as he sank into a proper bath for the first time in too long. “Join me, love.”

“Soon.” She kissed his forehead and dropped a washrag and a bar of soap into the tub. “When you stink a little less.”

His playful growl followed her all the way out to the front room.

Following the bath–where she had indeed joined her soldier boy and taken his mind off the weight of war for a few moments–and a hearty dinner, Aelin exchanged her regular blouse and skirt for a soft cotton nightdress, braided her hair, and settled into bed with a lantern lit on the side table and a novel in her hands. Rowan was in the washroom; the faint splashing of water indicated that he was scrubbing out his uniform like he insisted he wanted to. So she opened her novel to the page where she had last left off and lost herself in the tender romance unfolding amidst the pages. She was so absorbed in the novel that she didn’t notice the mattress shifting as Rowan climbed into the bed and settled down beside her.

His soft, low chuckle drew her out of the novel-world. “Good story, Ae?”

“Wonderful,” she murmured. Reaching the end of the chapter, she placed the bookmark, closed the book, laid it aside, blew out the lantern, and tucked herself into his side, her head against his chest.

“I missed you,” he whispered after a peacefully quiet interval, stroking one hand idly up and down her back.

“And I you.” In the faint moonlight, her eyes met his, months of pent-up yearning and uncertainty glossing their turquoise depths. “I am sorry I didn’t write more.”

He soothed her worry with a gentle kiss. “I would likely have found you before your letters found me. ’Tis the life of a soldier.”

She hummed in agreement. “On that note…when did you last see Aedion?” Her older brother, whom she loved dearly but whose rashness she did not ignore, had vanished from the Galathynius home early last spring, leaving no indication of where he was going or why. Aelin alone had an idea of what he had gone to do, because he had confided his wishes to her. He had gone off to be a soldier in the Continental Army, but his unit were scouts, which meant that he could be anywhere between Philadelphia and Yorktown.

Rowan exhaled a long, controlled breath. “The last time our paths crossed was in September, at the camp outside Newport. He mentioned going south, but no details.”

“South.” Aelin rolled the idea over in her mind, forcing herself not to consider the harsher implications. “Was he…how was he?”

“Healthy, as far as I could tell, and tired, but so are all of us soldiers.” Rowan ran his hands along Aelin’s tense shoulders, encouraging her to relax. “He said to give you his love and that he’ll do unspeakably horrible things to me if I hurt you.”

Aelin laughed. “Now that sounds like Aedy. Too protective for his own good, he is.” Idly, her touch trailed along the slope of Rowan’s shoulders, tracing the new scar that slashed from his right shoulder down towards his pectoral muscle. “Tell him that I will return the unspeakably horrible favor if either one of you does anything stupid.”

“Indeed I shall.” Laughing softly, Rowan pulled Aelin flush against his chest, her heartbeat atop his, and kissed her. She sighed into the kiss, threading her fingers into his overgrown hair.

“I don’t want you to go back,” she murmured after they had separated.

He swallowed thickly. “We both know I must.”

“I know.” Her voice was a fragile thread. “I’m keeping you all to myself for the next two weeks, though. It’s only fair.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I love you, my wildfire.”

She smiled tenderly at him. “I love you too, my soldier boy.”

Mid-November, 1778

Aelin,

I apologize both for the shortness of this note and the fact that it took me so bloody long to write it. There is something I must tell you, and I can only hope that you hear it from Rowan rather than me and my paltry excuse for a letter.

We are marching to Savannah. Intelligence has it that the Redcoats intend to advance upon the city, and we cannot let the stronghold go without a fight.

I cannot promise that I will be able to write for any amount of time, and as much as I hate to do this, I leave you all my affection. I will stay as safe as possible, that I can promise. The moment I am able, I swear on my blood that I will come to you, and if possible, that I will bring Rowan.

Stay strong for us, dear sister.

Yours,

Aedion

The short note had reached her in late January of 1779, after three and a half months of ever-increasing tension and worry spurred by the grim reports coming up from the South. Before he left in mid-November, the same time Aedion’s letter was dated, Rowan had revealed that his unit was headed to Savannah to reinforce the troops already there. He had been confident that, with the extra reinforcements, the Army would be able to stave off the British–if not all on their own, then at least long enough for the shipment of French troops to arrive.

Just before the New Year, the newspapers reported Savannah’s defeat.

Since then, all Aelin had received was silence. No letters, no notes, nothing listed in the papers, no weary soldiers showing up on her doorstep. The fact that Rowan’s and Aedion’s names remained out of the papers was but a small measure of comfort; all too often, fallen soldiers’ names never made it onto the listings.

The cloth tying back her hair was black now, the only outward sign of suffering she would allow herself. The people who came into the pub noticed her quiet demeanor, the way her usual vivacious cheer was dampened, and passed quiet condolences to her across the worn oak bartop–a squeeze of the hand, a mourning mother’s shared tears, a word of comfort, a “thank-you” from someone who rarely spoke those words. It lifted her spirits a bit, but not much.

Every night, she trudged home to her quiet little house, cradled a small watercolor portrait of Rowan–done a year ago, it was the only portrait she’d ever convinced him to sit for–stared down into his painted face, and refused to let her captive tears fall. Though her heart and soul ached for her soldier boy, though her sleep was disturbed by nightmarish imaginings of what could have happened or could be happening to him, she refused to let her tears fall until she knew his fate for certain.

If nothing else, she owed him--and the child just beginning to stir inside her womb--that fragile hope.

~~~

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#my writing #rowaelin month #rowaelinmonth #rowaelin month 2023 #rowaelin #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass au #revolutionary war au #american revolution #happy birthday to me

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ms-march · 4 months ago

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TURN WEEK: Medieval AU Crossover with SS:SP!

Why haven’t I been writing LBL recently ( for about year really) you ask? This is why. This AU has occupied so much space in my head it is so banger if I ever to get around to writing more of it TRUST you all will see it. @tallmadgeandtea and I have been going insane over a TURN crossover medieval au for a while now & Yes, that is Ser Harwin Stong as a FC for Thaddeus Kosciusko. 😅

Her head was spinning. It had been for days. Weeks even. She had not been able to consume food that didn’t leave her feeling nauseous for days. He started to make her join him in eating. It was the only way he could ensure she did not starve herself.

The capital had been taken days ago, and the new king and his court of traitors had occupied the rooms that did not belong to them since they arrived. Andre was dead. She knew that. No one would tell her, not the guards at the door of the apartments she resided in, not George, whose rooms she stayed in instead of her own for safety. She had not heard from nor seen Ban since this wanna-be king had arrived. With Andre dead, he was king. With Andre dead, she was the closest thing to a Queen Consort they had. This had been the status quo for weeks now.

The engaged pair were kept in separate wings of the castle. Not a word to be exchanged between them.

Thinking of it made her sick to her stomach.

It made her head spin.

George would not answer any of her questions. She would go mad with questions. Or she would go mad with fear. She still wore her fiance's engagement ring and donned dresses of Fairfax green and the deep blood red of the royal household as any Queen Consort should. George wore a horrible blue at each one of their meals. The sight nauseated her. It made her head spin. Adrienne had been so used to seeing him donned in royal military red, a Colonel in the army they had slaughtered. She was distressed by the blue. It wasn’t just George’s clothes. It was the banners in the courtyard—the guards at the gate.

All of it. It made her head spin.

And George watched her, carefully, like she was still on strings, like she might try to dash out the door or toss herself from a window. It nauseated her, this illusion of freedom. She didn’t wear shackles, yet. How long would it be? Another week? A few days? The waiting would make her go mad.

That commotion in the courtyard would make her go mad. What on earth could these people be doing now?

Adrienne made her way from the sofa, abandoning her embroidery in its hoop, leaving George there to pretend he was reading a book whose page he hadn’t flipped in fifteen minutes. The silence of the sitting room, the lack of conversation between them, allowed her to hear the commotion happening outside the window below her. She had not expected the sight before her when she approached the window. She had not accounted for any such thing, for surely, as Kingmaker, George would attend any kind of execution, any kind of formal state toppling.

Was that why he had been unable to read his book? The knowledge of death?

Was that the reason for his silence? Was he ashamed? Was he too cowardly to tell her? Did he fear it would escape if he uttered a sound?

Adrienne’s head was spinning. It had been for days. Weeks even.

Were her ears ringing?

She was sick to her stomach again at the sight in the courtyard before her. Banastre was in the courtyard in simple black wool. In chains. The Prince—no, he was the King now— in chains, and an executioner's block at the end of his path. She saw the sword in a black figure’s hands. Oh God, they were going to kill him.

Oh God, she was going to be sick.

Adrienne’s feet wouldn’t move, though. Her eyes couldn’t be torn from Tarleton, no matter how desperately she wanted to look away. She couldn’t do anything but watch. It nauseated her. Her head was spinning. Her ears were ringing.

She almost didn’t hear the dull thud of the sword on the block when it cut through his neck.

George called out to her before the second stroke. His command for her to come away from the window fell on her ears like an echo. She made no association between the man in the room with her and the words that were being ordered. He made his way to her side, grimacing at the sight in the courtyard of the severed head of a boy he knew. He reached out to her hand, which had gripped his curtains as though it was life or death for her. He had to pry the fabric from her fingers. He had to pretend it was fine.

How could she do that?

Adrienne was horrified. She had seen her fiance’s head hacked off his shoulders, and she hadn’t been blessed enough to faint at the sight of it. She felt faint. She felt nauseous. She felt like she was crying. She was in shock. Adrienne was horrified. Horrified at the scene in the courtyard. Horrified at the death of her intended. Horrified at George and all the other traitors who had allowed this to happen. Horrified that she would soon be next. When George finally pried her fingers from the curtains, Adrienne began to be conscious of her panic. Her fear. Her tears.

“Why would they do that,” Adrienne whispered as George pulled her feet from before the window, her voice becoming more hysteric the more she spoke, “Why would you do that? Why allow him to die?”

George had served a different banner than that horrible blue for the longest time. What had changed in this man she thought she knew, that he would allow the heir he knew since the heir was but a child to die. What had become of the man she knew? What would become of her if he would not have qualm with killing Banastre? Was she next? She had to be. Tarelton had been king, heir apparent, and she the closest thing left to Queen Consort there was. Would they behead her too? Or would she be tortured? Assaulted? Which would kill her easier? Which would be most painless?

“He is more just,” was all George could give as a poor excuse for his betrayal and his cowardice, “He is better. He won his contest-“

“How could you allow this madness?” Adrienne was going to go mad before they killed her. The shock and the fear were enough to do that. She was afraid. How could he claim the servant boy to be just?

“He is more just-“

“Is this just?” Adrienne questioned, her tone harsh among its distress, “Was that Justice?”

“Adrienne-“

“How is that Justice?” She exclaimed, “He has done nothing-”

“You know why it had to be done.” George said solemnly, wrapping her hysterical figure in his arms, “He will be just, and he will be fair, and he will be better.”

Better.

This was a cruel, sick jest. Better? How could the man before her, so clearly lost, know which boy—neither who had ever ruled—would be better of a King? The man before her was a coward. A traitor. And-

“Dear God.” she whispered, disgusted, “Your treachery nauseates me.”

“It is no longer treachery.”

With him dead, George was right. There was no man he was treasonous to. No man remained breathing to make such accusations. Adrienne’s head was spinning, her nausea overtaking her, causing her to stumble into a chair.

“Yes, it is” she replied distantly, shocked and stunned into near silence at his blatant disregard, “You can lie to yourself all you’d like. It won’t make your deeds less heinous, your treachery more justified.”

“Adrienne-“

“You killed him! He’s done nothing, and you killed him!!”

God, she was going to be sick.

She was going to die here like this. Her nausea would overwhelm her, and it would never cease till she too was lifeless, blood at the corners of her mouth, like Tarleton. Like Andre. Adrienne felt the bile rise to her throat, but the only thing that came out was the burning tears of acid rolling painfully down her face. It was too much. The sensation of the tears, the bile in her throat, the scene in the courtyard, George's terrible, awful blue that was everywhere she looked all the time. The sound of the chains through the window, the horrible thud the block made when the sword made contact with it, better. It was enough to drive anyone mad.

It would drive her mad.

Could she breathe? Why couldn’t she breathe?

Would this be the thing to kill her? Was that their plan? She would go mad—go into shock—at such a gory sight that she would stop breathing. The servant king’s hands would be clean of her blood. Could George have lived with it? If George hadn’t pulled her away from the window, would she have jumped?

Did she say something?

George was speaking to her, trying to calm her, trying to soothe her panic, her fear, and her rage. She couldn't breathe. Had she been choking out words this whole time?

She had choked out a terrified plea to be spared. She had choked out an angry accusation that they will kill her. George called for guards, he was becoming old in age and with Adrienne’s body doing as it pleased with no regard for her wishes, he could not wrangle her to her room alone. She did not want guards. The clamor of the armor and the chainmail was too much like the sound of cuffed chains.

It was too overwhelming.

Adrienne’s head was spinning. Her ears rang. Tears spilled down her cheeks like acid rain. She couldn’t breathe. She was nauseous. God, she was going to be sick.

Adrienne stayed like that for a few days. A week maybe. Possibly more. Crying, sick to her stomach, and silent. She rarely uttered a word. George would try to speak to her but to no avail. She did not want his words. She wanted to go home, away from here. She wanted to know what was happening. George could give her neither.

He still tried to keep her spirit up. He still made sure he knew when, how much, and of what she ate. Occasionally he would send in one of his traitors. Foreigners, usually.

Some faces she knew, others she had never seen. It made no difference. She glowered in silence at both. She had no plan of associating with traitors and murderers alike. She would not stoop so low. Her anger—her fury—at their deeds would not let her.

She only ate out of fear. She never finished out of fear, too.

She could not starve herself, that much she knew. George would never allow it. Her death—whenever it was to come—had to be at the pretender King’s hand. It had to be political. It had to be “morally” right.

She had no agency here.

She would rather eat and risk poison than be subjected to having meals force-fed to her. She would not be manhandled by these people.

She wanted to go home.

Her head was pounding, and when it wasn’t pounding, it was spinning, making her feel faint and nauseous. Her bedroom door creaked open, and she did not even blink at it. She had already eaten breakfast today. Was George dissatisfied with what she had eaten? Had he come to stuff food down her throat? Or had they come to take her to the execution block next? Or would they make her await death in prison?

“Lady Fairfax,” it was William Lee, George’s manservant. Was there a different option she had failed to consider? William had always been too polite. Had he been sent to poison her? Would he apologize to her before he did it? “The Baron wishes to see you in his office.”

The Baron. George.

The traitor had an office.

The traitor joined with murderers for an office.

“I do not wish to see him,” she croaked, “Do tell him such. I have already eaten today, I cannot stomach a traitor.”

“I am sorry, my lady," he said, giving her the apology she had been waiting for, “But I have orders not to accept any answer declining his wish.”

The Baron. He had been a Sir before they chopped off Tarelton’s head. He had betrayed every one of his friends and his country—he had become Kingmaker—all for an additional room and a singular title raise. Coward. He had sent his manservant to collect her for a purpose he likely did not specify to William. He was not brave enough to do it himself. Coward.

William offered her his hand to help her up from the chaise she sat on, and—having no other choice—she took it. “You must forgive me, my lady,” he said to her as they made their way out to the hallway, a place Adrienne had not entered since she was brought to George's apartments, where they met an escort of guards. Armored and armed. That horrible clink of the chainmail on their bodies set her on edge. “It was insisted upon,” William explained, “By His Grace’s counsel. You are not going to be harmed, I will be traveling with you.” It put her on edge, that godforsaken clinking sound.

It was reassuring not to be alone now.

“You speak like we are traveling cross-country, William,” Adrienne said quietly, “It is only down a few halls.”

Halls she knew well, but could not help but feel like they were new. The tapestries of triumphs and banners and shields of red and gold that had once decorated them were gone, replaced by blue and white and silver at every turn. The suits of armor had been polished, and the weaponry removed. Was that because of her? Or were there others they worried about? Who remained alive still?

The fresh air and exercise of their walk should have made her nausea go away, but it made no effect. The hallways were nearly empty, and the horrible clanking of metal and their feet on the stone floor was the only thing to be heard echoing off the walls. Even the traitors were afraid of their actions. The deposition of a King in such a manner would not go unnoticed by the God who placed him there. Did these cowards fear God more than their servant King? Did they stay because they feared his hand too much to run? Or did they stay because they feared God’s power outside these walls of stone? They would bring down the walls on all who inhabit the castle eventually. God's wrath cannot be hidden from.

Her wrath made her nauseous. Which was worse: the deserted hallways that traitors were too scared to show their faces in that she was now faced with or entering into a bustling hall of celebrators? Which should she prefer?

Her stomach would have neither. Adrienne’s head was spinning, and when it wasn’t spinning, it was pounding. She hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, was that why she felt faint?

The company stopped in front of a solid door upon which one of the men rapped upon before opening it and ushering Adrienne and William inside. They did not enter with them, but rather waited. The group would seemingly push on. The Baron’s office was not their final destination after all. What a peculiar death march this was. She wondered how her death would come. What method would this questionable King use? Was he the sadist kind? Would he see her body mutilated by methods of torture till it could take no more? Or was he merciful? Adrienne doubted it was the latter. She had witnessed what the mongrel had done to Tarelton, like it or not.

“Ah,” George spoke, looking up at her as William ushered her through a second door, behind which George sat behind a desk of solid oak, “Adrienne. Please, come in, take a seat.”

The Baron.

The very thought nauseated her. She was going to be sick from this wicked display.

“George, or ought I to greet you as a Baron now?“ she said, moving her skirts to sit with grace as if she had not spent the morning staring at the pattern of the carpet in her room. As if there had been no war and this was a social call. As if her side of the war had not most recently lost. “It is a minor promotion for the Kingmaker, but I am sure you will make do.”

“How kind,” the man behind the desk replied dryly, “but I would have us discuss other things. Things more pertinent and pressing.” George stood up, walking to the large series of windows streaming light into the room as he continued without waiting for her response. “You must surely know by now that your world will be quite different from now on,” he began, stating the most obvious of things he could have. She wanted to know different- how. How would her life be different? What had happened? She wanted answers, and the pair had sat in silence for weeks because he could not provide her with any. He had not been permitted. What had changed?

“Have you summoned me to report my father’s death now?” Adrienne asked. It was very reasonable. Very logical. Life without her father—without the protection of his title and his peerage—would be most different indeed. So many had fled or been killed. Had he joined in their numbers? “Or have I been summoned so you may inform me that I am to be next?”

They would kill her eventually. She knew it.

Banastre had his head hacked off for his birth. Adrienne’s could very well be next.

“Neither,” George replied, ignoring the bite in her tone, “Though this has some to do with your father.”

“It does?”

“There was a ransom posted for you,” he continued, turning around to look at her like her head was not spinning like her ears were not ringing, “A tribute.”

Ransom. Tribute.

Tarleton had been parted from this world for crimes against this new King she too had committed—the engagement band of gold and the ruby resting upon it that still resided on her hand vouched for that. Yet he had been killed, and she remained untouched.

Her head was spinning, and the words rang in her ears like echoes in the abandoned halls of this once-bustling castle. “Then I am to be returned to him?” Adrienne asked, “Safely?”

And he stopped before he spoke. Paused. Hesitated. “Not quite.”

Adrienne wanted answers. All she had wanted for weeks was answers. She wanted to know what was happening. She still did not understand what was happening. Even now, and it infuriated her.

“What do you mean?”

“Your father gave His Grace a counteroffer to tribute.” George spoke hesitantly, lowering himself into the chair behind the desk once more, “You.”

Adrienne’s head was spinning, and she was nauseous. God, she was going to be sick. Was this room spinning? Poison would be a better date. Choking on her own bile would be kinder than being sold like a calf at market to the highest bidder. Was this new King a masochist? Or was he truly so heinous and odiously appearing that such a proposition would be accepted?

“He would-“ she stuttered, shocked, “He would offer me as a wife-”

“Not a wife, no,” George clarified quickly, causing her heart to sink and confusion to flood her mind once more. “Your Father’s own words were: “a servant for a servant” if I remember correctly.”

It was clever of him—the analogy. A servant for a servant. It was so clever she almost overlooked its severity.

“He would sell me off as a servant?” She asked, disgust and anger pulling her from shock and horror, “For the man who so slaughtered my fiancé? For the traitors who now run this court?”

God, she was going to be sick. She felt faint, and the room had not ceased spinning. George had sold his country out for an additional room and a singular promotion of title. Adrienne’s father—Sir William Fairfax of Denton, Yorkshire, Dorothy Gale, and Cameron, it would be a tale to say the titles and riches were not many—had sold his family off for what? What had he been offered for her humiliation? How could he have taken it?

“He has been offered full political immunity in return,” the Baron said, nearly reading her mind, pleading with her to be understanding. This is politics. People do what they must. Adrienne could expect no protection from her father. Politics were to be her lifeline now. This King would now decide her fate.

“His Grace has been kind and merciful enough to preserve your title and peerage for the protection it will give you in this court,” he began, “You will be presented to his grace, and you will kiss his ring. Bow before him. You will address him as Your Grace. You will show deference as befits a King.”

A King who had killed her fiance. A King who has slaughtered his ruler in cold blood. A King upon whom God would one day settle his wrath upon. The thought of being made to bow before him brought the sensation of tears to her eyes. It brought a flush of embarrassment to her cheeks.

“And how much more humiliation am I to suffer before you finally do something?”

Had George not been the one to ride ahead of them all and collect her under the cover of night? Had he not taken her to his rooms for safety and kept this King's guards from entering through his door for her? Had George not been the one to pry her horrified fingers from the curtains and grimace at the sight she had witnessed? Had he not this far protected her at every turn? Why would he now see her publically humiliated? To what end was this cause determined?

“You will not speak so freely,” was all he could muster. An admonishment. Pitiful.

She was a woman. Adrienne was familiar with the limitations of her sex. In the previous court, she had been its princess. They had not applied to her then.

“When must I be presented like tribute upon a platter before this council of traitors?” She replied, paying his criticism no heed. He was a coward. The whole of them were Godless cowards and would one day die such deaths.

“Now,” he said firmly, gesturing to the room she had just come from before the hallway. “You will make yourself presentable—I have had your things brought here, and your maidservant sent for,” he said, picking up a pile of papers, “The king wishes to see this famous beauty of yours he has heard so very much talked about. It was heard of him even off the continent: the beauty of the English Princess.”

Flattery.

Coward.

She knew she was talked of. Her beauty bordered on legendary. Emissaries would often come to court raving over the tales of her beauty. It was part of her appeal to Tarleton. It was part of her duties as a Princess—even if she was only a Princess to be. Vain as it made her, the legend of her beauty was true, despite her appearance after the sickness she had suffered these past few weeks from shock and distress. She would have no say in her humiliation, but there were still some things she could control.

This new king would get the British beauty he wanted so desperately to see, but he would not get the queen he wished to come with it.

She would not give him that submission.

George returned back to his papers, grabbing a few before leaving the offices altogether without a further word. When he had fully exited, Ona—Adrienne’s maidservant—came into the room with a gown of dark crimson red and rich gold and enough to prepare the blonde for presentation at court.

The guards escorted her to the familiar doors. She retraced a familiar path but felt no familiar feelings. This whole moment was familiar.

Last time she had been dressed so—her hair curled and arranged carefully down her back, a veil pinned to the headband she wore, soft silky organza cascading down her curls—a familiar set of faces had awaited her. It was where she got the band of gold on her finger that held a ruby so red at the center of it it was unmistakable who she was, or rather, who she had been. She had been dressed in a deep crimson red with the finest of gold ornament spanning the parts of the dress not made of red and gold brocade, much like the one she wore now with golden ribbon decorating her veil and the chemise that peeked out from the top of the neckline, at her shoulders, elbows between the ties of the sleeves.

She was gorgeous. Her lips were soft and plump and pink, and her cheeks were brushed with a rouge that would make her flush glow in the light of the hall’s windows. She looked beautiful. Irresistible even. But she would affront him, and refuse him his queen.

It was all too much. The clinking of chainmail as they walked through familiar halls, the valet that leaned in and whispered to address him as “your grace,” the familiar doors opening before her to reveal faces she was too familiar with. It was all too much. It overwhelmed her. Her head did not spin, and her stomach did not toss, but she could feel tears being brought to her eye.

He donned Andre’s crown like a mockery. The faces she knew—and the few she didn’t—whispered to themselves with every step she took. She had not even heard the steward announce her by title. Her only focus was on the man sitting perched on a throne that was not his. He seemed to feel the same, never breaking eye contact with her as she made her way down the center aisle of the room to the foot of the dias the throne sat upon. She would test him. In court, one never ascended the dias until the King had invited them to. It needn’t be verbal. A simple beckoning with his hand would suffice.

She saw him falter. She saw the confusion in his proud, steely eyes, panic setting in behind them. How well did he trust those faces in the crowd? Did he trust them at all? Or did he fear he had finally overstepped with this mockery and humiliation? Adrienne didn’t trust them either.

She stared back at him, her face calm and submissive but her eyes challenging him from where she stood. He finally motioned for her to join him, though she doubted he realized what he had done. Her feet walked forward despite their unwillingness to kneel at his feet and kiss the ring upon his finger she had sworn allegiance to when a real king had worn it. She lifted the hem of her dress ever so slightly so as not to trip on it while going up the few steps of the dias, sinking to her knees to a swift motion before him, eyes not breaking his intense stare even as she lowered herself to the cushion before his feet.

She would challenge him.

He would not get the queen he had wanted. That submission she would rob from him.

The man, dressed in a creamy, white silk corded jacket with gold and cream brocaded undersleeves, offered her his hand, offering her the ring to kiss like it was her honor to do so. Knowing she had no other choice—knowing this was why she had been brought here—she kissed it. Adrienne moved slowly, giving this King the drama he wished for, pulling her eyes from him, fluttering them closed as her lips made sweet contact with the ring. A tear escaped her eye when they closed, sliding gently down her cheek. She hesitated there, pausing her lips on the ring until the tear had fallen to the fabric of her skirts arranged at his feet like a tribute for just a moment, enjoying his squirming.

She fluttered her eyes open when she moved back from his hand, looking up at him through her lashes, kneeling still before him at his feet, her lips—pink and soft and now slightly plumper—parted carefully. He wished for beauty. She would give him that. The gold band on her left hand gave him his Queen. She would affront him, and he could not complain.

“They had not lied of your beauty,” he said, speaking finally, his voice softer than expected but just as sturdy, “It is a shame what has happened that you might find yourself so alone. Many a man would be untrue before God and have shame were you unchaperoned.”

“Then perhaps I should be grateful to the Baron, Your Grace,” she spoke quietly, soft and sweet and smooth as possible, “For his protection these past few weeks.”

He had demanded beauty.

She could give him that.

“Indeed,” the blonde man replied, “It seems he may be the only one to do so.”

The coward.

How reassuring.

“Your father said “a servant for a servant,” my dear. You should be happy I am so merciful as not to strip you down to such,” he replied carefully, “Your beauty is wasted upon a servant.” She knew that much. She knew that her veil of white organza, framed by golden ribbon, and the soft glow of her skin, the thought of her lips upon the ring were enticing to many in this room, whether they voiced their thoughts and desires or not. “You will enter into my household a Lady,” he affirmed. Could he afford anything less? How well did he rely on this crowd of faces too familiar to her? “You will attend to the Lady Walker as her Lady in Waiting. We shall see if such beauty remains unparalleled in blue.”

Snarky bastard.

It was a blessing in the least. Being a Lady of the court—and she would have to be if she were to serve in such a position—there was a certain level of protection that accompanied her.

What had been her other option? Had he intended to have her brought back to rooms she had not come from? Had he meant to lay her on her back and strip her of dignity? Men could be depraved, especially in the field. Men of combat took wives, but they also took mistresses. It was snarky of him, and Adrienne was certain she would hate it, but it was the best of her options. She would have more agency there than anywhere else. Adrienne did not even know this Lady Walker. She had not been aware there was one.

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