At His Majesty's Pleasure

Authors: Thank you for all those wonderful names! We've compiled them all into a big spreadsheet, and will be happily making use of them. If you haven't submitted any names yet, feel free to add your contribution - just make sure it's on Chapter 6, since that's where we'll keep track of it! Two names have already been used this chapter, and more will come!

*****

Just like that, Alais waited for the sound of the door closing behind his fading footsteps. For a few moments longer she lay atop the covers, huddled and shivering in her nakedness (lest this be another trick), before mustering the willpower to slowly prop herself into a semblance of a sitting position.

Her legs slid over the side of the bed, and from there she went to retrieve the silk garment the King had so carelessly discarded onto the floor, tugging it back over her shoulders.

She couldn't tell how many more infernal moments slid past as she sat there, palms resting heavily on top of quivering knees. She could still

feel

the residual heat of his oils exuding warmth from between her legs - that phantom itch, that persistent longing for the touch of his fingers. There was no desire greater than the one that longed for relief, but she could not (would not) let herself fall prey to it; it fell too much like compromising the victory she had just earned. Expelling a frustrated breath, she snatched that filthy towel from beneath her and flung it toward the door.

The rest of the night saw her shuddering beneath the covers, assaulted by the relentless draft winding in from a cracked open window she did not care to close. Loathe as she was to admit it, it was much cooler without the heat of her husband's body besides her, even if his absence was otherwise a continued relief.

It did bring her a small amount of comfort - that knowledge that she had technically

won

. And, unable to help her curiosity, her fingers did eventually and delicately brush that region about her pubis.

Smooth

.

*

When the morrow dawned, the King was still nowhere to be found.

Breakfast was served for her alone, as was midday lunch. The marks completely faded from the one eventful night, she wore no silk ribbon upon her neck that day, and there were no more reminders of what

did

happen.

By the time her husband sent for her, in the courtyard, it was well past noon, and the mood there was uneasy, despite the familiar fixture of the sidesaddle and dapper gray waiting for her.

Standing before him, she dipped into her curtsy, as was to be expected, checking yet another mark off that meaningless list of things which needed completing. It was better than acknowledging the flickers of fear she felt in her stomach, with his proximity.

Outwardly, she resolved to remain the picture of empty obedience. There were no questions asked, not even the faintest touches of curiosity displayed for where he had gone in the night. After what had transpired last between them, it seemed even more important than ever before to maintain her detachment. She had no idea what news had stolen him into the night in such a hurry, but now that she was before him once more, it seemed too much to hope for that he would still be kept at bay.

Except it was exactly that hope that manifested.

Given the ominous promises the night prior, she had expected the King to proceed now to continue to agitate her into speech, or at the very least appeared disgruntled with the lack of progress. But there was none of that - no taunts fell from his lips, no intent stare burned her with its appraisal. Indeed, as if muteness were contagious, he remained as steadfastly quiet as her, speaking not a word to her as she found her horse and they set off.

Neither did he breach the silence as they rode on, not even to tell her where they were headed today. His mind appeared to be on other matters. He had scarcely ever looked so preoccupied.

It became increasingly difficult to maintain her detachment from the reality beyond her mind when the reality beyond her mind presented itself with such... baffling events. Where were they going? Why were they going? What event could have possibly caused him this level of distraction, and for such an extended period?

Still, she was not willing to break her silence for the slight questions bouncing about in her thoughts. Really, Alais had no complaints. A king, naturally, ought to have had far more concerns than that of harassing his wife. She even counted on it. In fact, it was now refreshing to now take in the scenery and sweet birdsong with a greater awareness than she had.

They followed a different trail today, one that was more subtly indented into the forest (and in some areas faint enough to be barely visible), with the likely implication that it was traveled but rarely. Though their entourage could never exactly be termed boisterous, especially in the presence of their King, a more solemn silence seemed to overtake them as they drew closer to their destination.

By the time they halted, they'd been ascending for some time, such that the air was cooler and crisper here. The path continued forward, but now it was marked by a series of pale stones on either side, each of which were painted in silver runes. It took a moment for its obscurity, but she recognized the symbols from old lessons of youth: a crescent and sword - for Feros, the God of Death. These were holy grounds.

The King finally spoke, addressing her. "We are to receive our blessings here," he said, his manner as utilitarian as her obedience. None of his usual cocksure charm threatened to surface. He dismounted, offering a hand to help her do the same. "Come."

Blessings? Well, fine. No one told her much of anything else when it came to the itinerary; it was an exercise in futility to have expected any differently for this as well.

The knights and squires and footmen (and all the rest) remained immobile, and she assumed that it was part of some ritual process that she and the King alone proceed. And proceed they did, in the same odd silence, neither of them disposed to break it. The path continued to wind up and up, soon steep enough to require carved steps and her husband's steady hand. Thankfully, it was not a long journey, and the runed stones guided their way.

They heard the waterfall before they saw it - a distant, thunderous sound, which at first was barely audible above the birdsong, but soon rose to near-deafening volumes. The thing itself was a wonder to behold, so immense as to rival the palace for size, with such colossal sheets of water that the stones beneath shuddered at their pummeling. A thick spray of mist hung about the whole affair, nearly managing to conceal the little path that continued around the curtain of water and into the mouth of the cave beyond.

Alais had resumed her clinical obedience without waver, retreating in and out of her internal corridors only when the particularly extraordinary grappled for her attention. Like ... right now; in the face of such a landmark, she couldn't help but stare, just a little.

Already drenched by the spraying mists and wet fog, she was soaking wet by the time they stepped through the waterfall proper. Seeing as she had dressed neither for the crisp, elevated air or for

watersports

, it was all she could do not to appear outright miserable by the time they passed into the cave, her feet sloshing uncomfortably in her sogging shoes and her clothes clinging to her like a second layer of skin.

The innards of the cave were smooth and (understandably) damp, and large enough for their steps - if not their voices - to echo. The King paused long enough for them to leave unseemly puddles, before continuing forward.

Waiting for them was a monk, shrouded in billowing, ceremonious robes of red and black, along with twin incense holders and a gleaming, obsidian carving of Feros, that many-armed (many-weaponed) deity with the head of a dragon. Perhaps a monastery was not far from here, but Alais still distantly wondered just how long this priest had been waiting there, standing stock still before the statue.

"Brother Galen." The King inclined his head in acknowledgement.

The monk bowed deeply in turn. He wore upon his features a mask of glassy obsidian - shaped into the likeness of tiger, but with such seamless contours and flowing lines that the effect resembled an eerily shapeless echo of the real thing. Two diamond-shaped incisions were cut for eyes, and it was from there that she could see his rheumy left eye, whitened by blindness.

"Your Majesties. Welcome."

Twin prayer mats had also been arranged, and it was to these that the King led them.

Alais suppressed a shiver as she squelched (delicately) over toward her appointed mat, still leaving blotchy trails of the waterfall upon the stone floor where she went. Halfway there, she seemed to think better of it as she slipped the ruined slippers right off, to the side of the mat, before awkwardly perching down.

The King settled next to her, equally dripping from the trek, though the shedding of his cloak had rid him of most of the offending wetness. (And it wasn't as if he was unfamiliar with donning a wet shirt around her, she thought, after that wine-to-face fiasco of before.) Part of her was residually surprised to see that he was

capable

of kneeling, but then, perhaps even he had to have some awareness that his greatness did not transcend mortality. It was almost a shame, since it meant his absurdity was not boundless.

"The ritual is simple," he told her, his voice quiet, perhaps given where they were. "Bow when I bow. You'll need to give some of your blood. A prick will do."

Perhaps had he been from some other, less barbaric kingdom, he might have paused to wonder if she were squeamish. Perhaps most Obsivian noblewomen were used to a little blood, if their violent gladiator games were anything to show. Or perhaps the ritual was so common in

his

culture that he (inconsiderately) gave little thought to its potential strangeness to

hers

.

None of that would have surprised her. But it would have been nice all the same to have been prepared for this - the waterfall, the bloodletting, the immensely awkward (to her view) ceremony -

before

being brought here. Her discomfort and odd feelings of displacement were rising to new heights.

The King made a motion, as if to signify the ritual might begin, and Brother Galen commenced at once. Deep, guttural chants came forth from him, spoken in the harsh sounds of the Bronze Tongue (an old relic of a language, at this point understood only by monks and linguists and very very bored noblemen, which meant that it was quite foreign to her).

Alais shifted with her legs beneath her, bumbling as she could not find a single kneeling position that was sufficiently comfortable. After a certain point she all but gave up, sitting in something of a slump as her eyes took in the detail of the inner chamber; the tiny prickles of incense offered only scant light, lending an eerie ambiance to the whole ordeal.

Brother Galen walked about them, thrice, and at every completion of the cycle, the King bent low and pressed his forehead to the ground.

Alais bowed too as instructed, though not to his extreme, and hesitated uncertainly before doing so. The remainder of his motions were shadowed with the enthusiasm of a sloth.

When the priest returned to his altar, the King interjected.

"And a prayer for my sister as well," he said, his voice curt.

The good brother complied, of course, smoothly adding another stanza for the Princess Adeline with nary a moment of hesitation. When he concluded, he presented the King with two gleaming tools - a diamond-crusted dagger and an ornate chalice. Methodically, the King ran the blade over the palm of his hand, releasing to let more than a few drops fall into the cup.

He passed it to her.

For all her fumbling, her features betrayed none of the curious surprise she may or may not have felt at the mention of his sister, but her lips pursed with a vague incredulity when he handed her the blade.

The dagger lingered uselessly in her hand for what may have been an eternal delay. The

thought

of burying it into his back was, of course, alluring enough to give her pause. But in practice it was terribly impractical and scarcely more than a fleeting notion, intrusive by nature - she did not know what she would, should, or even could do after, even in the unlikely (impossible) chance that she did manage to incapacitate him. Alas, she was already resolved to sort out the shoddy hand she'd been dealt through less ... laughably short-sighted means.

Finally, she touched her finger to its tip, tightly wound as she did. The puncture had been very small, and it took yet another excruciating moment for her blood to drip into the chalice.

Galen collected the bloodied items, his voice rising again with some finality. The King's eyes closed, briefly, his lips moving to echo the last lines.

She sat still and dreary; it was impossible to feel religious fervor to a deity not her own, even if circumstances weren't unfavorable as they were. She was bored... uncomfortable... cold... a persistent chill coursing throughout her bones. With the sweep of her (wet, dripping) hair shrouding her upper face, she allowed her gaze to wander restlessly again, fixing upon wherever seemed interesting enough to capture her attention for even the briefest of moments.

A gleam, a reflection of candlelight, was incidentally one of those things. It was the the dagger, the dagger in the monk's hand, moving with swift purpose toward the King's bowed head.

With scarcely any time to think, she burst out into a sudden fit of coughing - and for good measure, nudged (practically pushed) at him with her elbow. Well,

shoving

him was like a kitten attempting to jostle a full grown lion - her elbow turned sore for her trouble - and Alais wasn't even sure if that had been enough to seize his attention. He could've ignored her out of spite -

could

have, but, thankfully, didn't.

The King opened his eyes.

The monk had frozen, knife still raised. Their gazes met - seeing the knowledge in each other's eyes - and for all of a second, neither so much as breathed. Then the King launched forward, ramming his shoulder into the other man and sending the both of them hurtling back. The assassin wheezed as his back collided with the stone altar, but recovered quickly enough to put up a fight; they grappled for control of the blade, before a swift elbow to the face sent the King stumbling back.

Taking advantage of this, the assassin made a series of furious swipes with the dagger, and the King, forced to evade with uneven footwork, retreated just far enough to pull out an obsidian-edged longsword. Seeing this, the assassin cast the dagger aside and brandished a sword of his own.

"Stay back, Alais," the King hissed, as he circled his opponent. To his (limited) credit, he had placed himself protectively between her and the attacker.

Stay back, indeed. Never one to be caught as those does frozen in danger, she slipped away from the clash, on her hands and knees for the first few steps, before climbing onto her bare (still wet and cold) feet and darting away to the tight space behind the altar. Brave or not, she had no place between or anywhere near them.

Her heart pounding violently, she watched them square off; they traded blows, and the same damp hollowness that had echoed the chanting before now amplified far greater the clangs and clanks of swords.

Had it really come to the point where she preferred the 'stability' of his 'protection' over the unknown? Only just, perhaps. There had been no certainty as far as the monk's intent after he finished the King - perhaps it was a rescue, or perhaps his patron had also demanded her life alongside. There was no way to tell. She could only surmise that the King had many enemies, and she did not recognize the assassin; therefore, it was more than likely that her fate was tied to his in this attempt. So was the rationale, anyway - though there was no evading that in the split second it took for her to decide, it was instinct that had taken over.

She swore to the gods, if he got himself assassinated for this anyway, she would wash herself of him and call it a stroke of luck regardless of the consequences.

The monk was lunging forward, swinging viciously - even as each attack was countered, blow for blow. It half-surprised her to observe that, of the two of them, it was the assassin who was more wild and aggressive, whereas the King's movements were steadier, more deliberate. He engaged and disengaged, never overextending himself, and his sharp gaze was fixed unerringly on his opponent; it struck her that he was assessing his target, hunting for a weakness.

There

was

something vaguely mesmerizing about the way he moved - the skill of his footwork, the strength behind each hiss of steel. His wet shirt clung to him, all the more emphasizing the lithe muscles that shifted beneath it.

She put such thoughts away. She was mad to nurse such (purely superficial) flickers of admiration even

now

, when their lives were in danger. Was it so surprising anyway that he knew his way around a blade? Doubtless his fascination with war necessitated the mastery of swordplay - probably assisted by royal tutors, hundreds of spars, and a natural interest in bloodshed. It was hardly worthy of note.

She concentrated instead on her surroundings, searching for some makeshift weapon - anything - that might be used. The many-armed statuette of Feros sat on the altar before her; without giving thought to the sacrilegious import, she hoisted it off and clutched it at an angle (for it was heavy), like a shield, absolutely ready to throw it or to strike someone over the head with it (if she was very, very lucky).

This shortly proved to be unnecessary. A cry sounded, and she looked up just in time to see the King slash at the assailant's ankle, sending an unpleasant spray of red to join the watermist, and then - quick as a snake - twisting his blade to bring it down upon his arm, nearly severing it in the process.

As the attacker fell, the King kicked away his sword disdainfully, and stood over him with the tip of his blade at the man's neck. His breathing was deep and harsh, and he had not escaped unscathed himself; a bruise under his eye was swelling where elbow had struck, and blood was slowly seeping from a wound that he didn't seem to have noticed.

He had the (chivalrous?) manners to immediately throw a glance back, ascertaining her status. There was quite a distance between them now, for he had driven the fight closer to the mouth of the cave. She quickly saw the strategy behind it, as there were more trails and puddles there - more difficult to navigate for a one-eyed man whose perception of depth was impaired.

"You're fine?" It was a rather bizarre question, considering he had been the one attacked.

She wasn't given the chance to answer. The would-be assassin abruptly seized the blade pointed at his throat (with his remaining good arm) - and jerked down, with all his might. By the time the King yanked the blade back, it was too late; his steel had tasted deep enough of flesh that the "monk" gave one last, ugly rasp, and released all the tension in his body. His death rattle sounded positively relieved. Probably for good reason.

The King uttered a curse, kicking at the corpse, which slid grotesquely across the floor (given the blood and water under it) for his efforts; she recoiled instinctively, despite the distance between them. He paced away, running a bloodied hand through his hair, his boots resounding heavily across the cave. In some other context, he might have looked almost hilariously sullen, as if some satisfaction had been snatched away from him.