The fishermen of Valencia have always come through, even at the toughest
of times. But things are changing in this city, and the more the people walk
amongst the sand of their ocean, they begin to realize that the familiar smell
of the sea has turned to rot. The fish have risen to the surface, plagued and
sickening, and the fishermen are at a loss. Sometimes they say they see things
in the water, women that aren’t women, teeth that are horrifying, scales along
their skin. They call them sirens, but the people of the city are writing them off
as mad. The realization that they are left without their main food source they turn
to the King, and some are even desperate enough to turn to the Titan leader.
But both are at a loss, and Arthur himself cannot open the ports for fear of
letting the plague ( or whatever it may be ) spread.
But with a bit of persuasion, King Arthur managed to get a neighboring country
to agree to help feed Valencia, but with the cost of half of his Knights leaving
to protect the poorer country in need. While the citizens of Valencia are fed,
they are also left with little protection, and that leaves them to question Arthur
once more.
Citizens are warned to stay away from the water, as the ‘strange creatures’ may
still be lurking.
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She started, her eyes scanning the crowd that had gathered that morning to watch her execution. Her voice was steady and she had no idea how she managed that since her hands were shaking. Still, she refused to show fear. She felt it; she felt it in every bone of her body; she felt it as she looked at the block of wood in front of her where she would have to rest her head and her life.
“If you wrote to the king, your majesty, and ask for forgiveness…” Tasmin shot a hostile look to the lord that came to bring her news of her execution. The intensity of her gaze made him stutter for a second and bow his head before going on, “…he’d pardon you.” Turning her back to the man, Tasmin shook her head. The news were only starting to settle and register in her mind. She was going to die and Arthur had done nothing to stop it. “No.” Her voice rang loud and clear which was surprising considering how fast her heart was beating. “It is the king who should seek my forgiveness.” The more she thought about it, the more her mind kept going back to that letter; the letter he had so strongly refused being behind. Her death would be so convenient for him that she scolded herself for ever believing his words.
“I’ve been brought here to die and thus submit myself to the law, for the law has judged me. My offences,…”
The accussations, the planted evidence, the staged trial and the predetermined conviction. The injustice was suffocating and she felt its claws around her neck robbing her of her breath.
“...God knows them and He, being ever fair and just, will judge me. I only ask that you remember me in kindness and I beseech you to pray for the land, its people and the life of the king; the true king.”
Her lips twitched in half a smirk as the crowd started whispering in an effort to decipher her words and loyalties. Who was her true king? Half the land would believe she was referring to Caelan and the other half that this was one last attempt to make an appeal to her husband, appease him and save her life. Her pride was the only reason she didn’t proclaim her loyalty to Caelan; she preffered to die a martyr than give Arthur the satisfaction of rightfully labeling her a traitor. She refused to plead guilty to offences she never comitted.
“And thus I take my leave of this world.”
The small bag of coins she had been holding in her hands landed in the extended palm of her executioner. She ought to pay the man who would take her life, she ought to pay him to ensure his aim was precise and her death painless. “My lady, please, forgive me for what I must do.” Tasmin looked at the headsman and she couldn’t find it in her to refuse his plea; he was not the one she blamed for what was going to happen.
“Forgiven.” For the first time since she stepped out in the cold wind, her voice shook and trembled. The queen pressed her lips together and steeled herself as she kneeled in front of the block of wood. Her eyes strayed to the blue sky above her head and then scanned the crowd in front of her. Where these people eager to see her die or were they there to be her last companions? Tasmin wished to find a familiar face among them, a pair of friendly eyes to give her strength and courage to lay her head on that block without breaking. There were none or maybe she wasn’t really looking...
Tasmin leaned forward, her eyes closed, hands trembling and a shiver went down her spine as she felt the cold wood against her face. And then she waited holding her breath...
Estella has been ordered by the crown to spend her days in Bernedette Fowler’s office with the hope that some of the herbs there will help her prophecies become more rapid. She has been ordered to discover all she can about the whereabouts of the Titans and of future attacks. As before, they are false and always directed across the city from the Mills’ or the Inn.
Estella stood outside Bernadette Fowler’s door with her breath caught in her chest. By order of the crown Estella has been sentenced to spend her days with the woman, eating her potions and herbs in an attempt to expose the rebels and their hiding places. A task Estella did not want to have to do. Estella did not fully agree with the crown, she found herself allying more with the rebels than the royals, and she did not want to be responsible for putting any of them in jail. That was why she lied day after day about her dreams and visions. Estella knew where most of the rebels and those aiding them could be found and she would be damned if she were to let an of them be caught. So she faked her prophecies, leading the army of knights further and further from the truth.
Estella knew what would happen should the rebels be found. She dreamt of destruction, of death, of smoke and fire. She dreamt of birds falling dead from the skies, of stars crashing into homes. And for the first time in a long time Estella felt confident of what her dreams meant. Chaos was to be the future of this city. Killing and imprisoning the rioters wouldn’t stop the war to come. The war that was put into motion the day Caelan disappeared.
So without knocking Estella entered the house, the only thing on her mind being how she was going to protect her friends, family, and those she sided with.
Alexander didn’t know how he came to this. He pushed his hair back roughly, trying to control his emotions as best as he could. But he clearly looked upset -- it wasn’t in him to hide his sorrow well, he could just run away from people seeing it. As he sat down in this cold dark cell ( sharing a space with his friend who didn’t seem so vibrant as usual ), he contemplated of how he found himself here.
He remember being at his University, scribbling down every word his professor said onto his paper. His head turned up as the class heard ruckus going about outside of their classroom. He didn’t think none of it, tapping his finger on his book absently. When the guards came into the room, he subtly looked around to see who exactly they were looking for. One of his classmates always looked a little off to Alex, maybe it was him. But the last thing he expected, happened as he now looked up -- seeing the guards grab the collar of his shirt. His expression matched his fellow peers -- how the hell was he getting arrested? Before he knew it, he thrashed naturally -- trying to get away from the source that was threatening him. His books and papers flew everywhere -- nearly hitting some of his classmates in the face. By the time they managed to haul in down the hallway of the university, he gave up the struggle -- his eyes wide in disbelief.
At first when they threw him in the cell, closing the door, he shook the cell bars, yelling to let him out. After half of the day of doing this -- with little convincing of Bellamy or the guards -- he finally felt exhausted, huddling in a corner of the cell. He stayed like that for the rest of the day till now. Even when they offered little food or water -- he didn’t budge; irritating the guards. He hated how he was acting -- like a small child who was lost without their parents -- but that’s how he felt right now, being stuck in a small space.
The worst part is that no one except Bellamy knew where he wasn’t. Not his brother, not Aurora, not even Elias or Millicent. And he wondered for all of them. Pitor was used to Alexander being gone for a day or two, but what would happen after awhile? What would his brother thing what had happen to him? And Aurora -- oh how the pulsating bruise on his eye reminded him how he promised her he wouldn’t get into any more trouble. And now he was in a heap of it. And she didn’t know -- possibly didn’t care cause she was occupied with her own life. But right now, he needed Aurora to make him feel better about this whole situation.
And to make things worse, a vibe in the air hung around Alexander. A vibe that Bellamy gave off. It wasn’t pleasant, at all. It was one of expecting, wondering. And Alexander knew what he was wondering about. Were they going to die in this prison? And he couldn’t bring himself to think about this. He couldn’t. He would fight anyone before he would let that happen. But just thinking about it, made Alexander tighten his little ball more. For someone who was well over 6 feet, it was amazing of how he could make such a small space within himself.
The boy closed his eyes tightly and wished upon anything -- the night sky -- that he would get out of this predicament before anything worse happened.
It was a tedious week for Godric, it had been weeks since he had even left the castle, what with the endless stream of tasks he had to patch up. Stepping out into the sun, he frowns at the art gala bustling with people. Sure, it was entertaining to those who did not have to deal with the organization. Most of his current migraines were caused thanks to the gala, and he had no intention of visiting it when it was so crowded. In fact, he would have no intention of visiting were it not for the sculpture that had grasped his gaze, even in its prototype. He would come back later, when his head was a little less heavy.
…
It was around time for supper when Godric woke up, sleep in his eyes and hunger in his stomach. On the way to dinner, he spared a glance towards the gala, it seemed to be closing up.
‘Well, now or never.’
He heads toward the entrance, his pace fast and impatient. When he attempts to step in though, the guard blocks his way.
“The gala is closed for the day, sir.”
Godric looks at the guard, his eyebrows raised.
“I do believe that I have permission to enter this gala whenever I want, being the one who has kindly planned out the financial matters. Have I forgot to mention who I am, soldier? Godric Romelo, the royal treasurer.”
The guard takes a glance at his face, and backs away.
“Forgive me for my impertinence, master treasurer. Though, you will have to be swift.”
Godric nods his head and continues his pace. He skims through the brightly colored paintings that sung of heroes and beautiful ladies, he knew ever so well that those were for the weak minded. He stops, abruptly. The sculpture in front of him shows a man with a grim, yet lustful expression on his face, clutching a squirming girl in his iron grasp. It held a moment of truth, unlike anything else. Godric knew what it was like to tear something away from its home, and he also knew what it was like to be torn away. His eyes cloud over.
“It is, I believe, my right to own someone whose lips has touched the food of the underworld.”
He squints his eyes at the messenger, a smirk plastered upon his face. A sense of triumph fills his heart. Of course, there is not much morality in what he has done, but gods were not meant for conscience. They had no reason to adhere to any standards, him especially.
“Tell the gods that I rule the underworld alone and mighty, and they have no business interfering in my businesses.”
He laughs and beckons for his guards to take the messenger away.
A flash of darkness, and then Godric is back with the sculpture. He touches his hands, they seem to be covered in a fine, dark dust, and his back is damp with sweat. Carefully, he takes a square of cloth from his pocket and dabs the dust of his hands. ‘It does not do well to dabble in dreams and omens. Just my head playing tired tricks,’ he thinks, as he carefully erases the image from his memory.
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“God fucking damn it-” he huffed as he felt himself being flung onto the floor, the handy-work of a lousy chair being the reason for the first time, and not a thoughtless fight for once. “You would think they would have chairs that could actually seat people in this place.”
“Are you coming with me or what?” Bellamy asked, his hand held out before him as he stood out in the rain, vision blurred and his clothes clinging to his form, and he was laughing, always laughing, for how long it had been since he felt the rain.
