Germ Warfare - (3 Parts)

[Liberty Belle]

Okie... here's the first part of the story I briefly posted about in the main obs / stories / art section. If you're at all turned off by the "messy" element of sneezing, you're probably not going to like this. :> There's not TOO much sneezing in this section, but that will change pretty abruptly in the next part. :>

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Arabella was fifteen when she was spirited across the sea, trussed and coiffed and crowned in the guise of a queen, despite the fact that she was still very much a girl. She still remembered her mother's sobs on the gangplank of the ship that bore her away, echoing her own as her island home grew more and more distant over the water.

She didn't understand then why she was sent away, nor did she now, some ten years on, although it was a pain long since buried. She did not blame her parents, whatever their reasoning, just as she did not blame the King for demanding so young a wife. Arabella was old enough to bear him an heir and innocent enough to accede to his demands, the perfect combination for an old and childless man whose last hope of succession lay in a new and fertile bride.

The king's ship carried her a great distance, over an ocean she'd never expected to cross, to the shores of a land of which she'd only heard tales. Watching the bannered castle loom steadily larger, the joyful throngs gathered on the shore, she felt more alone than any other time in her life. No number of faces could sooth the emptiness inside of her, nor smiles ease her despairing heart. The people of this strange kingdom saw her as their queen and savior, when all she could see of herself was a small and frightened child.

They docked in the royal slip, and as the gangplank was lowered Arabella gazed its awful length, terrified of plunging into the choppy waves on either side. At the far end, a soldier in military armor stood at the head of a storm-gray horse, a squadron of men formed up behind him. She would never forget the expression on his face as he watched her descend to the dock: hard and dark, grave and pitying, as if contemplating the fate of a candleflame in a vast and windy chasm.

"Your Highness," he said as she put her feet to shore for the first time, and the plank behind her rattled and withdrew. With one hand he held his horse's reins, and with the other supported a menacing pike; for a moment she wondered which one was meant for her.

"I am Arabella," she said. "I'm no queen."

He stared at her, immovably grim, weighing her with his eyes.

"You are our Queen," he said at last, without warning struck the hilt of the pike against the earth, as if calling for the ocean to cleave in two. Without looking from her he barked commandingly to his men, "Hail, the Queen!"

"Hail!" they cried as one, and in sudden, clamorous echo, fell to one knee, heads reverently bowed. A moment later, with far greater care, the lead soldier followed suit, showing her the top of his head in grave deference. For the first time Arabella felt a chill grip her – neither loneliness nor despair, but bitter cold responsibility, from which she saw no respite.

To that child of fifteen, ten years seemed an eternity, an endless font of time from which she would never cease to draw. She did not foresee the swiftness with which the days would become weeks, and the weeks months, and the months seasons, or how quickly they would be filled with activity, reason and purpose.

Arabella was not the first queen, but the prevailing hope was that she would be the last, at least until a new male heir was established. Since the death of the King's previous wife and son in the throes of labor, and in his conspicuously advancing age, there was little hope for the survival of the line; the people had begun to fear not only for the sovereignty, but for their very lands and homes, vulnerable to outside forces if the throne fell into confusion. With Arabella came a restoration of hope for the future, and with hope came a restoration peace.

The first year of her rule was more political than practical, an endless parade of parties and balls that brought nobility from every corner of the kingdom, and all manner of gifts. By her second year, well known and well respected among her contingent, she was advised to turn her attention to matters of state, and it was at this time that Arabella came to truly appreciate her role.

The guard who once greeted her so sternly on the royal dock had not just vanished back into the faceless throngs, but emerged from them as her most staid and trusted advisor. His name was Jonner, Commander at Arms of the King's Royal Guard, and third in line to rule the kingdom's armed forces, from night watchman to knight errant. Ten years Arabella's senior, he had the tactical and military expertise of a man twice his age, with the vigor of youth to put action to his ambition.

Arabella found him terrifying at first, and dreaded every moment that her handmaids left her alone in his company, certain that he had a hidden dagger reserved for her throat. What she took for cruel calculation, however, revealed itself as calm composure, and in time she grew to prefer his grim, wry humor and whetted intellect over the mindless, meaningless babble of her own ladies in waiting.

By the time Arabella celebrated her eighteenth birthday, they entered into peaceful accord with all of the neighboring kingdoms save one, and enjoyed a booming commerce. When she was twenty, the last of the fallow farmlands were returned to their fertile glory, and every child in the kingdom went to bed with a full belly. At twenty-two, the fifty ships she'd commissioned returned with silks and spices from distant isles. At twenty-five, despite her husband's higher rank, the entirety of her kingdom and its allies acknowledged her as mistress and master, beloved by all who fell under her reign.

But despite her growing legend as a wise, kind, and gentle ruler, at that age there was still one thing that she was not.

A mother.

The King was nigh on sixty years old when Arabella came to his bed on their wedding night, a terrified and sobbing virgin. He seemed willing to take her, as was his right, but her tears did nothing to rouse him to the occasion, either then or for many months after. Eventually she did consummate their marriage – resignedly, if not enthusiastically – and for several years dutifully left him spent and snoring before creeping off to her private chambers for solitude and sleep.

When the blossom of Arabella's eminent womanhood was undeniable, and still she remained childless, there were two possibilities: either she was barren, or the King had finally reached an age beyond the hope of fatherhood. It was a favorite topic of gossip and supposition, especially when the royal succession came into question, but overall a small matter. The crops were plentiful, the common folk happy, and the land at peace… there was no reason for anyone to be displeased with either rtheir Queen, or the state of the kingdom.

Thrust into the role of wife too young to either understand it, or to have designs on motherhood, the lack of pitter-pattering feet rarely concerned Arabella. That the King long ago confessed a preference for an early bedtime over sex only meant she no longer had to endure his hairy, knobby lovemaking.

She was admired, beloved and respected, and in time began to equate that with happiness. For ten years, she gave no thought to whether or not they were the same.

*******

"You're unusually tense," the queen murmured, delicately picking up a blue marble from the game board, placing it into an empty dimple on the opposite side.

Jonner's face was immovable, one hand casually massaging his mouth in thought.

"I'm always tense in peacetime."

"Well, there's your problem, Commander. You should be the other way around."

"Mm." He sat back, picking up a red marble and rolling it between thumb and forefinger before placing it into another divot. "Spoken like a woman."

The round board between them had gone from an orderly yin-yang to a disarrayed arrangement of colored marbles, their movement dictated by a series of rules that both Queen and Commander had memorized weeks before. It was the newest trinket to arrive by one of the returning ships, a game of logic and strategy that immediately appealed to their competitive natures, and had been the centerpoint of their weekly caucuses.

Jonner was unbeaten at it so far, but tonight Arabella had a noticeable lead.

She bristled at his jibe, sitting up straighter and casting him a cool look.

"Please, Commander… you, who have had such extensive experience with the gentler sex. Do explain your logic." Primly she gathered two marbles, placing them into new spots as if the move had been several turns in coming. His brow creased with annoyance and immediately smoothed.

"I mean, simply, that it is a woman's prerogative to negotiate peace, and – once achieved – her foresight ends. Woman has no ability to think ahead, to see what is to come. Once she is content, she is as a brooding hen, satisfied to sit on her nest, even when the coop begins to burn around her. That is why she must be under a man's wing – it is he who cares for her, when she stands helpless." He reached for a marble and, seeing the corner of her mouth crimp with amusement, quickly took his hand back to rethink the move.

"You suggest, then, that because we have enjoyed a few years of peace, I have grown complacent?"

"I do not suggest it, your Highness, I say it outright."

"And it is this peace that disturbs you so---ah, are you sure you want to move that there?"

He darkened, twitching his hand over the newly-placed marble before deciding to let it stay.

"Your move, Highness," he muttered.

She picked up four more marbles, quickly moving them into place. This time he sat back, issuing a harsh sigh as he studied the new arrangement of the board. Primly, Arabella laced her hands together on the table's edge.

"Your turn again."

When he bent over it, glaring in thought, she countered, "Like a man, you remain unable to appreciate subtlety or delicacy. You are so eager to rush into battle that you cannot see the challenge in simply maintaining the peace. What's more," she followed his hand eagerly as he hesitated over the playing field, debating the wisdom of every potential move. "You begin to see your way as the only way… you strength the only strength… unable to appreciate that there are times when a woman's gentle hand goes further than a curled fist."

Jonner's mouth hardened, but he wouldn't give her the benefit of a full scowl. This was the way of all their meetings, as much head-to-head strategy as playful, biting banter; despite the kernel of truth evident in each of their words, neither meant any true offense. It was certainly fun to pretend, however.

He sensed the end was near, but picked up one of the last blue marbles, moving it into place and sitting back. Arabella's hand snatched out almost immediately, gathering up the last four marbles and moving them into place, inspiring a sigh from her opponent as she executed the final move.

"I believe that's game and match," she said, smiling.

"You've learned guile, I'll give you that," he smirked, flicking her a look. "Like a woman."

"And you've learned to accept defeat gracelessly," she beamed back. "But I think that's unique to you personally, Commander." She took the velvet pouch from her lap, dropping the marbles in one by one, pleased by their soft, ivory clicking. "Perhaps we should find a new game."

"You've come to best me at everything from Chess to Mah Jong," he smirked. "Until the next boats arrive with more distractions, we have no more games to play."

"Then I suppose it's time we move on to matters of business."

"I'll fetch the maps, my Queen."

Arabella passed a look over him as he stood to his full height. The current favor was for noblemen to be slight, even delicate of build and face, and to that end the Commander was not considered particularly handsome by most. His jaw was broad and defined, his eyes severe, and he had the rugged, muscled cut of a tireless ranger. At a time when full beards and long hair were in fashion, he was immaculately shaved and shorn, and demanded that all of his men maintain the same clean appearance.

Arabella was herself considered one of the most beautiful queens in the kingdom's history, a fact she used to her advantage in the male-dominated political realm. To aid her air of mystery she wore a translucent Eastern veil in public, elegantly jeweled, a fashion that the other women of court had quickly and eagerly adopted. Even though her husband's eyes had not caressed her with appreciation for many years, she often felt the eyes of others working over her in their stead.

Oblivious to the scrutiny, Jonner gathered the maps and brought them to the newly cleared table, spreading them open across the surface.

"I'm sure you know what map I bring to the table, your Highness."

Arabella rose, preferring to stand alongside her Commander as they set to work.

"I'm sure that I do."

The Queen's mother was a veteran mapmaker, and for lack of riches or land to offer as dowry, had provided them with detailed maps of the kingdom her daughter would rule, as well as all those surrounding. Together they had studied the inked parchments in excruciating detail, supposing plans of approach and attack, dividing farmlands and rerouting merchant roads, learning their strengths and weaknesses until the drawings were firmly etched into memory.

Jonner had selected a particularly well-worn map for the evening's discussion, a spread that illustrated the oft-disputed border between their kingdom, and that of their last remaining enemy: Rhysold.

Rhysold's animosity towards them was legendary, its origins anchored in a quarrel that no living soul could remember. Despite the fact that they had been at an uneasy peace since Arabella's coronation, with every passing year Jonner grew certain that they were simply biding their time, amassing an army finally capable of overthrowing their still-superior military forces.

"To what end," Arabella often asked. "What could they need so desperately, that war can provide them."

His answer was always somber, "You have no idea what desires lie in the hearts of men."

Rhysold lay far to the West of their borders, valley-bound and vulnerable to attack from the high ground, which Arabella assumed to be their greatest worry. Like a tiger in a pit, perhaps they feared those who loomed above them, and were simply crouched and waiting for the first opportunity to strike before they could be poached.

Jonner leaned one hand on the table, tracing out a path between the black darts of trees.

"A patrol returning a few days ago noted that a path was opening up in the woods here, not far off the Western Trail. They said they saw smoke from within."

"Gypsies often set up camp this time of year, and the weather's turning cold. I'm not surprised."

"It's possible, but I'd still like to send men out to investigate. Even if the campsite is abandoned, they'll know at once if it was gypsies."

She straightened, studying him as he continued to scour the map.

"You believe Rhysold has sent men out to spy on us?"

He looked back at her, still stooped forward.

"I don't believe anything, yet. But I'm concerned enough to wonder." He too straightened, facing her more squarely. "Your Highness… may I be frank?"

She lifted her chin with a small smile, "You have to ask?"

"It has been my honor to serve as your Commander. At a time when women at court are rarely any more than jewels in a crown, you have proven yourself a wise leader and an admirable strategist – my equal, if not my better, in many respects." He grew grave. "That is not a compliment I give easily."

"You have taken my victory at a child's game far too seriously," she teased him quietly, but was respectful of the sobriety of the moment. "Your words mean a great deal to me, Commander… far more than I think even you realize. In my years as Queen, it has been your respect and admiration which I hoped to earn over all others." Surprise flashed in his eyes, and before the moment could become too awkward between them, added, "But flattery does not become us… what is it you really wished to say?"

"You must not become so satisfied with peace, that you are immune to danger."

"Commander… must we have this discussion again?"

"I speak in all seriousness, Highness," he stressed, rapping a fist on the tabletop. "Willful ignorance of a threat does not diffuse it. We must not be as canaries in a gilded cage, so satisfied with a cup of seeds and a swing that we forget to keep an eye on the cat."

Arabella sighed, turning from him and pacing to the far corner of the room, the whisper of her gown across the sandstone lending her a spectral grace. Jonner watched her, awaiting an answer, both frustrated and thrilled by his inability to predict her.

"Neither should we go pecking the cat's head to cause trouble, Commander," she said at last, and looked back over one shoulder. "But this metaphor is meaningless… we are not songbirds, and Rhysold is no cat. Diplomacy is our greatest defense, for we cannot wage war with them – they have done nothing against us."

"Then let us make the first move," he strode powerfully toward her, one hand on the hilt of his sword. "We need not engage them in battle, but let us show our military prowess… let us show them that we are not to be trifled with, to quell whatever uprising may be in the works."

She remained guarded, unmoved.

"What you call prowess may be perceived as a threat."

"What you call diplomacy may be perceived as weakness."

Her gown rustled as she turned her body to him, hands still folded placidly atop her stomach.

"It seems we are tied, then."

Jonner stared hard at her, flaring his nostrils and issuing a single, snorting sigh. A chill shivered the nape of her neck, private delight at facing up to this man who once terrified her, of matching wit and will with him in a way that no one else dared.

"One day," he said. "The tie will break."

"And when it does, I shall be glad indeed to have you on my side."

At moments such as these, Arabella felt both the most powerless, and the most in control, staring into the storm of his eyes as he debated his next word, his next move. Another woman would have cowed, and another man would have slavishly deferred… that they came to this place, time and again, made her wonder which – if either of them – would be the first to bend to the other.

This night –as all other nights – there was no resolution.

"Your Majesty," a voice called urgently from the doorway. "I need the Commander at once."

They turned from each other, looking quickly to the page in the chamber doorway.

"What is it," he demanded.

"There's a caller at the gate, sir – someone from Rhysold."

The Queen and the Commander exchanged open looks, quickly converging on the messenger.

Arabella demanded, "Is he armed? Are there others?"

"N-no, Majesty – it's just the one, and he's not armed at all. He seems a farmer, perhaps, or a peasant. The guards have taken him to the prison." He gulped and looked at Jonner. "He asked to speak with you, sir."

Jonner's brow darkened, hand returning to his sword as he gave a taut nod.

"Very well." And to the Queen, bowing deeply, "Your Highness… I beg your leave. We shall continue this discourse another time."

"Of course, Commander," she said. "And may God bless."

The castle prison stood near the foot of the gates, a handful of small, well-swept cells that saw little use but drunks and mischievous children in need of a good scare. Jonner allowed the page to lead the way, his gait quick and clipped as they crossed the courtyard and ducked into the shadows of the stone hold.

Two of the King's guards stood staring into the last cell in the row, both quietly befuddled, though they snapped to attention at the Commander's arrival.

"At ease," he muttered, casting a look through the iron bars, and immediately trenching his brow.

Within the small chamber, seated nervously on the straw mattress, was a peasant man in a frayed gray tunic, knotting a dirty handkerchief in both hands. Jonner flicked a look to each of his men before standing squarely before the bars.

"Who are you?"

The prisoner stood, the oversized drape of his clothes revealing little of either his build or origins. He was Jonner's age, perhaps a hair older or younger, with dark hair, a farmer's well-tanned skin, and gray eyes that lurked uncomfortably on the floor. His nose was active with continuous sniffles, one hand quickly moving the handkerchief to dab the wet spot just beneath.

"Aaron Able, sir," the man muttered quietly, refusing to look up.

"You're of Rhysold?"

"Aye, sir."

"Speak up," Jonner barked, and Able's eyes flicked to him fearfully.

"A-aye, sir… I'm from Rhysold."

"Then what brings you?"

"I… I come seeking asylum, sir. For me and my family. I haven't brought them – they've stayed behind, in case I was turned away – but it's me, my wife, and my two little girls." He sniffled, wiping his nose more urgently. "We just come seeking a better life, sir. That's all."

It was not unheard of for families to move back and forth across territories, and since the surrounding kingdoms had established peace, most did so unmolested. The movements of a Rhysold farmer would be more rigidly guarded, however; it was not so far-fetched that he should come seeking permission.

"What is it you do, Able?"

"Farmer, sir. Whatever the earth will yield. Come from a long line of them, I do."

Jonner grunted softly, looking him up and down.

"We don't take such matters lightly, but we'll give it consideration… your countrymen may see asylum as a threat to their authority, and I cannot have our lands thrust into war over you."

Again Able sniffled, wiped, and nodded.

"Aye, sir," he began. "I under…" the flicking of his nostrils became slightly more apparent, a look of utter dread entering his eyes. "…Oh no…"

The guards tensed, laying hands to their swords, but Jonner stilled them with a cautious motion of one hand. What danger could there be in a sneeze?

The prisoner knotted his handkerchief in both hands, making no attempt to lift it to his face, chest rising and falling as his jaw fell open.

"Augh… augh…." he grimaced tightly, then succumbed to an explosive, "HEH'IISSSH," sneezing violently through the iron bars, and all over the three men.

With growls and grunts of disgust they flinched back, glowering at him as he groggily recomposed himself. The handkerchief was put to quite belated use, tucked around his nose as he blew liquidly into it. They'd nearly turned to go when the prisoner's weak voice halted them, his nose still deeply buried and his eyes heavy with guilt.

"…I'm sorry."

Jonner brushed his sleeves off in disgust, scowling as he gestured the other guards away.

"Have food and water brought, but keep a close eye… before we allow him free reign anywhere, I want to confirm what he says. Mareth—"

"Sir," one of the guards perked, following him out into the courtyard.

"Tomorrow, before the Queen is up, you can saddle up and ride with him into Rhysold, to confirm his story. We'll decide what to do from there."

"Aye, Commander."

He made a final, glaring scrutiny of his jacket, tugging at it before muttering to his men, "As for me, I believe I'll retire early… I could use a change."

*******

Arabella had the roam of the castle, but it was at Jonner's insistence that she had an armed escort with her at all times. Her usual coterie of handmaidens had no complaint, normally spending their days trying to fluster and flirt with whoever was chosen for duty on a given day.

Her routine was the same: Bronwyn, her lady-in-waiting, came to her tower chamber at dawn, and the two women helped one another dress. Corseted and crowned, the Queen dismissed her to fetch the other maidens, and awaited the arrival of her guard before she was escorted to the throne room.

So it had been for ten years, and so it would be for ten more, but as Arabella found herself pacing boredly, a good hour after Bronwyn's departure, she had to wonder at the unexpected delay.

The sun was well up by the time a rap fell on her door, and she flew to open it. On the other side, a somewhat winded guard stood leaning on his pike, having evidently taken the tower stairs two at a time.

"Forgive me, Highness," he panted. "Couldn't be helped."

"Gaelin? What on earth took so long?" She leaned through the door, looking down the stairs, but he was definitely alone. "And where on earth is Mareth? I was expecting him on duty today."

"Mareth called out sick, Highness," he gulped, finally catching his breath.

"Doesn't Beryl normally fill in for him?"

"He was called away to escort that fellow from Rhysold, ma'am. It was only just now that they sent me up here."

She stepped out to join him, closing the chamber door behind her and nodding for him to lead the way down. He took a torch from the wall as they descended, the golden pocket of light following them as they took the tight curve of the stairs.

"Better not let the Commander hear of that," she teased. "He'll have your heads."

The big guard looked back at her briefly, dismayed.

"Aye, your Highness. You don't have to tell me twice."

As they reached the base of the stair tower, she asked, "What happened last night, precisely?"

"Don't know for sure. Mareth and Beryl were on duty last night… I suppose he'll know when he gets back. Commander is waiting for you in the throne room, I believe."

"And the King?"

"Still sleeping, I imagine."

Arabella sighed quietly, "Let's not wake him."

The Throne Room directly adjoined the War Room where the Queen and Commander held their weekly caucus, a round and well-appointed chamber near the heart of the castle. At the far end, opposite the two inlaid doors, a dais stood raised from the marble floor, supporting two high-backed ebony chairs. The King's was rarely occupied, but Arabella made it a practice to hold court on a daily basis, available to hear the grievances of even the lowliest of peasants.

Jonner was already present, hands crossed before him and feet apart in a military stance, though as the Queen entered both he and all the attendant guards lowered simultaneously to one knee.

"Rise, rise," she dismissed with a gentle wave of one hand, touching Gaelin's arm to send him to his appointed post, and gliding the aisle to take her place on the throne. Even her handmaidens had arrived already, arranged around her on their little padded stools or seated on plush pillows, busy with needlework and drop spindles. By the time Arabella was seated, and her gown properly arranged, the Commander stood rigidly at the foot of the dais, waiting with an expression of concern.

"Good morning, Commander," she sighed at last, and again he executed a half-bow.

"My Queen. You're delayed – was everything all right?"

"Everything was fine, although I'm sorry we weren't able to finish our discussion last night."

"Unavoidable, your Highness."

"So I hear. Tell me, what became of our midnight caller?"

"A farmer seeking safe haven for his family. Beryl should be back shortly with a report, at which point we can discuss the… ramifications of granting asylum to a citizen of Rhysold."

"Mareth is all right, I hope?"

"Merely a cold. He'll be back on duty in a day or two, I have no doubt." There was some clamor at the far end of the room, and Jonner turned, lifting his chin in attention. "That should be Beryl now."

The inlaid doors yawned slowly open, permitting one of the two watch guards to enter, helmet already held beneath his arm. Arabella had known Beryl from his first day in the royal guard, had watched him climb the ranks and had herself counseled him when he considered a life of knighthood. Never in those many years had she seen him so drawn or pale, a fact which caused a stir of murmurs among the handmaidens.

"Beryl," she started anxiously, rising from the throne, but the guard eventually made it halfway down the aisle, lowering sluggishly to one knee in deference.

"Your Highness," his voice was lead.

"Beryl – rise, rise at once. What's the matter?"

"Was there trouble," Jonner demanded.

"No, my Queen, Commander. All went well. I escorted the prisoner home again to his family… all that he said appears to be true." Slowly he climbed to his feet, riding armor scraping in the vast quiet. With a mailed hand he rubbed his nose, nostrils already red from the apparently repeated scraping of metal and skin. "I told him that we would return to him once a decision had been made."

Arabella slowly lowered to her chair, watching the poor guard anxiously.

"If all is well, what troubles you? You seem barely able to keep your feet."

He sniffled, shaking his head, "It's nothing, Highness. I felt a cold coming on this morning, it's simply running its course."

But he looked far sicker than he should have after only a few hours of affliction… to look at him, she would have sworn he'd been ill for days. As she watched he picked his head up, closing his eyes and flexing his nose in apparent misery, making it clear the raw state of his nose. The Queen gestured quickly to one of the maidens at her feet.

"Dahlia, quickly, give him your handkerchief."

The young woman sprang up, delivering it at arm's length, then quickly darted back to her cushion with the others. Beryl took it gingerly, seeming almost outside of himself as he dabbed the wet spots beneath each of his nostrils. Touching them with something so soft seemed to be the wrong thing to do, for after wrinkling and flexing his nose one last, desperate time, the man groaned blearily, "…Oh no..."

At this utterance Jonner came to attention, focusing on the guard.

"<a name="OLE_LINK1">EHH-issch!", Beryl doubled with a roaring sneeze, holding the delicate handkerchief to his nose. Even as he straightened he was sniveling in preparation, quickly wrenching with another retching, " EHH-issch!"

Arabella had become so accustomed to the guards going to extreme and even exhaustive lengths to avoid a sneeze – pinching and stifling and even leaving the room – that the sound of one so visceral was a jarring change. Beryl was in the throes of a fit, issuing a third, "EHH-issch!", and then a fourth and fifth in unhesitating succession, unable to control himself as the assembled court stood in mute disbelief.

"EHH-issch!", he finished off a sixth and, in the split-second hesitation before the next, revealed a glimpse of red, flared nostrils, full of irritation and finally ready for a liquid, "H--KSSCH!"

Dahlia's handkerchief was all that saved him from indignity, clutched to his face with both hands. As awful a sneeze as it was, it apparently delivered exactly the relief he needed, for he breathed out a deep, thankful sigh.

A moment later he muffled into it, "I'b…I'b so sorry…"

The Queen laughed weakly, "If everyone in this room were to bless you, I still don't think it would be sufficient." She gestured for one of the elder maidens. "Have you a handkerchief of your own?"

"Forgive me," he straightened up weakly, drowsily content that the sneezing was finally over. "I brought two with me, and have used them both already. This is not the first time I've been overcome with such an…" he debated a tactful phrasing. "Unfortunate sneeze."

"To bed with you, then, and soon," she motioned to the handmaiden, already leading the poor guard from the room. "Take good care of him, Ilyssa."

"I shall, Highness," the young woman reassured, handing him a new handkerchief as she guided him out.

There was an awkward silence in the throne room as the door closed quietly after them, and Jonner was quick to the Queen's side.

"Your Highness," he began. "Mareth and Beryl… they were the guards who greeted the prisoner last night. It hadn't occurred to me to say so before now, but… the man had a rather bad cold."

"You believe they've caught it from him, then?"

"It's come on them quite suddenly if they did… and progressed very quickly."

"You were there yourself, were you not, Commander?"

"I was."

Concern hedged her voice, "How do you feel?"

He flared his nostrils with a deep, clear inhale, and let it out the same way, admitting, "Fine."

"Perhaps it's coincidence, then?" she suggested, although Jonner's agitation unsettled her as well. "We always lose a portion of the guard to colds at this time of year. Hopefully it's nothing more serious than that."

"Hopefully," he sighed, looking towards the closed doors. "I would be afraid if there was some malice behind a sickness that could spread as quickly as that…"

[K.Matsuri]

Oh, this is excellent! Very well-written, and plotty, too

You've made an excellent world for your characters to live in - no anomalies to speak of. Fabulous!

I'm curious to see what will happen in regards to Arabella's rule as a result of this Rhysold plot

[ellwren]

This is really good! Oh, the intrigue!

[starpollen]

A RESOUNDING HELL YES! This is awesome! Love it. Completely drawn in, totally engrossed, and not grossed out by messy sneezing. The messier the better, in my opinion. Can't wait for more!!!!....

[Vetinari]

A great start and lovely messy sneezing to come. What could be better?

[Guest]

An awesome and excellent start Liberty, can't wait for the next instalment..as Star Pollen says A RESOUNDING HELL YES!

[Lady K]

WOW! Only the first part, and I absolutely love it! This fic is definitely going to keep me stalking the board for updates...

[The Sneezster]

Oh.

My!

Well done start. I'm eagerly awaiting more.

[Nova]

Oh.

Oh...

Iih, this is very well written, and it surely works for me *laugh*

I hope there'll be more soon!

[Tangerine]

Oh and it just starts to get really good! Can't wait for the next part!!

[Liberty Belle]

Wheeeeeyay. :> Okie, here's part two.

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"Ah-SHOO!" Gaelin let loose with an almost comic sneeze, causing the torch in his hand to gutter wildly. He wiped his nose with a sleeve, snuffling something loudly and deeply back into his nose. "…Esscuse me, Highness." SnRRFLe. "Hay fever is acting up."

Arabella followed the big guard down the curving stairs of her tower, furrowing a look of concern at his back.

"God bless you. What are you allergic to?"

"Don't rightly know," he admitted, switching the torch to his other hand so that he could wipe his nose with the opposite sleeve. "But something's making me… making me…", he slowed on the step below her, throwing his head back with quivering nostrils before wrenching with another declarative, "ASHOO!"

"God bless! Gaelin, why didn't you call out sick?"

"Allergies," he lamented, resuming his trudging descent, the Queen following worriedly behind. "I never sneeze more than once, except… ah---" again he stopped, throwing his head back before bellowing another, "ASHOO!"

"Bless!"

"Ah…" he started to wind up again, big nostrils flaring, and this time Arabella took the torch from him, knowing what was coming. "Ah—"

Both hands flew to his face, catching the congestion as he suddenly sneezed it out, "AHK-KKSSCCH!"

Just as she'd foreseen the consequences of that last sneeze, so did she foresee his abrupt and shame-faced embarrassment.

"Don't apologize," she cut him off before he could speak, handing him a handkerchief – a far sturdier one than she normally carried. Awkwardly he turned his back to her on the curving stair, cleaning himself up and then loudly blowing his nose. "Just be grateful I thought to carry a supply. There's of a shortage of those right now."

"I'm still sorry, your Highness… I don't ever… well, I mean, that normally never happens…"

"You were saying," she prompted, urging him to continue their descent. "How do you know this is your hay fever?"

"Round the time the ragweed comes out, I go into awful fits, just like that one. Never happens when I have a cold. Must be something in the air making me sneeze."

She wanted to agree with him, having witnessed some of the allergy-suffering knights sneezing in the confines of clattering armor, but his symptoms were too common, and this was far from the time for seasonal allergies.

It was two days since Beryl's return, and with the swiftness of a summer wildfire his cold – or, more accurately, that of their Rhysold prisoner – had infiltrated and decimated the castle military. Subtly at first the throne room rang with a sneeze here and there, and then the battlements as the watch guards were affected one by one. Last night the last of the knights retired to sickbed, and the words, "bless you," were leaving her lips on a frustratingly regular basis.

The plague's one saving grace – if it could be called that -- was that only the men seemed affected. The handmaidens, by now fidgety and frightened, were all as right as rain, although run ragged caring for the men. Arabella had assigned her maidens to look after those guards who did not have wives of their own, assuring that each one could be as well cared for as possible under the circumstances.

Most of the royal guard was out sick, with only a few souls left well enough – or hard-headed enough – to maintain their posts. Keeping the afflicted armed with enough handkerchiefs, food and hot drink was stretching the kitchen and laundry staff to its limits. Especially handkerchiefs; there wasn't a dry nose among them.

"HEIFSH!" a soldier aside the throne room door sneezed messily into his hand, and she drew out another hanky, pressing it into his hand as they passed.

"Bless you, Tol."

"Highdess," he muffled.

In the interest of his safety, the King was confined to his chambers, and Arabella was privately glad that the old man was neither sick, nor pestering her to fix things. She entered the throne room ahead of Gaelin, quickly scanning those assembled to take stock of who was well enough to attend, and who had fallen ill since the night before.

Most of her handmaidens were depleted, off caring for their assigned guards and soldiers, although Bronwyn and a few others tried to distract themselves with their needlework. Four guards, down from the normal twelve, stood watch around the perimeter of the room, and at first glance Arabella identified two as sick.

"Ah…" Gaelin groaned behind her, needful of another cleansing sneeze; his sinuses were filling up faster than before. "Ah…" He stopped in his tracks, groaning out another, "Ah…," before the congestion leaked into both nostrils, and he clapped a hand over them. "IIIFFSSH!"

"Bless you," Arabella winced, turning a look back at him.

He groaned within the cup of his palm. "Oh no…"

"Gaelin, again?"

"Ah… IIIFFSSH!"

"Bless you," the handmaidens' sympathetic voices chorused behind her. Arabella watched the big guard groggily struggle his handkerchief into place, turning away to once again blow his nose. "Gaelin… go home."

"But, your Highness—"

"You need your bed far more than I need an escort," she sighed. "Even if there were anyone afoot that I should fear." With a quick head-count to the remaining maidens, she gestured one gently forward. "Come – what's your name?"

"Bella, ma'am."

"Bella, I'm leaving Gaelin to your care… I trust that you'll see him well again?"

The little handmaid slipped up alongside the guard, smiling up at him weakly – and he in return – before they accompanied one another from the chamber. Only when the door had closed after them did the Queen collapse wearily into her throne, careless of appearances.

"Well," she sighed. "Who's left?"

"I am, my Queen."

She looked up, smiling as Jonner stepped from the wings. Her heart delighted.

"Commander – I'm so pleased to see that you're still well." She paused, musing, "…Pleased and surprised."

"Mine has always been an iron constitution, Highness," he reported soberly. "You and the womenfolk still appear to be in good health."

"Mm, good all around," she agreed, looking at the diminished assembly of girls. "How do our men at arms fair?"

He assumed his splay-footed military stance, clasping his hands behind his back as he took a mental inventory.

"Very poor, which is why I've come to speak with you, instead of myself manning the battlements. May we have a word in private?"

Though ommon knowledge that the Queen and her Commander took regular meetings together, it was still considered questionable that they spent any amount of time alone together – even over matters of state. His direct request for a private audience made the assembled maidens perk up and murmur amongst themselves.

The more attention she paid them, the worse their behavior; Arabella rose from her throne, delicately accepting the Commander's hand for balance as she descended the dais and preceded him to the adjoining Map Room.

"As you wish."

She felt the burden of bad news the moment he closed the doors behind them, turning to face her with a look of dark dread.

"morning watch saw something troubling through the spyglass, this morning," he said without preamble.

"Troubling how?"

"An army, my Queen. Rhysold's army, if the flags are to be any indication. They appear to be readying an attack."

Fear sunk claws into her heart, one hand flying to her lips.

"What? How long until they—"

"Two days. Three at most."

"And our men?"

"Our forces are all but disabled," he reported, frustration leaking through the cracks in his stern façade. "In two days time some of the men first afflicted may feel well enough to take up arms, but… this has decimated our defense. If Rhysold's armies have come to challenge us, they'll meet with no resistance."

In that he had long expected an attack from their enemy kingdom, Arabella was both surprised and shamed that he took their eminent defeat with such calm composure. Her mind leapt or a solution, an answer or strategy that could aid them; surely defeat could not be so certain as that… surely there was recourse.

She needed time to think, time they did not have.

Crossing the room's length, skirts sweeping the floor, she corralled her faculties, focusing them towards defense.

"There's no doubt in your mind that this is all their doing, then? Some sort of germ warfare?"

Jonner took no pleasure from his proven foresight, standing at loose attention as she paced the room and back again.

"It was the one offensive we couldn't have seen coming. If I wasn't interested in slitting their foul throats, I would congratulate them." His eyes followed her. "You spoke with the Royal Physician, did you not?"

"I did."

"What did he say?"

"Simply that it was what it appeared to be – a cold. A virulent, highly infectious cold. He could offer no reason as to why only the men were effected." She grew bitter, adding, "Or, at least, no legitimate one."

"Do tell."

"He suggested there might be magic behind it."

Jonner's scowl reflected her contempt, "I thought magic went the way of dragons long ago."

"Perhaps. But legends of dragons still live on among the people… sometimes these things are equal parts myth and reality."

Snorting, he crossed to join her by the chamber window. "I refuse to accept such nonsense. The only reality is that there is no answer and, more importantly, no cure. Which means we are in this alone."

"Commander," Arabella said, "Have we two riders to spare?"

He was thrown by the question, furrowing a look at her before agreeing, "I could ride, if necessary, and perhaps one other. Where exactly would we go?"

"North and East," she whispered fiercely. "Our neighbors lie a day's journey from here on a swift horse, and a day's journey back… but if two days is all we have, they may yet arrive in time to help us."

His eyes cleared in realization, and in echo of their last discussion the Queen said uneasily, "Perhaps the songbird does not have to fear the cat if she has raptors as her ally."

"Understood," he stepped back, ready to leap to her order. "I'll rally another rider, and our two fastest horses. It may just be enough."

"Wait," she stood quickly, gathering the drape of her gown in both hands to hasten her movement. "I wish to attend you."

"My…Queen?"

"We have neither pages nor servants to spare for messenger duties," she said, moving past him so swiftly that he double-timed to reach the door before her, swinging it open for her passage. The throne room guards came to sudden attention as they charged in – and through – hurrying to open the doors as they exited side-by-side. One of them turned and sneezed explosively into his sleeve as he did so.

"Hpt—shoo!"

"Bless you, Aric," she mumbled as they swept into the antechamber, and then down the corridor to the cloisters, and the courtyard beyond.

"Your Highness," Jonner frowned. "Where are you going?"

"To the mews – I trust I'll find the falconer or one of his apprentices. If we can send two riders by land, we can send as many birds by air, and aid may arrive sooner."

The Commander's eyes glittered as he kept pace.

"They can fly faster than any horse," he said. "With no need to rest."

Arabella looked aside at him, expression desperate with apology.

"I know it's not a solution, Commander… but it may buy us time—"

"It may just," he growled with pleasure, the possibility of a mounted defense at last taking shape in his head. At the castle cloisters, where their paths diverged, he stopped and looked at her. "My Queen…"

"Commander?" she was flush with the thrill of purpose.

"I realize…I'm afraid I cannot make the ride myself. I will need to find you another."

"But why," she begged. "You're the fastest we have."

He raised a fist slowly to his face, an expression forming there that set her heart on ice.

"I…" he began."—HISSH!"

She stared at him, one hand flush to her chest in surprise, and when his eyes reopened they shared a desperate look. Uneventful seconds ticked by, a look of relief coming over them as it seemed to be an isolated--

"HISSH!", Jonner's head wrenched down with another sneeze, a grimacing recovery becoming an abrupt, shuddering fit, "Heh-IISCH! Heh-IISCH!" Harder now, the blasting force began to loosen something in his nose.

"Heh-IISCH!" he withdrew into the cloister shadows, fumbling for his handkerchief.

"Heh-IISCH!" it was on the verge of coming out—

"HSSCH!" he sneezed everything into the handkerchief, barely getting it to his nose in time. A soft groan escaped him, both dismal and grateful, and he curled deeper into shadow to blow out anything loose enough to come out.

There was a lasting silence between them, long after he'd wiped his nose, satisfied there would be no immediate reoccurrence. He was loathe to look back at her, afraid to find her staring at him in disgust or disappointment…

…and instead, found her with a hand to her heart in a seeming of agony.

"…My Queen," he began, and she rushed toward him sadly.

"Jonner—" The sound of his own name stunned him silent. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

"I assure you," he murmured, turning to face her. "Until this moment, I had no idea." He looked down at the handkerchief folded in one hand. "I was… preoccupied, else I might have felt it coming." Apologetic, his eyes begged at her. "I cannot ride – I've failed you—"

"Being human is no failing. We'll send another to ride in your place. It will still be fine, I promise you." They stared at one another before she reached up, touching the side of his face with a tenderness that awed him. "You need rest."

"No," he insisted, straightening. "If aid does or does not come, we cannot simply roll over to the enemy – we must prepare."

"Then you may prepare from bed, but I will not have my Commander at Arms fall to his death from pneumonia before the enemy. Whatever you need do, you may do it from your chambers."

"Your Highness—"

"That is an order from your Queen," she demanded, eyes flashing.

Jonner fell back, touching the folded handkerchief to his nose, and for the first time withdrew from her more than just physically, his manner unexpectedly icy.

"…I think you're out of handmaidens to sit at my bedside," he muttered.

"I shall find one." She hated the sudden tension between them, but knew no other way… she would be respected as Queen, even if it meant reminding her soldier of his place. "To your quarters, Commander… I will send someone to attend you."

"At your leave, then," he growled, turning from her. Arabella looked after him, hugging her arms to her body.

"God Bless."

[silentdreamer789]

Wow. Part 2 posted the minute I finished part 1! How conveniant! And what a great fic! Love all the contagion and different sneezers, and that now our hero is sick...can't WAIT for more...

silentdreamer789

[count tiszula]

Fabulous! There's nothing like a good castle for spreading a cold; and generally being a wonderful backdrop for a good suspenseful story.

It's so exciting; the tension really gets going with every sneeze. And now an army on the way ....

[K.Matsuri]

Oh man! Part of me hoped that Jonner would avoid it, but oh, what a twist! And now the army's approaching...

This is really engaging! I can't wait to see what happens next

[starpollen]

HOLY mother of snot. This is fantastic! By all means, keep writing woman! My loins fair quiver with anticipation...

[Guest]

This is quite wonderful! I can't wait to read the next part.

[vignette]

This is so fantastic. I love the plot, and all the sneezing knights are just delicious! It's a brilliant distratcion from the Medieval Romances I'm supposed to be reading for class. I'm hoping there's going to be lots more! x

[Vetinari]

I've not a lot to add except, please carry on, this is fantastic!

[Fae]

your story gives me a certain feeling....downstairs....

lol. the wet aspect is my favorite. moar!!!

[doggo]

I have waited eagerly for this story from the moment I red about the idea.... and OH MY GOD is this just heavenly! I love the plot... and the personality interactions... both the female and male lead are wonderful characters and I adore the game-scene... and the knights with miserably runny noses and messy sneezes?!! I have to retire to my bedchamber now before I come back and read my favourite parts again!

I'm waiting SO much for the next part...

[Nova]

Wow, that was quick.

And good! Thanks for a wondreful second part!

[Sneesee]

Absolutely brilliant! I'm loving this! I can't wait for the next part!

[The Sneezster]

I'm really enjoying this story. But, the women are immune? No fair! (just kidding, by the way -- you write your story as best you see fit)

[Liberty Belle]

You guys crack. me. up. :>

...downstairs... LOL forever. Okay, part three. Some sneezing here, more later. :> Hopefully I'll get this stupid thing done before Thanksgiving

I'm REALLY glad y'all are enjoying it, though. :>

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Worse than merely being sick – a condition he found himself in only rarely – he hated this particular sickness. It couldn’t simply be a cold that to ignore until it resolved itself. It couldn’t be a fever that he could feel noble braving and sweating out. It had to be this specific collection of symptoms, none of which allowed him any modicum of dignity.

Having announced itself, it didn’t take long for the sickness to establish its routine. The tension in his head he’d mistaken for a brewing headache turned out to be the root of his misery: some kind of prolific infection in his sinuses. When the amount of congestion became too much, it began to leak into his nose, an aggravating sensation that triggered a sure reaction: he sneezed.

A single sneeze did precisely what it should have, immediately loosening the irritating congestion, forcing more of it out of his sinuses. Had it been a normal cold, he would have accepted the nearest, “bless you,” blown his nose to his satisfaction, and considered it done. Unfortunately, the amount of congestion loosened by that one sneeze further irritated his nose, triggering another sneeze.

…and another.

…until at last, in an effort to clear it all out once and for all, he gathered enough force for one, last, paramount sneeze – a sneeze that quickly established itself as his bane and his relief.

Jonner scrambled for his handkerchief more urgently than he had ever reached for any weapon in the heat of battle.

“IIIFFFSCH!”

Exhausted, he growled stuffily into the handkerchief, “…Bless me,” before clearing his nose with a long, breathy blow.

He was far from fit for a woman's company, and as he blue a second, then a third time, contemplated how to maintain any shred of dignity when the unlucky handmaiden finally came calling. He should have know his immunity couldn't last forever… he'd been foolish with pride, so it was only right that now he paid the price.

Right, but not convenient.

If the suffering of the other men was to be any indication, his symptoms would worsen for a day, endure for perhaps two more, then gradually begin to abate. Those afflicted first – Mareth and Beryl – were only now well enough to resume limited duties, though still could not be separated from their handkerchiefs.

Tossing his own spent handkerchief aside, he rose from the fireside and stormed to the mullioned windows lining the Western wall. From there he glared towards Rhysold, its wisps of smoke rising from the valley, and cursed their ingenuity. Had they mounted any other offensive, he would have easily seen it coming; to this, he'd been completely blind.

A knock fell behind him, one of the handmaids at last come to call. Jonner leaned his hand against the stone frame of the window and called blindly back, "Come."

A creak of hinges, a rattle of wooden wheels on stone, and then a timid woman's voice.

"Commander?"

"The Queen sent you," he muttered without looking. Unless she meant to punish him she would have sent one of her oldest girls. Bronwyn, perhaps.

"She was worried, sir. She asked that I look after you."

"I need no one's guardianship."

"Perhaps for comfort?"

"Nor that."

"A bit of company, then?" She sighed. "She'll have my hide if I turn back, sir. She was insistent."

At last he looked, sniffling irritably as he sized up the woman lurking in the dark, her veil fluttering with each nervous breath. Jonner was not an indulgent man, but often forgot how fragile these girls could be, and made a flicking motion with his fingers to call her forth.

"Come in, then. Bad enough that one of is has fallen into ill favor. What is it you've brought?"

"Food and hot mead, sir, fresh from the scullery. And handkerchiefs. Thought you could use all three."

Her timing could not have been more apt, the comment heralding that curious sensation far back in his nose. He tried snuffling at it, pressing one fist to the tip, but knew it was a bargain of minutes, at most.

"By the fire, if you wouldn't mind."

"Aye, sir," she averted her face shyly as she pushed the cart to the fire. When at last she looked at him, he barely seemed aware of her company. "…Are you not hungry?"

"A moment," he said evenly, pressing the fist harder to his nose, and tried sniffling again.

"Perhaps you'd prefer the bed?"

"Your concern is appreciated, but ill-timed," he graveled, then straightened up, looking towards the cart she'd wheeled in. "You said…" he fought to speak, "…You said you brought a handkerchief?"

"Several."

"IIFISSCH!"

"God bless you!"

"Please," he groaned, caging one hand loosely about his nose as the other gestured in urgent appeal. "It's---" he snarled violently, "IIFISSCH!"

"Bless—"

"IIFISSCH!" The third sneeze loosened something into his nostrils, and he cupped his nose quickly, hiding it from view as he twisted to face the window. The final sneeze seemed to rip from his sinuses, blasting abruptly into his hands, "HIISSSSCH!"

The Commander remained doubled forward, clasping his nose as the handmaid scurried to bring the handkerchief he'd been beckoning for. He tried to turn away but she dogged him to either side.

"God bless you."

"Don't. Leave me—leave it on the table—"

"I won't."

"I order you—”

"You cannot order me."

Her voice rang with unexpected authority, and Jonner looked up, raging with indignation. For the first time the windowlight slanted through her veil, and he recoiled in surprise.

"Arabella--!"

Using it to her advantage, she urged the handkerchief up under his hands, giving him no option but to take it from her. Face burning, he turned to the window for composure. "…this is a disgrace."

"Do not hold it against me, Commander."

"I refer to myself—"

"How are you disgraced? By your illness?" She laughed uneasily, returning to the fire to give him some sense of privacy as he laboriously blew his nose. "Ten years I have waited for some sign from you that you were vulnerable to anything at all. Ten years, and I heard not so much as a sniffle from you." Settling on the couch, she looked back at him. "I am merely satisfied that you are human after all."

He cleaned himself up quickly, folding the handkerchief older and holding it ready, no longer so willing to toss it aside. Displeasure showed on his face as he came to her, taking a seat opposite and perching tensely on the couch’s edge.

"I take ill now and again, as any man, but I keep it to myself. If you had desire to see me compromised, my Queen, you had only to ask."

"You misunderstand me. I wanted not to see you compromised, merely…"she sighed. "Merely a little… in need, now and then."

Bitter still, he asked, "And now am I needful enough?"

"Yes. Though I know you perceive it as a weakness."

"It is weak." He looked at the fire, disgusted with himself, and Arabella tried a more gentle approach.

"You saw me at my weakest," she said, removing her veil. "When I was still a child, terrified of the life into which I'd been thrust, you saw in me something I could never see myself." When he crept a look at her, she added, "It was because of you that I saw the role of queen not as a burden, but as a duty, a challenge to be embraced. So now the tables have turned, and you are – as you say – the weak one, and I see you as what you cannot."

"And what is that."

"My hero," she murmured. His expression was stone, but the flash of his eyes was unmistakable. "A man who has exceeded every expectation laid upon him, and tries still to fly in the face of adversity."

Snorting, Jonner sat back against the cushions, crossing his ankle over one knee as he glared into the fire.

"You make no mention of the fact that I am, at the moment, an entirely unheroic mess."

Arabella searched the burning logs as if she could see what he saw, drumming her fingertips to one knee before catching him in the corner of her eye.

"I rather enjoy your sneeze." And when he looked at her incredulously, she defended, "Every other man at court wears the same face before they sneeze… that look of dread anticipation, of helplessness. You are the first I've seen who snarls before he sneezes. It is not a desperate flagging of will, but a battle into which you go well-armed.”

Now he truly reddened, unconsciously swiping his fingertips down his nostrils, like a soldier reassuring himself that his weapon was still at the ready. In that the bend of the conversation made him self-conscious, Arabella smiled and moved on.

"In any case, I wished to be sure you were all right."

"I am as well as I can be." He sighed. "Have so many fallen that there were there no more handmaids to spare for me?"

"No one knows I am here."

Now he really did look surprised, a fact she politely ignored. "I… deliberated sending someone else. Bronwyn was eager enough to be at your bedside… she is a little younger than I, and yet I see the way that she looks at you. But I could not abide her here. Nor anyone else."

"Your Majesty…," he cautioned, but she cut him a quieting look.

"Perhaps I shame myself in saying so, Commander, but I have known you since one could even laughingly call me a woman. Should I lie and say that in all that time I never once saw you as… more than simply a man at arms? My husband's general?"

He stared at her, and now she stared back. "I am a Queen, but I am a woman first. It was only when I realized that you were needful of care that… I could not endure anyone else here at your bedside. That is why I came. Do with that knowledge what you will."

As if the hearth were a moderator between them, Jonner returned his attention to its turbulent light, climbing to his feet after many long, pregnant moments of silence. Leaning a hand to the mantle, he removed an iron poker and stabbed angrily at the logs. For the first time Arabella saw the age in his face, not just of a man ten years her senior, but someone far wiser and more world-weary than herself, both armed and handicapped by all that life had given him.

"No man is an island."

"Except you,” she mused sadly.

"No." Now he looked back, face halved by firelight and shadow. "Not even me." Turning back to the hearth, he said, "Tell me… were you really so devastated to be torn from your home?"

"I was still a child. My heart was broken."

"Which is why we have spent every week of the past ten years at arm's length… as entwined as two people can be without touching. For I feared breaking your heart a second time."

Confusion darkened her face, and she rose, joining him at the hearth.

"What are you talking about? You have never broken my heart…"

"You said it yourself, only just now," he smiled faintly, tiredly. "It was I who brought you here, Arabella. Not the King, nor your parents. It might have been their word that finalized it, but I was the one who insisted that you be torn from your home, and brought here, child bride to an aged King."

She leaned to the mantle, stunned, staring at his profile as he lowered his head to his forearm and rested it wearily.

"But it isn't so---how can it be so? I never set eyes upon you until the day I arrived – yours was the first face I saw as we made land."

"It was written long before that. I was nine when your parents retired to the isle, the greatest General and the most skilled Mapmaker the kingdom had ever known. Ten, when you were born. When I became a soldier, as my father before me, and eventually came into the employ of the King… when the Queen died in childbirth, and his advisors talked of searching the corners of the kingdom for a new bride… I insisted it be you."

She whispered, looking hard into his face, unable to read beyond the chiseled profile.

"But why? Of all the girls that could have possibly played that part… why me? You knew nothing of me."

His eyes glinted as he looked aside at her. "I knew you were the daughter of the greatest General and the most skilled Mapmaker the kingdom had ever known," he repeated. "And as my father imparted to my brothers and I all that he'd learned in the military, I knew that you would be the best of both those worlds."

Seeing she was still confused, he said, "The King wanted a Queen with a child in her womb. I wanted one with a good head on her shoulders. I bargained you would be that Queen, and I was not disappointed."

Arabella stared into his eyes, as deeply as the light could reach, and slowly turned away. She felt incorporeal, outside of herself, crossing to one of the windows and there leaning in the frame, staring out over the lands to which she had unknowingly been committed – not by fate, not by luck, not even by her own King, but by the last person on Earth she expected.

It seemed hours before he said, "My Queen?"

And still, when she didn't answer, he came to her in the window, gripping her shoulders from behind speaking in her ear. "Arabella."

"It is a woman's lot in life to have her fate thrust upon her by others..."

"I… I'm sorry. I never meant—"

"No, you don't understand," she turned in place, closer to him than she had ever been, and met his eyes directly. "I came to you, so mired in desire and jealousy, that I forgot the wolves salivating at our door. My fate was thrust upon me once, Commander, and I caved to it, embraced it, rose to it. I became what I never believed I could. I see now that we have in our midst everything we need to resist our enemies. If not permanently, than at least as long as it takes for help to arrive."

"But the men," he frowned, shaking his head. "They're still ill—"

"Ill, but not at death's door."

"But they cannot fight—"

"They have no need," Arabella took the soldier's hands with a fierce smile. "The women shall do it for them."

[starpollen]

YESS! While I admit I sort of saw that coming - the women fighting, I mean - I am SO glad it did. I also think it's awesome that he picked her. Very cool. I wonder now how you'll get rid of the king so those two can rule the kingdom together... Perhaps a nice hot scene after the castle is safe but before he's totally over this delicious illness...