What Lies Beneath, ch. 3 -fix-

       When I woke again he was still sleeping, slumped in a chair beside the hearth instead of in my bed; I supposed that a strict diet of debauchery had honed his skills in midnight desertion. For someone who professed such a great love for humanity, he harbored a deep distrust of all things breathing (and some things that have not drawn breath for a very long while). I sat on my bed for more than an hour, watching him; it was a troubling sight. I'd expected his unconscious face to be tranquil from his lack of conscience or sense of responsibility, but it was not so. At first glance, he looked calm, but his face was too flat. The corners of his mouth jerked slightly downward as if disturbed, then flattened, then jerked again; instead of moving rapidly as the eyes do in the deepest of dreams, they were immobile, fixed in a stare. It was quite a surprise to learn that he of all people could experience nightmares.
       I wrapped myself in a sheet – my night clothes were, for lack of a better word, "decommissioned" – and walked over to him, perching on his chair's arm rest. He'd been the one constant since my childhood, never changing, never aging; it was strange now to label him lover, as empty as that title was with us. I reached out tentatively to smooth his brown hair (which was sticking out at odd angles from the evening's events). It was like silk, exactly as I'd assumed, for his vanity would allow nothing less. It hung at its natural length now for want of styling; he looked more youthful, more innocent. It was foolish of me to think that I would ever be more than a successful hunt to him, but in such a fond moment it is difficult for one so young to overcome her heart.
       His hand grasped mine, held it to the side of his face; he kissed my palm, a tender, alien gesture that left me paralyzed, but solace came in realizing he was still asleep (I ignored the small twinge of disappointment). His features smoothed in serenity. Smiling wryly, he turned toward me, muttering, "Not yet, little Sparrow…"
       I jerked my hand away; his eyes flew open. Alarm flashed across his face, but only momentarily – it was replaced by defiance, a solid defense of his words. For an eternity we were locked in silence, neither moving, neither speaking. An ache that had spared me for over a year now throbbed rhythmically in my chest, the entity that called itself Love but threw away its mask to reveal Pride and Weakness, the flame that Logan had extinguished so long ago. The primal instinct of flight itched in my legs, but I could not run, could not channel a suitable response to my lips. Elliot's ghost hovered beside me. And there sat his mockery, his soul bare of atonement for centuries, fingers curled cruelly around the arms of his chair. He smirked, cocking his head to the side as if to ask, why do you care so much? How was I supposed to react? Sensibly, stoically, my mind advised; do not show a disadvantage.
       I did not. In the next breath I stood in the Sanctuary, wordlessly daring Jasper to question my appearance. I stood behind my dressing screen until the significance of Reaver's plea was nothing but a shallow irritation. Of course it would have been a trick, a double-conquest, a complicated jape. I should have expected such an occurrence; he would not have traveled with my mother for so long a time without attempting seduction. I'd slaughtered hundreds, faced unimaginable odds, won a kingdom, and still been so shrouded in childhood ignorance. No wonder my brother still thought of me as such.
       Slowly, I donned my crown and with it, the weight of a nation. I wondered if my mother had experienced similar thoughts, in a similar state, in this very room. His demeanor had been so gentle when he mistook my hand for hers, so different from the detached madman those of our age saw. Maybe he'd loved her, adored her in a way that no one else could touch.
       Three hundred and forty-five days, my subconscious pulsed with my heart, beating not only with my blood but that of millions. He didn't matter. His motivations didn't matter. He would continue strolling through youth long after the world forgot him for the next of countless times. What were we but pawns to his great span of sight? Precisely.
       "How are you feeling, Your Highness?" Jasper inquired politely as I re-entered the Sanctuary's main room. His hair, usually neat and combed, was frazzled and unwashed, yet the rest of him showed nothing but servitude. He hid concern well. "Walter has requested an audience with you."
       "Fine now, thank you. I will see to him at once." My voice was strong, tone resolute. Steel nerves did what they could to support the underdeveloped heart; I would never have guessed that it would become such a liability.
       Jasper smiled and bowed, but it was weak – there was nothing I could hide from him. I ran a hand along my mother's scale model of Albion, feeling its power stir inside the painstakingly carved wood; an instant passed and then I was in the castle again, nowhere near my chamber.
       I found Walter pacing restlessly in our training hall. He hurried over to me immediately, white knuckles gripping the hilt of his sword. Since our trials in Aurora, his age-beaten face had seemed more worn, haunted, like the creature left a wisp of itself in his eyes. Those altered features were accentuated today by worry; he took my arm, led me to a chair, and began pacing again in front of it.
       I stilled him with a touch, my own plagues forgotten. From his haggard look, terrible images crowded my thoughts – guttering flames, misshapen figures in mist, formless dark horrors massing on the horizon. "Please, Walter, tell me what has happened." I urged quietly, guiding him to the seat next to mine.
       "It's the nobles." He began, exhaling slowly, wringing his hands. "I just came from Millfields. It's covered in balverines, Your Majesty! I thought the rumors were just, well…you know how the nobles are with crazy rumors. Are you all right?"
       My face had gone flat. Balverines in Millfields, indeed – at least it seemed like no one had guessed at their origin. "Quite all right, sorry; I was also under the impression that the rumors were false. What do you propose we do?"
       "The nobles no longer feel safe. Those beasts have been…producing more of themselves, there's no way we can eradicate all of them now." He paused, glanced past me, stood, and made a hasty bow (I saw the aggravated flinch in his brow, but I had learned how to look for such things). "Well met, my lord."
       Logan strode vigorously to our sides, but did not interrupt Walter though I saw the burning questions behind his customary frown. It was heartening to notice him finally developing the social skills with which most others were already acquainted.
       Walter continued, more warily now, casting subtle glances at our extra guest out of the corner of his eye, "The remaining nobles have requested new housing and suggest that Millfields be abandoned-"
       "Absurd!" Logan erupted furiously, drowning my wish for better manners. It seemed his capacity for stillness didn't extend very far at all. He looked at Walter as if he were no more than a fly, incredulous, "The nobles may move if they wish, but it is no concern of the crown!" Then, spinning around to me, he added heatedly, "If you were feeling unwell, why didn't you tell me?"
       Walter and I both froze, eyes wide; we must have looked like trout caught unawares by a tricky fisherman. I recovered first. "Logan, I sent a courier. Did you receive the message?"
       "Yes, but that flourishing script did not belong to you." His voice became dangerously low, deceptively calm, "Please explain."
       I clamped my mouth shut, irate at the reminder, lifting my chin in indignation. Walter took advantage of the silence to continue, "As I was saying, Your Majesty," he glared pointedly at Logan and then turned to me, "Millfields is no longer safe, and I would suggest moving them to the empty left wing of the castle. There are no exalted guests expected for quite some time."
       Logan positioned himself squarely in front of me. "Ava, you will answer me. Was Reaver in your bedchamber yesterday?" then, as if hearing Walter for the first time, he looked back inquisitively. "Why is Millfields unsafe?"
       "Reaver?" Walter's face reddened; he quickly scanned the room (as if Reaver were eavesdropping in a corner), sputtering madly, "What are we paying those damn guards for? All we need is that caned loon stalking about when there are balverines right under our noses-"
       "What?" Logan shouted, making a similar sweep of the room – which, save for us, was empty for the duration of our conversation – and drawing his sword, glaring at every bit of shadow. "Where?"
       Walter was similarly enraged, though he was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice my brother's misunderstanding. "In the castle!" He dropped into his former chair, disheartened. "How could this have happened?"
       I touched Logan's shoulder lightly, trying to pull him out of his perceived apocalypse. "Logan, I think you're mistaken-"
       "Don't worry, Ava. I will take care of this. Go to the war room and lock the doors. Hobson!" He yelled, practically running from the room. I let out the rest of my sentence in a defeated sigh.
And then, at the most inopportune time, Reaver walked by the door (thankfully, from the opposite direction Logan had gone). He glanced in and grinned, tipping his hat to us before continuing. Those fox-like eyes had glinted mockingly; I could have screamed at how much morbid pleasure he took in my discomfort.
       Walter stumbled to his feet, making an absent-minded bow to me as he wandered out, muttering to himself all the while, "Who would let him in?"
       I must have made a humorous sight, then, sitting alone in the training hall with my arms upraised in exasperation. Why, Avo, send me such tactical men with such single-minded brains?