The Old Version: The night was dark and windy, thunder was rolling and lighting was flashing. A woman cried out in pain as she was in labor for the second time in her life. She looked up to the doctor who was very calm and reassuring that everything was alright. The doctor had told the young Queen that she would be in danger if she gave birth a second time of loosing her life, because her heart had weakened greatly since the first birth, no one knew why at that time. They still did not know why or how it had, but the heart had weakened. A nurse came in and whispered into the Doctors ears, the woman cried out again.

Outside in the waiting room King William stood there waiting with his son Jr., and his brother John. The King glared at his brother a low dangerous glare of distrust had bonded between the two. Jr. heard his mother crying out and looked up to his father in concern his father gently placed a hand on his son. "She'll be fine son." The nurse came back out and looked at the King she curtsied and whispered softly.

"M' lord and King, you should come and be with her she is calling for you." The nurse kept her head low and looked to the floor. The King glared at his brother and shook his head.

"I will not go. She is to have this baby on her own. I did not help conceive the it." The King's voice was low and rumbling in anger he still had hate for what had been done nine month's ago and how he had found out? He walked in on them. Not one of the guards told him this affair had been going on, but he would be damned if he were a fool. The King would not give in so easily to his wife or her needs.

"Yes, M'lord and King." the nurse scurries back to the doctor and whispers in his ears.

"That's it my Queen, only a few more pushes and your baby will be born."

Updated Mentors wonderful help:

The night was dark, and gripped in the clutches of a most vicious storm; thunder rolled with concussive force, almost simultaneously shot through with lightning, the blinding flashes a strangely fitting backdrop to the hoarse screams of a woman in labour. This was her second child, but there was no reassurance in that fact; her eyes strayed fearfully towards the midwife frequently, as though the answers to her unspoken questions would be written on the older woman’s face. She was disappointed, as the elder’s face was a mask of comfort and reassurance, hiding the hovering miasma of death that already lurked in the room.

The queen had birthed a child before, that much was certain, as was the fact that the birth had been highly traumatic; she had nearly died that day, with pale, damp skin and heavy bleeding. Some miracle had saved her five years previously, but it looked as though God was not gazing down favourably this day. There was bleeding, heavily, and despite the best efforts of the village midwife, it looked as though there would be one life (at best) salvaged from this sorry situation.

Despite knowing death was at hand, the elderly woman remained as quietly encouraging as she had always been, the tells of oncoming oblivion absent from her expression despite some inner knowledge that told her this was wrong; the young woman trying valiantly to introduce a new life to this world should not be doing so by leaving it. She had heard the whispers, of course; that the King (currently waiting outside with his young son) could no longer perform his duties in the bedchamber, and that this child was not a product of his labours, but she reserved judgment. This woman (like any other to her; royalty fell away in the face of such trials, for all blood was the same when spilled across the wizened hands of an elderly midwife) was suffering for her sins, and soon enough God would decide if salvation or torment was her reward.

Outside, the face of the King was stony and underplayed with a viciousness that would have done his ancestors proud. His hand was on the head of his small son, named William for his father, as if in support; the child seemed to be terribly afraid at the sounds of his mother’s cries. In reality, despite the soft “she will be fine soon” that he whispered to the boy, his possessive hand was more of a protection from the room’s other occupant than one of fatherly support.

Standing in the corner, his presence demanded but unwanted, stood the King’s younger Brother John, his face as stony as his brother’s but in some way absent; his expression concealed. The King seemed unable to take his burning stare away from the man, and the arrival of a young girl (the Midwife’s assistant) only seemed to increase the tension that was already thick enough to suffocate.

“M’lord King,” she whispered, remaining bowed and diminutive in the face of her monarch, as though to speak to him was the highest of honours, and to be the bearer of bad news... there was the faintest suggestion of a nervous tremor in her voice. “You should come, sire, the Queen is calling for you.” To admit a man to the chamber in which a woman was giving birth was unheard of, and far from proper, unless the woman was not long for this world; it was sadly obvious that this was the case.

The King, however, rather than being moved by such words, shook his head, eyes already straying back towards his brother in the deepest of hatreds. “I will not go,” he hissed, serpentine; venom on his tongue. “She is to have this baby on her own, for I did not help conceive it.”

The words were to punish John as much as they were to expel the poison on William’s tongue; if the small gasp that escaped from the girl’s lips was any indication then the conformation would be all across the Kingdom by the time the storm broke. It would be a scandal, of course, but William had long ago realised that such things couldn’t be helped. It was better that the words came from his own mouth in the words of his choosing than managed to breed and grow into something unfavourable in his absence.

In truth, he had not known that an affair had been in progress, let alone that it had been his own brother to work his way into his wife’s bed. His guard (once trusted, now eyed with suspicion) had told him nothing, though in the eyes of the now faintly paranoid King they must have known. The palace was always rife with whispers, but this time it had taken his walking in on his brother and his wife in the throes of passion to uncover the truth.

For nine long months he had kept his silence, brooding, allowing the anger to fester into something dark and ugly. He had said nothing to John, allowing the man to make his own conclusions in the face of his brother’s fury, but the outcome of this night would change that. A man no longer willing (able) to satisfy his wife’s needs, he still held love for her, still believed, in the depths of his heart, that it had been his brother’s good looks and silver tongue that had won passage into the Queen’s bed. It was far simpler to believe that his brother was at fault and set aside his own, secret shame.

“Y-yes, my lord King,” He had forgotten about the girl, still standing frozen in a half-bow at his side, and shooed her away with an impatient hand when she made herself known to him once more. He had no time for serving girls, especially those who would soon spread knowledge of his shame throughout the lands. He spared her a measure of his distemper in the form of a wicked glare as she fled, the door opening for a scant moment to permit a little sound to escape; a harsh wail and the quiet tones of the ever-present midwife.

“That’s it, my lady, just a little more and the baby will be born.”

Although they had never been the closest of brothers, to be second in line to the throne had been a privilege for Jonathan, living as a crowned prince, one of luxury and opportunity. He had always been warmed by the idea that he might one day be king, though he had never wished death upon his brother despite wanting the title with a powerfully jealous longing (why should William be so blessed, just for being born first?), but the thoughts of his brother’s demise had always been bittersweet.

Puberty had brought with it the childish attractions that felt world-shaking, and sadly the object of his affections had already been promised to his brother. Upon taking the throne from their father (a figure that William would never be able to replace in Jonathan’s eyes), he had taken a Queen in the desire to do what was good and proper. Jonathan had always known that his brother would take a wife, but he had never counted on her being world-endingly beautiful. A vice, snatched up by his pubescent desires; the soon-to-be Queen had become his obsession.

Of course he had been nothing but a boy, still growing into his voice and limbs; she had spared him little but a glance and beneath his conflict (both at his father’s death, his own growing into a man and the fact that he was unlikely now to be King) he loved his brother. William, so full of ideas but so lacking in good sense. It should never have been him born first in Jonathan’s opinion, but it was difficult to hate his bumbling, fortunate brother. Jonathan had been angry, at times, but never so angry as to harm him, which included keeping his secret obsession for his brother’s wife exactly that: a secret.

As a man of seventeen summers, full grown but for a little and hunting daily with the heads of the King’s guard, Jonathan had turned down several ready suitors in favour of harbouring his flame of longing for the unobtainable Queen. She had never spared so much as a glance in his direction, let alone a favour, but his love for her had never swayed. Even when his brother (excited, oblivious to Jonathan’s pain) had announced that his wife was with child, that obsession had remained as powerful as it had been when he was a boy; it burned in silence.

It was only when the young prince was born, named William for his father, and Jonathan’s hopes of becoming King had been thoroughly dashed, that he allowed himself a little time to be angry, a little time to hate. He had spoken at length with the head of his brother’s guard (a trusted friend), and despite being perhaps unwise he had told the man of his desires. It had been surprising to receive unexpected sympathy for the first telling and certainly, good to purge so many years of pain and comforting to have an ally even if there was nothing to be done.

That friendship had allowed him to love his brother once again and his nephew also; the boy was a product of the woman he loved, and despite dashing the last hopes of Jonathan himself becoming King, the boy was as much of a pawn in the game of the Gods as his uncle. He had taken his role in raising the boy seriously and the child was as much an apple of Jonathan’s eye as he was one of William’s. It was ironic, perhaps, that this involvement had been all of their undoing.

He had seen her, sometimes, in the nursery. She had cared for her son, and her weakened constitution had lead her to spend longer in the presence of her child than in the courts; he would see her in passing, or when he came to collect the boy to play games that would one day be the training of a King. Jonathan had lived his whole life within the palace, and knew more even than the King when it came to the training of a monarch; he had been the perfect candidate when the need for a tutor-come-advisor for the young prince had arisen. William had never thought of it as rubbing the fact that he would never be King into Jonathan’s wounds but then again, he had never seemed aware of them at all.

The young William had been nearing his fourth birthday when things changed; the Queen, ever distant, for some reason broke her silence and invited her brother-in-law into her private chambers. He had thought little of it (cherished it fiercely), and they had spoken for hours upon hours as the child slept. He had learned of her dissatisfaction with William that day, heard many things from her mouth that his infatuated mind assured him were truths. Taking her to his bed had come later, but by that time it had already been far, far too late.

He had come to hate his brother a little, given what she had said to him, given the fact that he had had her, this beautiful woman, and treated her so poorly that she chose to come to another for comfort. Jonathan, who once again would have done anything to get what his brother had by right, struggled to face the idea that William would just throw such things away. So privileged that he forgot the value of things, Jonathan assumed; he had taken her to bed because she was a beautiful woman who deserved the best treatment as much as because he had adored her for years.

Never assuming that he would be caught and almost forgetting that he was doing anything wrong, Jonathan had only been cautious to an extent. The head of his brother’s guard had known of the affair of course, and approved as much as he was able; he kept their silence for them while passing no judgement, which had been more than enough for the trysting lovers. He had never thought of his brother as an intelligent man, so when William had all but exploded into his bedchamber and found Jonathan and the Queen in the depths of passion, the only emotion that he had been able to feel was shock. Later came fear, desperation in the face of his brother’s withdrawal, but all the while he had struggled to think of what he had done as wrong.

They had stopped the affair and refrained for even speaking to one another, but despite his best efforts Jonathan failed in getting his brother to understand. There was no argument nor heated words, only cold fury festering into a darkness that consumed everything in its path. There had been hope, early after the truth had come out that his brother would come around, but the announcement that a baby was to be born had shattered any and all chances of such things coming to pass.

To say that Jonathan had been conflicted had been an understatement; despite all that had come before, this child was to be of his blood. The mixture of his own self and the woman that he had loved for the better part of his life; he had wanted the child as powerfully as he had ever wanted anything, but it was his duty to remain silent and wait, assuming that there would one day be a choice. He had assumed that when the child was born, his brother would cast it out as a bastard and claim that it had died, or raise it as his own and ignore any past digressions as non-existent. In his secret heart, Jonathan had longed for the former, so that he could take the child as his own, leave the Kingdom and make his own life elsewhere.

He had never given thought to the idea that the Queen (his love, his lover) might die, that there might be more consequence to his actions than the hatred of his brother. His delusion had lasted right up until he had been summoned to a chamber in the belly of the castle, called at the Queen’s request over his brother’s, and clearly very much unwanted in the private room. The hatred in the air had been thick, which had stunned him; why would his brother summon him to such a place if all was not forgiven?

So he stood there, confused. He would not comment on the King’s hand, nor would he speak of what had been done; some things would forever remain between the Devil and himself, to Hell with what his brother might say about it. He could have cleared his name if William had been inclined to believe him, but he chose to keep his silence for the sake of the woman he adored. He, at least, was assured that she would survive this and go on living in the arms of the King, and to vilify her did not even cross Jonathan’s mind. She had, in truth, seduced him quite soundly, but he would not utter it even as a suggestion.

When the girl had exited the room, in that very instant, Jonathan’s world had shattered into dust. The unspoken death knell in that child’s voice coupled with his brother’s cold indifference... eyes that had been hidden suddenly hardened. William would send her to her death alone through little more than spite? With a glare to match that which he had been receiving for close to a year, Jonathan stepped away from the wall.

“Hold your tongue, brother,” he spat, the term ‘brother’ now more of a curse than the fondness that it had been in his youth. “Would you allow your bitterness to turn your hand to wickedness even here?” Hatred. So many years of hidden jealousy, anger and denial suddenly blossomed into a furious loathing. He was perhaps hasty, but the woman he loved was dying and his own brother would not even go to her. “You, brother, are a poor King.”

With that he turned, mindless of any response that he might get, and granted himself entrance to the room where his lover lay in torment. “You will lead this Kingdom to ruin through your own stupidity; your inability to put yourself above others, you stupid fool.” That said, a final nail into the coffin that now contained their relationship, he closed the door behind him.

The Old:
The King let his anger boil at what his brother had just said about him. Sure, he had been stupid in that remark, but so had they. They must be punished for what they had done. But then his brother was right, his wife deserved not to be alone. He looked at his brother and then his son. "Son, lets go in and see mommy shall we?" he asked for the first time listing to his brothers words and advisement of going in.

"Is mommy going to die father?" asked little Prince William, his father rose an eyebrow, gosh his son was bright even for being only five and he sighed.

"I do not know son." his voice showed worried, but he believed in not lying to the boy. "But I shall let you say good-bye to your mother and the child she gives birth to." his voice was haunting as if a ghost was now filling his very being. He knew what had to be done if his wife died. Killing the child would give him no pleasures, but he would not have another heir around to steal the throne from his son? Never. Never in a million years would he let that happen.

The King and his son came in as the Queen cried out in pain, little William hid behind his father in fright and wondered why his mother was in so much pain and wondered if he had caused that much pain to her on the day he was born. Deep thoughts for a five year old, but then again he was being raised to be a King. Little William peaked out and smiled at his mother.

The Queen looked at her husband then her son and whispered "Will-- William you came?" there was hope in her voice. she waved her hand out, and the King took it and gently touched it. He looked into her eyes, the love he had for her now gone he nodded.

"I am here M'lady." He said gently treating her as if she were a common peddler outside the front gates. For that is how he saw her now. The Queen saw the look and knew she had lost him forever.

"William... I'm soo sorry..." she whispered she pushed one more time crying out in pain and a little baby begin to wail, the Doctor announced that it was a girl. William looked back and saw her eyes closing he leaned in and whispered.

"I forgive you, but I can never forgive John or love the baby you had for him." When he saw her face of shock and horror he sighed.

"Sire would you like to hold your daughter?" asked the doctor. The King shook his head no.

"She is not my daughter and I want her killed---" The King said now the little prince stood their in horror.

"No papa! No! She is my sister the only thing left from mama... please... please don't kill her." the little boy said now "I.... let me take care of her... and midwife can help... but please don't kill my sister... my little sister..." the Prince looked to his father he didn't want his baby sister to die, and his mother had asked him to protect her best he could, though she knew he was only five.

The New and Improved:

The King’s anger boiled at his brother’s insinuations; how dare the traitorous little worm think of taking even this from him?! The fact that his remark had been both stupid and spoken in anger was not lost on William, but only in so much to give him thought of their stupidity. Thoughts of punishment rolled in tune with the fury of the storm, thoughts of death that lead to thoughts of death incoming... John had gone on in, and maybe his wife (whom he still loved despite it all) didn’t deserve to die alone. The thoughts of his wife dying in the arms of John... the King’s eyes darkened further.

He looked towards his son, whose eyes were wide and fearful; there was no hatred in him yet, and little understanding as to what was going on. He still looked up to his father with adoration but there was the faintest trace of uncertainty there now, as if his uncle’s words had penetrated, painting his father in a negative light. “Son, let us go in and see your mother, shall we?” he asked, for the first time since the betrayal had come to light listening to his brother. He convinced himself that this was the right thing to do, despite the fact that John had said it; his wife did not deserve to be alone, and his brother most certainly did not deserve to be given this privilege.

“Is she going to die, father?” The boy’s eyes were wide, his hurt so deep at the very thought that he could not yet even cry. William clutched him all the more firmly as he steered him into the room, elbowing John out of the way so that he couldn’t reach the bed. His son was a bright boy; he would make a good King in times to come.

“I do not know, William,” he replied, voice soft and worried even as he shot John a look of venom over his shoulder, aiming to repel the man for a time. “I think it would be best if you said goodbye.” Even to his own ears his voice sounded haunted, as if some ghost had crept inside and was chilling his very being from the core. He knew what had to be done; if his wife was to die, he would not raise his brother’s child. Killing a child, let alone the last child of his wife, would hold no pleasure for him but there could not be another heir and he refused to have a bastard living under his roof.

The child, still so wide eyed and afraid, hesitated, the cries of his mother sending him shrinking behind his father in fear, unable to understand why or how she could be in so much pain. Raised to be a King, by the hand of John no less, he was a bright boy and hardly sheltered with the faintest traces of worryingly deep thoughts stirring in him as he met his mother’s agonized gaze. He tried to smile, but the expression was closer to one of heartbreak; his candid father had washed away a great deal of the childish innocence that others his age would possess.

The Queen, delirious now and weakening visibly, raised a shaking hand to her eyes at the sight of her husband and son; she had been convinced that they would remain absent, even in her final moments. She had not seen John enter, having eyes only for her son. “...Will... William. You came?” Her voice was fragile, but hopeful; fixated on her son as if he were some talisman that could take away her hurts. She had lived when they said she would die, she had brought a beautiful boy into the world. He was her hope.

“I’m here, M’lady-” the King began, only to realise that his words fell upon deaf ears, and his son was already leaving him, going to his mother with hands outstretched. In that moment, his heart closed, the love he had had for her burning away in a maelstrom of anger, rejection and pain. She was now to him as any common peddler outside the city gates would be.

He watched, dispassionate, even as he blocked his brother from entering the room, as his wife spoke to the young boy. “William... I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking at one last great effort allowed the midwife to pull the child free of her. It wailed; a shrill, broken sound that shot through the King’s already shattered heart. Words were passing between the boy and his mother, but they were lost to the King’s ears, so intent was he on the squalling of the child. A girl, the midwife announced, already dealing with the separation, not a danger to the throne then, but still his brother’s bastard.

When he looked back, the Queen’s eyes were closed, face beginning to slacken as sleep overcame her, and he knew that it was a rest from which she would not wake. “I forgive you,” He couldn’t place how he had crossed the room, or when, but his hand was on hers, his voice whispering into her ears. “But I can never forgive John. I can never love this bastard of yours.”

There was a trace of horror on her face, as if she had guessed his meaning, and he pulled away having said what he needed to. Let his son finish tearful goodbyes while his mother was as of yet unsullied in his mind.

“Sire, your daughter?” The voice of the midwife broke his musings, and he looked up to see the child swaddled in a bloody blanket offered up to him. He shook his head: no. “She is not my daughter,” he professed, the worlds holding all of the anger that had so far boiled under the surface of his thoughts.

Horrified and hurting, Jonathan had entered the sickroom of his lover to see her prostrate and bleeding, lost in the throes of agony where there had once been passion. There was nothing glorious about this moment, nothing that hinted towards the gift that a child should be. This was no gift; this was death and pain... he had been wrong to do this... her death...

For a long moment he hesitated, stricken, uncertain of how to progress despite the brave and dangerous words that he had spoken to William in anger. What did he say to this woman? What did he say to the woman that he had loved from afar for so long, now dying to bring their illicit child into the world? Sadly, he hesitated for just a moment too long, allowing the Williams junior and senior to enter and push him aside. He found himself transfixed by his brother’s glare and for a moment he was so shocked that he remained silent and still.

The words spoken to his lover, her son, even though she was dying; Jonathan felt his insides shrivel in disgust. How dare his brother be so callous? How dare he starve her of affection even now? He watched as his brother leaned in, speaking softly to his wife, and as a direct result he saw the flicker of horror. Fury was not a word to describe the burning emotion that swept through him; flaming oil surging under his skin to form a throbbing mass behind his eyes.

‘She is not my daughter,’ Jonathan laughed, bitterly. “No, brother,” he said, his voice thick with a dangerous irony. “She is MY daughter, as you have been so quick to point out, and I will take her now.”

He would not allow his brother to care for a child that he so clearly loathed; wouldn’t trust the man with his own flesh and blood. This child was his own, the product of his love for a woman that his brother should never have had, and the idea that she would spend her life in the arms of such an unloving father... it would not be permitted.

Jonathan planned to leave; he would stand to be in this castle no longer, and so he would take his daughter and go. He reached for her with a certainty the likes of which he had never felt before; his woman was dying and he would have no chance to say farewell, but at least he could hope that she was able to hear his last words to her, hear that he would love their daughter.

Before:
Little prince Williams tears were heard by both men but in the distances as they both focused on each other. The King then heard all that John his former brother had heard. "Don't bother taking her John." The King hissed. "She will stay in this castle and I will raise her, while you are banned from this castle, and never allowed to see me or your daughter until the day of my death." again the King's anger was quicker than his brain. He slashed out hated words and glared at his brother "I will send you out of here with seven days worth of food and water, and all that you can take away in one wagon from your chambers only."

The King turned to the midwife "I will take her into my arms, though there will be no love for this child. I will raise her to hate the very man who is responsible for her very being of life. She will know you as a public enemy, and she will hate you." The Doctor and Midwife looked at each other "And if either of you say anything to anyone about this you will die, along with the child."

Prince William's eyes grew wide, he shook in fear for he did not want to die. "Papa... can I hold my sister?" he asked not knowing any better, he was excited to be a big brother. "Papa, can I love my sister?" The young prince thought it was important to ask this question simply because he didn't want to anger his father any more than he apparently already was. "Or am I to hate her like you do? Why do you hate her? She hasn't done anything bad but be born, and papa it's not her fault... cant you love her just a little?"

The King held the baby in a swaddling clothing close to him, the baby in his arms begin to cry feeling the hate in her father's arms she began to wiggle she wanted to feel love. The King rose his eyes and looked at his son, he knelt down and smiled at William "It is good son, that you want to show your sister love, for she will need your love and protection, would you like to name her?" asked William. Being even more cruel as usual for the father's rights were being taken here. William's eyes grow wide.

"Papa, you want me to name her?" he asked making sure, the King nodded "I.. can we name her after grandma? Can we name her Shaylee?" the King nodded yes. "Then her name is Shaylee Emily, after Grandma and Mom." The King smiled at his son, exactly the name he would have picked for her.

After: ;


The tears of little Prince William were heard by both men, but only distantly; they were focussed on each other with a burning, unshakable certainty. The King heard the words spoken by his brother and was rewarded with a self-righteous rush of spite; John would not take this child, he would not benefit from this! “You will not take her,” he hissed. “She will stay in this castle and I will raise her ! You will be damned! Banished! You will never set foot in this castle or see this child again until the day of my death!” Again, the King’s anger was quicker than his good sense. He slashed out heated, hate laden words at glared at his so-called brother.

“I am not a vengeful King, however,” he lied, that selfsame spite creeping back into his voice. “You may take seven days worth of supplies, a wagon and that which you can carry from your chambers.” His voice dropped then, venom spilling forth unchecked. “I will not have you vilify me, you adulterous bastard. The only thing that this land will ever remember is my kindness in the face of your betrayal.”

He turned to the midwife then, a look of warning spreading across his face, daring her to whisper differently into the ears of the people she tended to. She would know, of course, but he could scare her into silence. “I will take her into my arms, though there will be no love for this child. I will raise her to hate the man who is responsible for her pain; the man who forced her into this world of hatred and pain.” His words were for John, as dark and as dangerous as the look he had levelled on the midwife and her girl; a look that promised death if they were to speak of this.

Finally, the King smiled, but his smile was in no way kind; the bumbling, uncertain monarch that had once ruled with his brother’s quiet aid was gone and something far more terrible remained. He took the child under the banner of that smile, holding her stiffly and without affection. “One word, John; if I hear tell of these happenings outside of this night I will know that you have been indiscreet. I will not have you gathering favour in the town, or spreading vicious rumours about me; one word, one hint that others know of this, and your daughter will be executed.”

Prince William, the poor soul, who had been standing forgotten at his mother’s side, shook in fear. His eyes were wide, tears spilling down his young face in shocked silence. His mother was sleeping in a way that he didn’t understand (death was just a word), and his father was wearing an ugly face and speaking ugly words to his uncle. The boy was terrified, and couldn’t understand what was happening above his head. “Papa...?” he asked uncertainly, unaware of what he was interrupting.

“Can I hold my sister?” He knew no better; all this talk of banishing and killing, surely they were only playing some form of game? He was still a big brother, wasn’t he? Uncle John had always said that big brothers were supposed to look after their little brothers and sisters... that made Uncle John a big brother, didn’t it? “Papa... can I love my sister?” He didn’t know why his father was saying such cruel things, wanted to be certain of what was right and what was wrong. “Or- or am I to hate her like you do?”

He stepped forwards, suddenly worried that this was no game, that this was something real and terrifying. “Why do you hate her?” he asked, unable to see why anyone could hate a baby, let along his little sister. “She hasn’t done anything bad buy be born. It’s- it’s not her fault, is it papa? Can’t- can’t you love her just a little bit?” The young prince swallowed. “You- she could borrow some of how much you love me, couldn’t she?”

The King held the baby in swaddling clothing close to him, his eyes fixed on his young son in shock. The boy’s words, they burned, and for a moment William’s mind scrabbled for something to make this right, for himself as well as his son. “It is good, son, that you want to show your sister love...” he said distantly, feeling the baby struggle and scream in his arms. This was John’s fault, wasn’t it? It had to be. His brother was turning his son against him... “She will need your protection. She needs a big brother.” She needed a father, but that was more than she could ever have.

“Would you like to name her?” he asked his son, sparing a moment to shoot a challenging look over his shoulder at John. It was the father’s right to name the child; the King hoped that John knew what this decision meant. He was already certain that John would not step in and challenge the decision when it was little William that had been given the father’s honour.

“Papa...” William was, on some level, aware that there was more going on than he could understand. The adults wore strange, masklike faces; it scared him. “You want me to name her?” He had to be sure, not wanting to anger his father. “I... can we name her after Grandma? Can we name her Shaylee?”

The King nodded in agreement, pleased, though thinking that their mother would be rolling in her grave if she knew what John had done.

“Then her name is Shaylee Emily,” the young Prince whispered. “after Grandma and-” He glanced back at the bed, where his mother still slept in unnatural stillness, missing the King’s humorless smile of agreement.

Despite what was assumed, Jonathan was aware of his nephew’s tears, and wanted nothing more than to pluck the boy from where he stood, beside his dead mother (had his brother no shame?!) and hand him into the waiting arms of the midwife. This was no place for a child, this argument was not something for young ears, and yet William insisted on having it where his son could hear? Disgusting. The King was less of a man than Jonathan had ever assumed, and it made him sick, more so because there was nothing that he could do.

The King’s proclamation was absolute; banishment. It was a blow, heavy and cold, that settled like a weight within Jonathan’s insides; he would never see his home again, his brother was a stranger to him, and in his anger and spite the man was depriving him of his own daughter... William was rapidly progressing from a poor King to a terrible one; Jonathan’s face closed off a little further, forbidden, dangerous thoughts beginning to stir in the depths of his mind.

William proclaimed that he was not a vengeful King? The man was blind; he was a vengeful, spiteful, wicked King. He offered Jonathan the chance to gather his possessions so that the kingdom might think their leader a charitable martyr? Jonathan would do no such thing then; he was already being deprived of his daughter (the only thing that mattered, as he didn’t dare spare thought for the woman lying dead for fear of breaking down), so what was a little food and water? What were his possessions in the face of this? He, unlike his spoiled brother, would be able to manage in the forest for a while. He would take a horse, the finest in the stables, and his father’s sword, before the word went out that he was dishonoured, and then he would ride.

If he was not permitted to be known for what he was, if he was going to be vilified, then at least he wanted one real crime to be set beside his name. He would steal that horse, and maybe another, along with the sword that his brother coveted, but take nothing else; he would make a symbol out of himself other than that which his brother was attempting to foist on him. He swore that William would regret the day he cast out his own brother.

The threats upon his daughter’s life broke something within Jonathan; to hold his daughter to ransom... unforgivable. Where there had been distaste and anger hatred now boiled; his brother would be lucky if he lived to the old age that he mocked about. If Jonathan was not to see his daughter until the day his brother died, then his brother would have to hurry along to face his judgement in Hell. Jonathan swore, in that moment, that his brother would die by his own hand, and the glance that he spared the young Prince was close to one of grief; the boy would come to hate him, probably, but one day Jonathan hoped that he would understand. He did not want to become an enemy to the boy, but his path was laid out before his feet; he would kill the King, young William’s father, and he dearly hoped that the boy had seen enough to understand that such things did not make Jonathan a monster.

So John vowed to keep his silence until the day he came to take back his daughter and slay the brother that had betrayed him. William, the poor fool, had always been shockingly ignorant when it came to subtlety; he assumed that in forcing Jonathan into silence that he would prevent him from gathering others to his cause. That assumption would be the death of him someday soon, and Jonathan carried that thought as some warped talisman through the heartbreak that followed. He refused to react, despite his brother’s taunting, despite the use of young William against him in this battle. Jonathan closed his eyes.

“She will be Victoria,” he whispered as he heard his child named, and then finally spoke up with cold eyes, breaking the strange scene before him.

“Love my daughter, William,” he said to the young Prince, his voice clear and filled with some passionate emotion. “You are her big brother, and you must protect her from ALL of the world’s evil,” His eyes strayed then to his brother, hoping that the boy would one day understand. “Love her, because she is a child, she is beautiful, and she deserves love as surely as any child does. There is no evil in her, and it is your duty as her brother to make sure that that remains; do not let the world poison her into hatred, and you will one day make a good King.”

His implication (too hidden for the child to understand, but one day he would remember and know, or at least Jonathan hoped) was that the current King was an evil that Vic- Shaylee (already he hated the name) needed to be protected from. He wanted the boy to understand when the time came that what Jonathan did by his own hand was deliverance rather than murder.

“Fare thee well, brother,” he said, before his hidden words had a chance to break through to his brother, knowing that it would be wise to leave quickly now. “I agree to your terms; I will speak no word of this, and we will not meet again until the time of your death.” And with those words he turned away, swept from the room, holding what little satisfaction he could in the fact that his brother was unlikely to understand what had been said.

Before:

The doctor walked into the room with a birth certificate, he looked from John, to the King and back to John again. "Girls name?" he asked this had been one tiring night, and all he wanted to do was go back into the world of slumber where he can be in a warm bed and next to the most beautiful woman in the world- his wife.

"She shall be known from hear on as Princess Shaylee Emily Victoria." Young William looked up from his father to his Uncle hoping his Uncle would find peace knowing that she would have the name he chosen in for her with in her name. "Papa, Victoria is a good name and is great grandmother's name." The young prince had been told of his family history by his tutor. "I think Victoria is a pretty name... her name shall be Princess Shaylee Emily Victoria." The Doctor wrote the name and smiled

"It is a beautiful name young sire." he said he only written down the name after he received a firm nodding of the King's head to clarify that he could use the name Victoria in it. "Whom shall I say is the father?"

"Daddy of course silly." Prince William said with his eyes growing wide he couldn't quite understand the words of an affair or why there was so much anger. The prince turned to look at his father and smiled brightly at him. "Mom would never cheat on dad." A love for his mother so pure and innocent from the eyes of the young he looked up at his uncle and then to his father holding the baby in his arms just barely, the little baby stopped crying the minute she was in her brother's arms. "I will love you little sister to the day I die. I will protect you for so long as I shall live." the little prince whispered gently "Uncle John..." William brought the little baby up to his Uncle "Will you give her a blessing like Uncles are supposed to?" William asked he took his Uncle's hand and gently placed it on the cheek, Shaylee looked up at the other man and began to coo.

The King stood in silence and glared at his brother, he looked to the midwife and to the doctor. "IF I'm not need I'm leaving the room. Son your responsible for Shaylee's welfare as I will not spend time w ith her any longer than I have too." What angered the King the most is now he would always have a reminder of what his wife had done to him, and if Shaylee grew up to look like her? That would be like spitting in his face. He would stand in the room no more with his brother. Damn his brother. He would be considered an outlaw from this moment in time. The King would put out a: Wanted Dead poster and a reward of 1 million gold coins. He turned and glared at his brother "You'd better be glad brother I am not condemning you to death this very night as my right. But Killing you would give me no pleasures, you are my brother after all and I must not spill your blood by my hands. After you leave you leave with no titles and no claim to this throne." With that the King left the room with little William and Shaylee.

Prince William looked at the baby then the midwife and said "I'm to young to take care of a small one.. I'm small myself, and I am easilly distracted with what I want... will you help me raise her?" the Midwife had two children of her own but both miss-carriage.

"Eye little Prince, it twould be an honor to help you raise this little one to the light." The midwife smiled thinking that she was moving up in a higher position which would bring honor to her family. It seemed she had gone from being midwife to nanny and wondered if the pay would be any different, but the young prince had been put in charge of a babies life, when he was still just a baby. She wondered where the King's mind went but said nothing against him.

After:

As if to break the unnatural tension in the room, the midwife softly began to speak of certifying the birth before God. There was no talk of funerals, of bringing a priest, given how volatile a state the King seemed to be in. The midwife wanted, more than anything, to be at home in her warm bed; away from the terrible atmosphere of this room and the dark things that she had heard. Her husband was waiting with the promise of wordless comfort, and her assistant looked weary; it would be better for the both of them if they could break free.

“We should step out of this room, sire,” she said at length, discomforted by the idea of the living lingering in the presence of the dead. “My girl can take care of things here.” She glanced at the bed, where the Queen was lying in her final slumber, rather than speaking aloud of what would be done. There was a child present, and even a young Prince should be spared from such a thing.

The King, lost within his own dark thoughts, agreed to her sentiments without acknowledging that she had even spoken, his eyes still fixed on the door that John had vanished through. He stepped forwards, ushering his son through into the next room so that the midwife could close the door behind them. The chamber was deserted; no sigh of John, he was pleased to note. He sat, and gestured for his son to sit beside him before passing the squalling child across to the boy.

“What will her name be?” The midwife asked, still lingering; there was no mother to the babe, and a girl would have to be found to provide the necessary sustenance or the child would die. She, at least, had missed John’s comment, and was merely trying to draw a response from the distressed looking Prince.

“Princess Shaylee Emily Victoria.” Young William looked up, as if searching for his uncle in the room. He had heard the man’s words, the name that he had chosen for the baby. “Papa...” Sudden uncertainty struck the boy as glanced at his father’s face, looking for some sign that the man knew what he was doing. “Victoria is a good name. Great grandmother’s name. I think Victoria is a pretty name, don’t you?” He had been told of his family history by a tutor, and family pride had been instilled in him; there seemed to be no harm in the name Victoria.

The midwife smiled. “It’s a beautiful name, young prince, and I will be sure to remember it when I send word to the chaplain.” Gently, she held out her arms towards the boy. “May I hold her, to make sure that she’s well?” At the Prince’s nod, she took the child with great care, and began to examine her with a knowledgeable eye and William, now uncertain, broke away from his father and wandered towards the outer chambers, ducking briefly backwards to hide amongst the folds of a velvet curtain. His most comforting place as a child.

“Uncle John,” he said, as if the man was still in some way present; it was easy to believe, given that they had played in these curtains on so many occasions, hiding, seeking, all in the spirit of fun rather than fear. “Will you give her a blessing like Uncles are supposed to? And I’ll look after her for you, I promise.” For a moment, he buried his face into the soft fabric willing himself not to cry like the child that he had been taught that he was not.

Back in the main chamber, the midwife, still holding the babe in her arms, took a breath that she hoped would not be her last and spoke. “My lord, when I speak to the priest, what name should I give as the father of this child?”

“Papa of course,” William, who had returned unseen stated, his face filled with a childish innocence that had not quite yet come to shatter. He had heard things that his young mind refused to believe and still frantically clutched at the hope he had misunderstood. “Papa and Mother are married, of course- I don’t understand...” Shockingly, it was the King himself that interrupted.

“You’re quite right, William; of course I am the father.” He said it more to increase the hurt to his brother, to hide the shame even when it could never be hidden, than to comfort his son, but all reasons aside it put the young Prince’s mind at rest. Glancing at his son and the elderly woman holding the baby, he tried to think of what preparations might need to be made, his mind almost too focussed on his brother to be of use.

Young William, still gazing at the baby, spoke up after a few moments. “I- I am still- I do not know how to care for a baby...” It was a confession, one of great shame; the child already felt responsible for his younger sibling, but couldn’t quite work out how to go about caring for her.

With his father’s mind still so focussed on dark thoughts, Prince William’s saving grace seemed to come in the form of the midwife, who was a kindly woman whom had lost the only two children that she had ever managed to carry. “Well, young prince, if there is no argument from the King, I suppose that I could be of service. I know of a girl in the village also, who can feed the babe.” In truth, she thought the King to be mad, putting such a great responsibility onto a child; she had seen fathers turn away often enough to know that the man would be no help in raising this babe.

The King maintained a silence that was not a refusal and finally nodded distractedly, murmuring “so be it” before sweeping from the room and leaving both children in the care of the elderly midwife.

Once outside, and closer to his private quarters than those in which his wife- he could not think of it now- the King rested with his arms upon the ledge of one great window, head dropped into his arms. He struggled to know if he felt anger or despair at what had happened, his heart as conflicted as his head. Emily had betrayed him, taken his brother to their bed, but surely he had seduced her? Surely it had been John and not Emily who had committed the most monumental sin. William... he just didn’t know. Damn his brother and damn his wife’s soul to Hell along with him. He just hoped that her nebulous ghost didn’t choose to spit in his face and have the child grow up to look like her.

With anger at the forefront of his mind, it was only too easy to summon the Captain of his guard and order a proclamation to be made; Jonathan, the King’s brother, was to be delivered to the palace dead for a reward of one million gold pieces (a sum the like of which had never so much as been suggested for even the most heinous of outlaws). “You had better be glad that I am not condemning you to death this instant,” he said to himself once the guard had gone; it would be mid-morning before word broke and John was hunted in earnest. “Killing you myself would give me no pleasure; you are my brother, as much as I detest you, and I will not have your blood on my hands.” With a sigh, he turned to face the fireplace, his eyes on the embers. “Even if you never return, even if you are never found, you will live out the remainder of your life as a nameless bandit and you will never see your daughter. That should be enough.”

Despite the need for haste, despite his plans, Jonathan had only made it a short distance. Overcome for a moment by grief, he had tucked himself into one of the voluminous velvet curtains that kept the draught away from the sick chambers, out of sight and assuming (wrongly) that the others would remain for a few moments longer, granting him the briefest of sanctuaries in which he could come to terms with his mourning. There would be no year and a day of contemplation for his lost love, there would be no visits to where she laid in state, no flowers set upon her grave unless done so in secret, but this, at least, he claimed as his own.

‘Uncle John...’ Jonathan almost gave himself away as he started in alarm, convinced for a moment that the boy had somehow discovered him. The thrill of shock kept him rooted in place rather than sending him skittering into visibility, but it was a near thing. He pressed a hand to his mouth and nose to quiet his breathing and waited, hoping and listening, though what he hoped and listened for was an unknown even to him. Absolution, maybe, or some form of small sign that this was not the disastrous ending that he dreaded.

‘Will you give her a blessing like Uncles are supposed to? And I’ll look after her for you, I promise.’ Closing his eyes to halt the flow of bitter tears, Jonathan allowed himself to shift just enough to see his nephew, noting that the boy looked as distraught as he felt. There was an irony there, Jonathan was sure; the boy looked a little like his father, but a little like his uncle also, and it was clear that he had taken after his grandfather rather than King William. The Prince could have easily been Jonathan’s son, in both appearance and inelegance, and in that there was hope, but danger also. With all of his heart, Jonathan prayed that his brother would not come to doubt the parentage of his son and that, instead, the young Prince’s sharp mind lead him to see the truth.

Yes... The words never left his mouth, but they lingered there all the same as he cried for the boy who seemed unable to do so. Yes, William, I give you my blessing, and my apology. Your childhood has ended too soon, poor child, and you will be damned from this point. He swallowed, only daring to remove his hand when the boy turned away. You will walk through Hell, William, but for the right reasons, and come the new dawn you will surface untainted and still righteous... or at least I pray that you will.

Silent words spoken, Jonathan chose that moment to flee, stealing through the darkened castle under the cover of the storm; the howling wind and thunder masking his footsteps and guttering the candles, lightning throwing distorted shadows in which he could hide. He found his way to his brother’s rooms in moments, knowing all of the shortcuts that he had used as a boy. The head of the guard, his trusted friend, turned away just a fraction so that an overlong shadow could creep inside.

Their father’s sword took the pride of place in King William’s room, and it was that and that alone that drew Jonathan; he took it, strapping it to his back. It fit as if it had been made for him (he had inherited his father’s stature) and he snatched a cloak from the back of a chair to cover himself and his stolen prize. With that he flew, feeling eyes upon him as he raced through the castle but the shouts that he expected never came; his connection to the guard seemed to be holding favour for him, but this would likely be the last time. The next time he entered the castle one brother would die... it was a chilling thought.

As chilling as the rain that met Jonathan as he crashed through the great doors, a furious, horizontal deluge that had him soaked through in seconds. He couldn’t stop, and instead slithered and slid across slabs as slippery as glass towards the stables. The stable boy paid him no mind; the Queen was expecting a baby, so Prince Jonathan racing away on horseback in the night was not something to be viewed with suspicion; he could so easily be going to fetch the midwife or the priest. It was an image that Jonathan encouraged, speaking politely but hurriedly to the lad, who assisted him in saddling the very best horse in the stables, a beast that belonged to the King, of course.

There was little to put in the saddlebags, but it hardly mattered; Jonathan allowed the boy to deal with those in favour of mounting while the lad’s back was turned to conceal the sword at his back. It was in a poor position for riding but it couldn’t be helped; they would manage. When the bags were presented to him he affixed them at speed, offering the lad a tight smile and a silver penny before kicking the horse into a trot that would have been a gallop in better weather.

Before:

Chapter One:

A few years came and went and Prince William was forever haunted by the memory of what had happened on the death of his father, he was now sixteen and his sister only ten. Whenever she cried out in nightmares she called for her father but the King never showed, it was always William. Whenever she had parties only William was ever there. He was the one she always told what she wanted. The Prince made it happen to the best of his abilities he was still a boy after all, but he could sweet talk his father into much.

Prince William was now 21 and his sister was turning 16 in a week he came in to her room and smiled gently to his sister "Your birthday is in a week or so." The Prince stood at the door as Shaylee's eyes brightens she ran into his arms.

"Brother you always remember my birthday." She said with a surprise "Is father coming to my Birthday this year?" she asked looking at her brother, she had only seen her father once or twice in the sixteen years she had been alive, she got the feeling that her father hated her with all the passion.

"I'll do everything I can to get him to it Shaylee, but he is a busy man." William responded to his sister, he leaned in and whispered low so no one could hear him, not even servants "Would like to meet your Uncle John?" William heard rumors that his uncle had set up camp near Bendersville a neighboring kingdom. He had planned to take his sister for a afternoon horseback ride and go a little farther it would be off the Kingdom Property and his uncle would be safe. He had written a message to see if his Uncle would hold a truce for that long.

Shaylee's eyes grew wide in fear. "But... but he's out lawed!" she cried now she hated bad mean ugly people, and the only two conversations she ever had with her father he made clear that that was exactly who John was. A bandit and all bandits needed to be dealt with. Shaylee sighed and looked at her brother, "Why dose father hate me?" she finally asked the question she had been longing for "Did I do something wrong or bad William?"

William blinked and starred at his sister and sighed "No, you did nothing wrong, it's just that mama died on the night you were born." William held his sister close to him and shook his head no again "Papa is just sadden by mothers death." It was the truth, there was more to it but William wondered how much he should tell his sister, if anything at all.

After:

Chapter One:
Despite the monumental pain of King William, despite the tears of a young Prince, the bitterness and frustration of a father condemned to lose both his home and his family, time passed on as it always had. The denizens of that great force would never still their hands, no matter how monumental an event felt to those mortals that witnessed it, and so days went by after the death of the Queen.

Days, and a funeral was held in private; the Kingdom mourned its Queen even as the whispers spread below the funeral banners. Every idle ear and flapping mouth wanted to know just who the rightful father of the child just born was, and speculation was rife in every cranny; from the scullery of the palace to the shadows of the mines. Tongues wagged this way and that, but always in secret; the topic had rapidly become a taboo, which made it that much more desirable (sinful) to talk about.

Some believed that the King was impotent, so the child surely could not be his, while others thought that it could be no other way. There were murmurs of the King himself saying that the child was not his, but where those rumours came from was impossible to source. The idea that Prince Jonathan, now banished and outlawed with an extravagant bounty on his head, was the true father was discounted at first, but as the days crept by the idea became more favourable. There were many stories of what the dishonoured Prince had done, ranging from treachery to rape to murder as the days slipped by, and steadily the idea grew that he was in fact the child’s father. None would speak of it in public, of course, but every tongue seemed to cluck eagerly over the information and it was most certainly the topic of heated debate.

Weeks passed, and musings slowly formed into certainties. It was hard fact, confirmed from the highest of places, that the rough Prince had stolen the King’s sword and his finest horse on the night that he had fled the castle, so thievery was certain, though the bounty seemed too high for simply that. Nevertheless, whispers of a bandit so fierce that none who saw his face would ever see with their eyes again began to grow, creeping into the land as the weeks went by.

Partially spawned by the respect people had once held for him and the fear of his name, the tales of this bandit were exaggerated a little, and those exaggerations had become steadily vaster as the weeks wore on. What had been a simple robbery on a darkened road became a furious encounter where the victim was lucky to survive, and before seven days had passed that self same victim was swearing that he had been tormented by a demon in the darkness; a demon that wore the face of the once-crowned Prince.

It certainly became apparent that those who encountered this particular bandit lived neither long nor prosperous lives after the meeting; weeks became months and there was talk of black magic, the Devil himself tied down in contract with this madman that roamed the woods at night. Soon, none would dare speak of him as he had once been named, as implications of what he once had been seemed to bring the anger of his dark followers upon those who spoke of his secret shame. Those who flapped their tongues too much seemed inclined to lose them, and all was said to be in the name of this now infamous bandit.

One year and one day since the death of the Queen (though only few were counting now), a name began to work its way from the west, spreading like a fire across the cities and into Centra: Vrailest, the Nocturne of Lawhime. He became known simply as The Shade Hound to most, as uttering his true name (apparently) would summon this demon, and the price to escape his clutches was a tongue, so that none could ever speak his name twice.

One year and one day since the death of the Queen, the young Prince and Princess were said to have left the castle at Centra for Arlington with their entourage, but not with their father, for the King remained as he had always been; a brooding presence at the centre of the great web that was his Kingdom. It was assumed to be for safety; the Shade Hound was said to long for the souls of royal children to quench his unholy thirst. That the King chose to remain only showed him to be brave, as the Hound lurked close to Centra on stormy nights, his bitter howl becoming part of the gale.

It was easy to forget, as days trickled by becoming weeks, and weeks stacked together into months, months lining into years and years forming long sentinels in the monastery records, that there were human lives, human hurts. In the eager tones of gossips, Prince William didn’t cry for the childhood that had been stolen from him; trying to take on the role of a father when he was but a babe himself. There was no talk of the King’s twisted ideas, the pressuring whispers, and so such things fell away; brushed into invisibility like so many childish tears.

Five long years and there was no word of a little girl who longed for the attention of her emotionally (and physically) distant father. A boy, who was slowly growing the body of a man to match his heart, trying to raise her with the aid of a frail and elderly midwife, was not a tale for the Book of Priests, but that made it no less true than the stories they recorded. The obsession of the King and the rise of the Shade Hound took precedence, and the children fell into anonymity for a time.

Ten years, and then fifteen; so many conversations were lost in silence between siblings. William, ever growing, never seemed to be able to outgrow that traumatic night that he now knew had been his witnessing his mother’s death. He remembered snatches of conversation, things that seemed wrong to think of, let alone believe; there was a conflict in his heart, but one that he buried in obsession: Shaylee. It was easier to focus on her, her needs, her dreams, than it was to think of his own confusion, and so he put the thoughts from his mind and gave his whole self into caring for her.

Year after year, the midwife, their nanny, had warned him of spoiling the girl, but he had always refused her advice. He was a Prince, he was Shaylee’s brother, he had told her time and time again, she shouldn’t dare say he was wrong to love his sister. He never thought of her as spoiled; she was spirited. He never thought she was mischievous; just playful. He couldn’t see what was wrong in her not acting like a lady because she had been taught all of the things that he had valued, and as her brother he knew what was right for her, despite what the nanny always said.

Shaylee, of course, had listened to her brother, who had said many of the things she wanted to hear, over the nanny who aimed to rein her in and teach her the proper way to behave. She loved her brother dearly, but often forgot herself; the boundary between what was right and what was fun never seeming to apply to her in the way it did most children. Always, she had wanted the attention of her father, wanted what she saw other children receive from their parents, but the only things that seemed to catch his eye made the nanny disapproving.

As a result, her behaviour was often far from exemplary, but always she found an excuse in the acceptance of her brother; William, who loved her more than any other and would do anything in his power for her.

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One week and one day before the sixteenth birthday of Princess Shaylee (a time that just so happened to be the day after the twenty-first birthday of Prince William; future King), found both young people back in William’s childhood home; the Castle at Centra, having celebrated the young Prince’s coming of age just a day previously. The King had, of course, attended, but the time spent had been with the Prince and his following of strapping young lads, rather than those young ladies who had been invited to attend.

“Why does Father hate me?” Princess Shaylee, curled in a very unladylike manner on the vast sil of her chamber window, asked, examining the hole in one long leg of her breeches. She refused to wear the elegant and cumbersome dresses of the higher classes, much to the despair of her higher and the amusement of those below her. Her nanny, of course, had been insisting for years that it was simply a cry for attention, but William stubbornly thought it practical; his sister liked horses, and it was surely very difficult to ride in a skirt and stockings.

“He doesn’t hate you, Shaylee, he just... doesn’t have time for you right now. He’s busy, what with the Hound,” William lied, as he had lied countless times before. Shaylee knew of his untruth, of course, but this was some secret ritual between them that had started in the nursery; conversations about their father always started with kindly lies. “Surely you’ve noticed that he’s so much more real in Centra? ...sometimes I believe that we’ve been sheltered, away from things in Arlington...”

“Where is the sense in that?”

William sighed. “Please don’t be obtuse, Shaylee; you know as well as I do that there’s sense in that. Even if father is... distant, he still cares for us. He wants us to be safe. We were children when he sent us away, and father is alone in this fight; do you really think that nanny would have been able to beat off the Shade Hound with her cane if he came to devour us?”

He was pleased to hear the little chuckle that bubbled forth from Shaylee, her eyes glittering with amusement. “But what about you, William? Surely you could have fended him off with your sword?” She hopped to her feet, miming a vicious stab against an imaginary demon, slashing and trusting at the air in a manner that sent her long, auburn hair into further disarray.

William laughed himself, unable to shake the ridiculous image from his mind, and even found himself giving in to his childish desire and matching her shadow-fighting. “Oh yes!” He cried, allowing his empty arms to be tugged down as if by a great weight. “I’m sure my young self could have taken up a sword,” Making a show of great difficulty in dragging the imagined weight across the floor, he staggered and huffed. “And beaten back the mighty Shade Hound with it!” That said, he tugged at the invisible sword and artfully tripped himself over, to Shaylee’s laughing delight.

He composed himself cross-legged on the rug at her feet, sighing. “Father did the right thing in sending us away,” he whispered, breaking the bubble of happiness that had formed around them. Shaylee became quite and thoughtful once more, reclaiming her place on the sil. “Surely you’ve figured out by now that the Hound is more like our childish nightmares than the news that reached Arlington?”

“Do you think that father will be coming to my birthday party?” Shaylee asked in favour of answering the question, a thoughtful frown making its way onto her face and lingering there as if she had some idea that she was as of yet unsure of. “As of tomorrow, I can be wed; surely he’ll want to attend...?”

Somewhat oblivious to any mischief that Shaylee had in mind, William rubbed his face with one short, strong hand. “I’ll do everything I can to get him there, Shay, but I can’t promise you; father is a busy man, after all.”

“Busy ignoring me, you mean! Come on, William, surely you’re not blind; father hates me! He won’t so much as look at me when he has the choice!”

“Shaylee-”

“I want to go riding, William,” Shaylee’s passion had shrunk back into a petulant scowl, her eyes on the courtyard outside of the window. “Will you come with me? I don’t want to take one of those disgusting guards, and you’re more of a man than any of them; you can protect me.” He voice had taken on a wheedling, flattering lilt, expression nothing short of pleading. “Please, William?”

Oblivious to any hidden deception, and always eager to please his sister, William, of course, agreed.

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A short while later found the young Prince and Princess outside of the Castle grounds, William mounted on a fine bay mare of quiet temperament who seemed content to follow his gentle instructions without complaint and Shaylee delightedly out willing her spirited and decidedly challenging grey gelding. Both were content, though for separate reasons; William enjoyed riding when it wasn’t a battle between man and horse, and it truly was a glorious day, if a little fresh in the wind. Shaylee, on the other hand, much preferred a battle, and her mood was only improved by the promise of mischief that the plan she was cultivating held.

Her plan had not been long forming, but Shaylee had a sharp mind and once an idea took her she inevitably stuck with it until some conclusion was reached. She had been brushed with the beginnings of the idea she now held firm on many occasions, but now seemed perfect. She smiled, looking back at her brother even as she tightened the reins on her gelding, refusing to give into his desire to run. “We should ride here every day; it’s lovely.”

Three years ago, William would have been worried to see his sister on such a creature, but there really was no stopping her, and she had yet to fall with any lasting consequences; he had recently tagged his fear up as a product of his own dislike of difficult horses. “So long as we stick to the riding paths, I don’t see why not while the weather lasts. It will get us out of the Palace for a while, at least.”

“You mean that it will get ME out of the palace,” Shaylee corrected, pulling her mount back a little so she was riding a fraction behind William. “I’ve already heard that you’re planning on hunting with father this winter, and that you’re going to train with the Captain of the Guard when he has time for you.” That wasn’t all she’d managed to hear either, but some things had to remain secret if her plan was going to work out as she intended.

She could see the look of alarm on William’s face, even though his back was turned. She knew her brother better than she thought he knew himself, and she could read him like an open book; he was worried that he had offended her in keeping their father’s word a secret, and didn’t want to make her aware of his latest privilege. “Shay...” he began, but she cut him off with a cool laugh.

“It’s just as much because I’m a woman than it is because father hates me, William,” she quipped, knowing that her tone would stop him from turning around; the prefect chance. Still speaking, she locked her legs, sure that her feet were firmly in stirrups and that the reins would remain in her hands. She gave her gelding a soft pat before reaching back into her satchel. “I’m expected to wear pretty dresses and woo important people. I should know every lady of the court and flutter my eyelashes in a manner that makes me teachers proud, rather than choosing to ride around like some grubby stable girl.”

Shaylee carefully extracted a pale, boiled root from her bag, knowing full well that her gelding was mortally afraid of snakes. She smiled to herself, thinking of how wonderful this would be when it worked. “Because really- ” She concentrated on keeping her voice normal and steady as she lowered the root into the animal’s field of vision, twitching and squirming like a serpent.

He scream when the beast reared in terror was very much real, and it took all of Shaylee’s strength to keep from being thrown to the ground as the gelding bucked and shrieked, eyes rolling and hooves kicking up dirt as he pelted away into the forest to their right. William’s cry of alarm was already distant by the time it reached her, and Shaylee had little time to think of success; too intent on holding on; if she tumbled from the frightened beast’s back then all would be lost.

Luckily, Shaylee was a talented rider, and as such managed to remain in her seat by chance as much as skill, and after several minutes of furious charging through darkened trees the animal finally stilled, skittering anxiously this way and that, flanks heaving, eyes wide and white with terror. Knowing that she only had so much time, Shaylee did her best to calm the animal to a state that would be receptive to her commands, waiting until she was sure it was safe to take out her small compass.

They had become turned around a little in the mad charge through the trees, which was partially Shaylee’s intention; she nudged the beast carefully to face west, pocketed her compass, and then prodded him into a gallop. William, who was already prone to exaggeration when it came to a spooked horse, could be trusted to bring word of her accident to the palace and, as a result their father. Shaylee grinned, and graced the horse with a gentle pat, guiding him deeper into the trees.

Soon, there would be people out looking for her, as the forest bordering Centra bled into the forest of Lawhime to the west, where the Shade Hound apparently made his home, and it was Shaylee’s intention to find him.

Symbol, rather than a man; who truly knew the face of a crowned Prince when all had bowed into his shadow? When the fine clothes and arrogant airs, when the jewels, the entourage and the grace were stripped away, how did a Prince differ from a man? Surely both had a heart beating, both had tears and fears and dreams beneath their skin. With a little more of the earth upon him and a broken look in his eyes, a Prince could walk as any other man; hunch shouldered under the weight of a long and heavy day, grubby hands and tattered clothes, none would look twice at such a person. Ten a penny.

The face splashed across the wanted posters was dashing, so unlike the weary, stooped creature with mud in his hair that made an unsteady way towards the graveyard that stood just beyond the edges of the city walls. It was easy to assume that he had come from a long day in the fields; some poor, tired farmer, and given his destination and the grief that cried out so clearly in his posture none disturbed him on his lonely journey. Somewhere between the city gates and the burial site it began to snow, but the solitary traveller never halted, ever shuffling along the uneven road towards his sorry destination.

Dusk had descended into full night by the time he finally arrived, the shadow of some exhausted, half-starved cripple silhouetted against the rising moon for but a moment before the clouds swept back across its face in a flurry of white flakes. There were none outside to see his silent passage between the graves, or how the years and ills seemed to fall away with each step that he took; the old, tired and broken man that had ascended the hill was all but gone, replaced by a young, fierce-eyed bandit.

There was no priest manning this small structure, he knew; this was hallowed ground, but a place of quiet and morning rather than worship. Cold, calloused hands pulled a heavy iron key from around his neck; a snug fit for the lock upon the door that was not quite frozen shut yet. With a little effort and a sharp crack the doors swung open to reveal the cold white stone of the royal tomb. There was no light, but the stones seemed to shimmer with a light all of their own as he swept inside in a flurry of snow. The door was closed behind him, and moments later a flint struck, sparks skittering into a pan of oil.

Flames burst to life beside the door, showing the young man stooped before a small, crude lantern, his face thrown into sharp relief; a sole point of clarity in the midst of skittering shadows. His expression was reverent but haunted, and in the shadows and firelight he looked pale enough to be some unearthly spectra as he moved noiselessly towards the newest monument.

Shrouded in stone, the likeness of Queen Emily rested beside her ancestors in hallowed sleep, a marble visage hiding the truth of rotting bones within. The face of the apparition remained blank as he settled a single hand upon her brow, the lantern carefully placed within the image’s cupped hands as if it had been made to fit there.

“I realise now, that you sang a Siren’s song to me,” The voice that echoed through the tomb was little more than a whisper, and seemed to match the flickering of liquid shadows that caressed the speaker’s back. “Ever since I was a child, you were calling me unerringly towards this destruction, so that one day I might be more than the man that I was born to be, but never in the way that I had imagined. Was it your plan, to make me a pariah so that I might save this Kingdom from darkness?

“You came to me like an Angel; always so distant, an untouchable beauty that haunted my dreams; I should have known that having you would come at a terrible price. I had always thought that I might be a hero, riding at the head of an army with the royal standard and my father’s sword,” The image of the former King remained in the darkness, beside him, sleeping, his Queen. “I thought that I might vanquish the shadows from this world with my light, even if I could never be king.

“But I was a child, and you came to me an Angle, a siren to lead me from my daydreams into the battlefield that is existence un-blinkered by the eyes of youth. Sometimes I think myself a fool, for following you, but who am I to know the path that God intends for me? Without you, I would have remained a good man, but how much could I have ever done when constantly drowning in the shadow of my brother; the shadow of a failing King?”

The shade shook his head, and leaned down to press a kiss to the marble forehead. “I loved you, and I love you still, my Angel, but in loving you I learned that there was more darkness in the world than I had ever imagined. Nightmares, my love, are more powerful even than hope, and heartbreak will always win against love in the end.”

With that, he stepped back, leaving the lantern in place to light the way of the lonely sleeper as he melted into the shadows and the snow once more. “Farewell, my love.”

That night, a call was heard across the city; a long and bitter wailing that seemed to be the Hellchild of hound and man, and it was only when morning came and the shrieking of the storm subsided that a single lantern was found burning in the Crypt of Royals where it had no right to be.



Sixteen years. If someone had told Jonathan, back when he was a young, stupid man doing young, stupid things that he would one day come to devote sixteen years of his life to a possibly hopeless venture, he would have laughed. Before the day of the storm he had been undecided, wallowing in uncertainty and cowardice, but that day had long since past. His mind had been made up in anger, but it had taken a year of strange, scavenging existence to truly come to a decision about the sort of man that he was, and the sort of man that he was willing to be.

In one, long and difficult year he had taught himself to steal, to forage and to rob when he was starving, the burn of hunger wiping away any morals he had once had when it came to taking that which was not his own. He found himself in Lawhime Forest (a place that he once frequented when hunting with his father) and segregated himself from the rest of the world so that he could grieve in peace. Jonathan only came out when his body demanded it, and even then he made his jaunts as a petty bandit brief.

Notably, he refused to kill, the reasons for which he never saw fit to discover. He rarely showed his face, choosing instead to hunt in the shadows, but in the early days he didn’t think to wear a mask. He was unaware of the tales told about him, or the wild rumours his presence was spawning as he remained solitary, marking the passing of the days by the sun and waiting for some kind of sign.

He did not learn of the misfortune that met those whom he robbed until much later, but some little while after he had first hidden himself away he began to prowl the villages at night, dressed as a ragged, heartbroken beggar and getting little but indifference in return. He was beginning to realise that hiding in plain sight was a skill that came naturally to him. It was in this disguise that he realised that gossip was still rife, and that a great deal of that gossip was dangerously close to the truth; he remembered his brother’s warnings, and the child, small and squalling, that he had never managed to lay hand on, let alone hold.

From that point on, it was simple to silence those whose tongues could not be otherwise stilled, but still he refused to take a life without good reason. He killed when he had to, and in so doing learned of the name he was building for himself in the shadows simply through his actions; he used this to his advantage. If the people had something to fear, then there might be a chance for his daughter that didn’t involve constantly being alert to the danger of some idle gossip saying too much and having her put to death.

One year and one day after the death of his love, and Jonathan finally said goodbye; to himself as well as his lost beloved. Standing, lost in the storm and howling his grief out into the darkness, the name came to him, and it was so pitifully simple to whisper it into already fearful ears... one year and one day, and a demon was born from the scraps of a grieving man.



Sixteen long years later and there was little left of the impetuous, cocksure young Prince that had called himself Jonathan. The man that stood in the upper bows of a towering oak looked nothing like the strapping, well-groomed lad; he was scarred all across his body, and with hair grown into a scraggy red mane around his face. A mask, made from the painted bones of a wild thing’s skull; some form of wood-wolf, killed in self defence and oh, so perfect, twisted out in a ghastly snout and framed sharp blue eyes with empty sockets.

A monster he looked, and often a monster he felt, but the mask was worn more as symbol than to terrify now. Like the crowns they wore in Centra and beyond, the leader of Lawhime (village, forest and beyond, but always in secret, known only to his people) had taken on ornamentation to mark his rank. However, he was a practical man, and as such the ‘crown’ he wore doubled to hide his face and reinforce the myth that he had woven around himself over the years.

The Shade Hound of Lawhime was greatly similar to his name and the stolen face he wore; a lonely alpha at the head of an intricate, familial society. His men were close and loyal, but there were always those who waited for him to slip and fall, always those that wanted his place. It was, of course, the penalty of working with dangerous men, but given the situation in the Kingdom it was necessary. The village of Lawhime, and the bandits’ settlement deep within the forest did not protect themselves, and peasants, though worthy, made a poor army.

Therefore, as the leader of Lawhime in all of its faculties, Vrailest had taken it upon himself to gather an army of terrifying men, all as loyal as could be expected and all deluded to the Shade Hound’s real agenda, and set them to work in protecting what was his. He rewarded them mightily for their services and the spoils were often great; the Shade Hound knew how to rob those with a great deal to spare, and as such there was rarely a want for anything in the glory days. They served him willingly, for the most part, and those that argued found themselves faced with a formidable fighting will. The Shade Hound was not known for keeping his hands clean when it came to combat, and he was more than willing to put his men into their rightful place when they got ideas above their stations.

Today, however, was quiet; a winter morning devoted to cards and drinking in the village of tree houses fondly dubbed ‘Lawless’ by those who lived there, and the Shade Hound simply watched over his pack from afar; two ghostly blue eyes shining down from the heights of his tall lookout tree.

Old Version:

Henry and William have been best friends since a young age. Henry Anthony Thomas Brown's Father was the Duke of Centra the Capitol city of Daresvill. Henry's father had been to the funeral and Henry was told to make nice to the prince and make him feel better about not having his mother around. Though Henry only being five himself couldn't image life with out his mother. Henry blinks up to the young Prince and bows to him. To his surprise the young prince who looked a lot like his father, one could only look at the boy and see his father in him, and then they would be able to put to rest any rumors of Prince William not being the King's son. Though rumors were spreading fast through out the Kingdom that the five year old boy was Johnathan's son as well as Shaylee being Prince Johnathan's daughter and that the King was barren.

Prince William only be five looked at the young boy and nodded the prince took the boys hand and ran up to his chambers, where there was tons of toys for boys. The prince and Henry spent hours that day at play. When it was time for the Prince's friend to go home young Prince William began to cry. The only boy he had known his age was leaving, and he couldn't understand why. He had shared his toys as his mother had taught him to do, but the boy who called himself Henry was leaving. And he didn't know why, had he done something wrong? Did he say something mean? What could he do to make this new friend of his stay longer.

Henry looked up at his father and lifted his arms. Being five he still needed the love of a father to carry him out. Henry couldn't understand why the Prince was crying for he had had a grand old time playing with the Prince. Henry whispered in his father to be let down and when his father obliged him he came up to the Prince and hugged his new friends. Henry grinned "I had a fun time." he said finally "Invite me again sometime?" Henry watched as the little Prince nodded his head yes. Henry's father lifted him up in his arms and walked out to the Hallway.

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A few years went by and Prince William and Henry had many play dates since the first one. Henry had come on such a time as was a week and five days before the prince's sixteenth party, they sat and planned a grand ball, where the Prince could meet all the young princesses. Instead of a party for himself with the royal, he decided to open the castle up on his Sixteenth birthday inviting the children of the Kingdom from far and wide, with one adult.

That same evening the King had decided to pay his son some attention, it was normal for a father and son to want spend time with each other, and the King spent most of his free time with his Son. The King looked into his son's eyes and smiled brightly as he hugged the boy, his boy. He hopped it was his boy, but he was certain the boy was his son. Very certain. He doted upon his son as if he were the best prize he had won.

The King watched his son show him the moves he had learned in fencing class. It seemed to him that his son was a quick learner and nodded, this was good. Smart boy. The King listened as his son told him all about the day's adventure and laughed when he spoke of the interaction with his son and that princess that dwelled here... oh yes his daughter. Well that was only half true. He claimed her out of spite that night. As much as he loved his brother, he could not undo what he had done that night of the wicked wicked storm.

After the evening was spent with his son the King stood up, he kissed his son on the cheeks and smiled asking the child what he wanted for his sixteenth birthday. When his son explained what he wanted the King nodded. It was then he realized that William was his son. He smiled softly and all doubts of the ligitamentcy of this boy were casted away. Prince William was his son.The King stood and walked out of the room.

The King walked down to his daughter's room and he saw the nurse gently helping her put her toys away. The maid looked up at the presences she felt and to her delight she saw the girls father, she was about to speak to him to have him come in but he pressed his finger to his lips hushing the maid at an instance. He shut the door and walked away, he would visit Shaylee late at night when she was a sleep.

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It was now one week before his sister's sixteenth birthday and Prince William had a surprise for her, he was going to have his father be present, he had scheduled the King's time to be with his family for at least half the day. Prince William knew Shaylee wanted their father's attention and would do anything almost to get it. He didn't realize just how much desperate she was. Until they went horse back riding.

The Prince had tried to stop Shaylee's horse when it was spooked by a snake, and he wondered just how one had appeared. He charged after her, but stopped when they came to Lawhme Forrest.he made note of where she was headed towards the west, where the Shade Hound apparently made his home. "Shaylee!" Prince William tried to reach out for her before the horse entered into the wood where she was now riding hard and fast.

Shaylee turned to see her brother had stopped she screamed in fright as the horse was going way to fast. She cried out again "WILL SAVE ME!" She cried but when she turned to look her brother was nowhere in site she cried out as the horse stopped short and almost threw her off if she hadn't taken to the reigns and pulled them into her. "Stupid horse!" Snapped Shaylee. Not being able to see her brother who gave her a sense of security was a little scary for Shaylee, but this had to be done.

Updated:

Five years old was no age to be without a mother, despite the occurrence being a tragically common one. Despite the constant battle to improve, medicine was still a sadly lacking area, and childbirth was a dangerous act for any woman to face, let alone one so weak and distressed as the Queen had been. Her death was, perhaps, inevitable given the circumstances, but that made the following events no easier to bear. There was nothing to tell a young boy, even in the most compassionate of terms, and in those first few months the King was anything but tactful when it came to the topic of his departed spouse.

With his father so distant and his world in such disorder, it was only natural that the young Prince found another to cling to, any other, so long as they had even a shred of the compassion that he so desperately craved. He could not imagine life without his mother in it, and his young mind could not comprehend the sudden distance at which his once-loving father now stood. Both frightened by the disorder of his once comfortable world and distressed at the death that he could not yet understand, William stood alone at his mother’s funeral, despite his father standing close beside him.

~*~

To a child, a funeral meant nothing, save for a time when adults were sad and all wore dark, formal clothes. There was no idea of death in the mind of Henry, son of the Duke of Centra, when he was escorted to the chapel. He knew that the King’s young son would be there (a boy of his own age) and was far more interested in that than thinking about the finer details of funerals. He had, of course, heard the servants talking, and part of him was desperate to see the young Prince. They had said (in the dark when they thought that he wasn’t listening) that the young Prince was his uncle’s son, and in his childish mind Henry was certain that he could tell at a glance if that were true.

It was not, he decided, when he finally laid eyes on the dark haired little boy who looked so much like the king. Prince John (Henry was still lost in the transition between good prince and monster, and could not quite bring himself to think of that noble figure as a villain yet) had red hair, nothing like the Prince William, and so Henry decided that he could in no way be that man’s son.

“You look just like your father,” he whispered, mindful of the sharp ears of the priest; he had no intention of getting a slap upside the head for his impertinence. “You’re Prince William, aren’t you?” His father had told him the proper way to address a Prince, but surely it didn’t matter, given that this Prince was a boy, and probably younger than he was?

He was rather pleased when the other boy looked around and smiled (too young to see the heartbreak there). “Do you think so?” William’s voice was a matching whisper, and from that moment on Henry felt as though he had found himself a friend, someone with which to go behind the priest’s expansive back.

“Of course! You have the same hair, and the same eyes. Do you think you’ll grow up to be like him one day? You’ll one day be my King.” Henry snickered behind his hand. “Would you like me to start bowing right away, or can we be friends for a while?” Later, Henry would look back in shame at his behaviour, given the sombre nature of their surroundings, but he never found it in his heart to regret.

“You’d be my friend?”He never would have been able to ignore the desperate hope in young William’s voice, although it made the boxing of his ears by the priest in no way worth it at the time.

~*~

Long into the night the two boys played, with wooden swords and rocking horses sending them with linen capes into battle and glory, young voices raised in triumph and delight. Despite the nursery now being home to an unwanted child, despite the absence of one Prince and the growing madness of the King, there was innocent fun to be had that day; for a time, William forgot that things had become so wrong.

When the time came for Henry to return to his own home with his father, William cried at the loss, already beginning to believe that those who left were never to return. He wondered, through his tears, if there was some evil thing he did to drive those around him away, though he said nothing thing aloud; there wasn’t a soul left to ask, now that his mother was gone.

Henry’s father, holding his tired son in his arms, knew a great deal more than either boy and as such smiled a sad, secret smile. He set Henry down with a soft “say goodbye nicely” and a promise that they would return if the King so willed it.

“I had a good time. We should be soldiers again,” Henry told his new friend, extending a hand for a very grown up (in his eyes) handshake. “I can come again, can’t I?”

The response, predictably, was an emphatic yes and a handshake that became an embrace.

~*~

Ten long years, and nothing seemed to dull the hurt that betrayal had carved into the heart of the King. He had assumed that the passage of time would ease his torment, and that the eradication of his brother would in some way sooth his pain, but in all the time since that dark night there had been no respite. What had once been a fierce hurt had long since festered, laying a fever across his mind and a hardness to his heart that had never been there before.

In the days since his wife’s passing there had been many a dark moment that his mind shied from; orders passed to the chief of his guard that he never would have dreamed of before, hours when there seemed to be nothing but black despair to hold him. He ruled, but no longer with a kind and bumbling hand; he ruled through spite and a furious refusal to run aground now that there was no soft brother-voice of reason to guide him.

The Kingdom was uneasy, it’s King in turmoil, so much so that the coming of the Shade Hound was a blessing in disguise. Obsession sat like some gory mantle upon King William, but his new fury fit well with the news of a demon coming in search of royal blood; where before there would have been whispers of treason now there was rejoice, as in the face of such a threat they needed a bloodthirsty King.

But so much had changed, and despite his best efforts to love his child, the King had found his mind being turned my rumours. Despite his best efforts to put those dark whisperings aside as the folly that his logical mind knew them to be, it took until his son’s sixteenth birthday to be truly certain. Ten long years of doubt before the final vestiges of uncertainly fell away and the strapping young lad that Prince William had become could finally be classed as his son.

The King stood at a distance, watching his child (his child!) fence with another lad; Henry, the King reminded himself .The pair had been firm friends for years, and were well matched in sword-play. There was no doubt that the boy was his, when watching him locked in combat; he was the very image that King William had seen in the glass for years upon years, and that thought made him smile.

Sadly, it also turned his thoughts towards the other child, she would he had taken out of spite so long ago now. Thoughts of the child were like a canker in his mind, painful and rotting in the dark spaces; he couldn’t look upon her, for she had her mother’s eyes set in John’s face. A curse to him for his dark thoughts, maybe, or some twisted form of irony from the gods; she was beautiful, mores so even than her mother had been.

His feet found their way to the nursery without his conscious thought; seeing the delighted face of the nurse was a shock to him, as was the back of his daughter’s head, visible as she brushed the hair of an ivory doll. She had yet to see him (he had yet to realise how much she had grown), and as such he placed a finger to his lips to forestall the nurse; he would return to watch her as she slept, because he didn’t think he could face the pain should the child turn around.

~*~

Sixteen years, and Shaylee had never known that the man she thought to be her father watched her as she slept. She felt the burn of abandonment powerfully, to the point where she would do anything to get just a little of the man’s time.

“Will! Help!”

Her scream as the horse bucked was real, and as such the panic that rose in William was as honest as the poor fool’s heart; he tried to give chase after the fleeing beast and his screaming sister, but his own lack of confidence and slower horse left him far behind. Without a trail to follow he was soon forced to stop for fear of becoming lost, and for a long moment he remained, hesitating and uncertain.

“Shaylee?!” He was straying dangerously close to the borders of Lawhime Forest, and there was no way to be certain where his sister’s horse had bolted to, or what dangers lurked within the dark trees. William swallowed. He was no coward, but neither was he a fool; he pulled his horse around with one final frantic cry (to which he got no response) before thundering back towards the palace and help.

~*~

A considerable distance from where William was searching (far closer to the place where the Shade Hound stalked the wood), Shaylee had been forced to stop as her spirited horse would move no further. With sides heaving and eyes wide in remembered fear, the beast shivered with set hooves; there would be no moving it.

“Stupid horse...” Shaylee hadn’t really thought out the next bit of her plan, and for a moment she felt a thrill of fear.

‘Yet another year is passing soon,’ the quiet voice (now nameless) whispered. There was sadness present in the internal murmur, one that Vrailest could never quite discount even when he tried to ignore his own quiet insanity. A man should not hear voices in his mind, of that he was certain, but should not and does not had never been the same concept for him.

‘And the seasons change eternal; the sun rises and sets; the birds be gone and then be back again,’ he said the voice, but only in the privacy of his thoughts. ...though never so private as he was once sure they had been.

There was shiver from the strange presence, as some indefinable emotion welled up from a lost corner of his mind. Vraliest scowled and tried to will the voice away, but no such tricks ever seemed to work when a strange introspection came upon him. Perhaps his insanity was a product of loneliness?

‘And loss,’ the voice confirmed without any desire from Vraliest. He wished for nothing more than the voice to be silent, but never was he granted silence. ‘Yet another year since-’

“No.” He stilled his own thoughts with a growl, so much the animal that his mask denoted for a moment. “Speak not of it.” Despite being so high and away from his men, he cast a worried glance around moments later; it wouldn’t do for them to see him deep in angry conversation with himself.

‘Think not of it. There is no you and I, just a man in a mask, Vraliest. A man named-’

This time, to win silence he leaped out into space, lost within a dizzying rush of windswept nothingness before his hands and feet found purchase on an adjacent branch. Blessed peace; his head was empty as he straightened, and there was no divide between mask and man to be seen. ...there was, however, a strange horse visible through the trees, skirting the edge of his territory where no horse had any right to be.

It was at too great a distance to clearly see, but any strange presence required swift examination. Together again, Vraliest took stock of his position and made sure to check his bow before making his swift and quiet way towards the intruder. Whoever they were, they could not be allowed to stray so close to Lawless.

The shock that came some half a candle-mark later, when he saw the face of the young woman trying in vain to move a flagging horse, was enough to send him back into perilous disarray; his mind screamed at him (his eyes! Her face!) before the cool logic of the Hound finally managed to regain purchase.

This, he realised when at last he had calmed his frantic mind, was the perfect opportunity. For too many years he had been trapped in stalemate with the King, unable to move for fear of the man killing this very girl, but now... now she was here, and there was no father to guard her. The King would have nothing to threaten if the girl were safe in the stronghold of Lawless.

“You, child, have strayed,” came the growl of the Hound through the trees, though he remained tucked and camouflaged in the branches that held him. “Did you father not tell you that wolves wandered these woods?”

Old

Prince William charged through the fields. His horse moved as quickly as he could all the while he was shouting for his father. Fear ran through him. Shaylee was his responsibility, he was supposed to keep her out of trouble.[i] Damn women! The young Prince thought, Damn! I should have gone hunting with Henry today!. The young prince rode his horse through the valley and thought This is insaine. No way would they be able to rescue Shaylee.

As his horse got to the Castle, the young Prince hopped off it and ran through the castle shouting for his father. He ran through the great all of the castle down, what seemed to be the longest hall way to the throne room where he knew his father was in court this day. Approaching the throne room, the young Prince's breath was heavy and fast as he came in. The steward instantly annouced the prince. William knelt down to his father with sweat, such sweat that should not be scene on him. "Father..."

The King sat on his throne and looked at his son in concern. What ailed his son so? The King wondered as he smiled at the man his son had become. The King had been given many offers for Princess's around the general area perhaps it was time his son had a woman to worry about. The King turned his attention back to the boy and nodded. "Yes son, speak."

"Shaylee is in trouble." Were the first words that came out of the Prince's mouth. As he said this every eye in the throne room looked at the Prince and every man and woman there stared. "Please father... her horse got spooked... I think she went into Lawhme Forrest." Everyone gasped, every royal knew better than to go through Lawhme Forrest unless absolutely necessary. The royal court began such a hushed whispers.

"Stop.." The King snapped he would not have whispering. "Lawhme Forrest?" The King stood up and hollared for his guards. A royal guard came in, the uniform he had was the royal color purple. He knelt before the king to away his orders. "FIND my daughter and bring her too me... Dead or alive." The guard nodded and said "Yes sire!"

The King glared at his son. "You were supposed to keep her out of trouble..." The King began to pace back and forth like a worried father. "What if he has her? What if he hurts her?!" The King glared down at his son harder than he had ever done so, mostly because it was out of great disappointment. "Son," The Kings soft voice that had been there once long ago, the last time Prince William heard it was the night before his mom gave birth to Shaylee, prince William looked up at his father tears in his own eyes. "This is not your fault son... you did all you could to protect her." He smiled softly. "I want everyone to look for her... a reward of five thousand gold coins, to the one who brings her back alive and safe.

Prince William looked up at his father, that would be enough for her dowery. His father had told him Shaylee would not have a dowry. for the Throne belonged to him and all the money in the world was going to his son. The King had pretty much written out Shaylee of everything, except her title and this had always saddened him. He nodded. And then went off with the first brigade

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As Shaylee turned to face her father's enemy she gasped. Her heart started to pace great fear started to take over her, she should not be here. What had she done? she thought to herself. Then she looked at the man in front of her, he was handsome, he looked a bit like her grandfather. Shaylee had only been taught at home about the royal family, and something about a missing brother of the King's but nothing was ever confirmed for her.

For Shaylee she wished she had headed her brother's warnings about this place. She turned to flea... as it had not been a good idea to come this way.. all she wanted was her father's attention.. but as she looked around she realized she was lost and wished she hadn't spooked her horse. She looked up at the Shade Hound. Maybe he wasn't as bad as they said, maybe the rumors about him were not true, maybe he would help her out of the forest and let her go home. these thoughts ran through her head as she looked upon the Shade Hound for the first time in her life.

Shaylee sat on her horse and sat up straight looking at him, there was great fear in her face. She looked at the Shade Hound and nodded. "Ye... yes sir, I realize I am in your territory..." Shaylee took in a deep breath "I don't mean to intrude, my horse got spooked by a snake." Shaylee looked The shade Hound in the eyes "If you please sir, all I want is to go home..." Shaylee hoped this man was not as vial as they said he was. She took in a deep breath again and waited for his response. She closed her eyes hoping that this man would let her go.[/i]

New

Panic his master, Prince William spurned his horse into a furious gallop, mindless of the treacherous ground and his own uncertainties in the saddle; he didn’t think and as such had no time to panic as he ducked low over the mare’s neck and held on for dear life. So afraid was he for the welfare of his sister that his fear of riding at such speed was cast away, though later, when he looked back, he would pale at the very memory of that break-neck, dangerously reckless charge towards the palace.

Shaylee was his responsibility, he was supposed to keep her safe an out of trouble (a task at which he sadly often failed), but never before had the danger been so dire. For a moment, his regard for his sister was pushed back, allowing a deep irritation to surge forward. In his heart, he knew that his sister was badly behaved and often selfish, he knew that she took risks and that those risks often ended with him needing to pull her from disaster, but he had never- no, he wouldn’t think it. Despite wishing fervently that he had taken a hunter out with Henry in search of small game instead of remaining with his sister in her chambers, he couldn’t bring himself to think of this thing as deliberate on her part. Shaylee could be reckless, but he couldn’t blame her for a spooked horse. Clearly, it was an accident that had befallen her, though proving such a thing to his father...

When his horse finally skidded into the castle proper, the poor beast was huffing and steaming, legs wracked with tiny shivers that dredged a frantic, angry cry from the stable hand that rushed forwards. William ignored the lad, already tumbling for the saddle and setting of at a furious sprint towards the throne room where he hoped his father was receiving audience. Breathless sand exhausted, it was fear and urgency that kept him running, gasping frantically for his father long before the great oak doors of the throne room were even in sight.

There was no time for him to be properly announced; William burst through the doors like a madman, close to falling to his knees in an exhausted huddle when he saw the King half risen from his chair.

“Father-!” he cried, voice strangled around the burning of his lungs and the hot rush of blood throbbing in his ears. His face was aflame, body shaking as badly as his poor horse had done not moments before.

The King, still half standing, felt a trill of alarm to see his son so desperately moved; what could trouble the boy so? His mind, twisted by obsession, was already straying towards the Shade Hound and his secret band of lawless men. “Speak, Son.” His voice was sharp, commanding and untouched by the concern he so powerfully felt.

“Shaylee-” The words came forth between heavy gasps. “She’s in trouble. Taken.” Every eye in the room was already affixed upon the young Prince, but at his words there was a low hum of hushed talk, rapidly smothered as the King rose fully to stand.

“Please, father. Please... her horse bolted. ...towards Lawhime Forest.”

William’s voice was soft, but all the same there was a fissure of breath drawn hastily around the room as the King’s face became a mask of fury. Despite the necessity to pass through Lawhime Forest, it had been dubbed a most dangerous place, and all had heard of the King’s obsession with the man rumoured to lurk amongst those trees. To be lost in Lawhime Forest alone was surely a death wish to any man, let alone a wayward, immature Princess.

“STOP!” the King bellowed as the whispers turned into the frantic buzzing of so many hushed words; shocked silence descended at once. “Guards! Find my daughter! Bring her to me be she dead or alive; I will not have some bandit lay hands on her!” Face flushed to a dire purple, hands fisted, for a moment the King looked quite mad.

“Send out as many men as it takes! I want the girl found before nightfall!”

Ever loyal, though some through fear for their safety if they were not so, the guards raced out with hastily called “yes sire”’s, leaving the King alone with his remaining child as the court fled to safer locations.

“You were supposed to be guarding her...” There was disappointment in the King’s voice, and he would not look at his son. “I trusted you to keep her safe and you failed me, William. You’ve let Him get her.” He refused to turn around, even upon hearing the strangled, almost tearful gasp from behind him. William- William had let him down, and allowed his one bargaining chip to fall into the hands of his enemy.

“Get out of my sight,” he spat, heading for the armoury and away from his son; if the castle was to fall over his son’s stupidity, the King himself would die fighting. He would have his brother’s head before he fell.


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The voice, coming from nowhere and dropped to a dangerous growl caused Shaylee to gasp in alarm, wheeling around beside her stricken horse to face the man who had spoken. Her voice, already trapped in her throat as panic snaked around her heart, broke forth in a pitiable wail as her eyes found strips of hanging flesh and painted bone; the terrible face of a hound long since locked in death.

Her horse, though foundering, startled at her cry and skittered weakly to one side with a cry of distress, but Shaylee found herself paralysed, unable to look away from that terrible face. What had she done? This was clearly- she hated even to think it- the creature from so many a peasant’s nightmare; the Shade Hound of Lawhime forest himself. She would have backed away if her legs had been able to uproot themselves from the ground.

Frantically, fearing death and suddenly knowing the full force of her own stupidity, Shaylee tried to bring some of the haughty pride that she had so often used to sass her elders into her voice. She failed, but at least she did not openly break down and weep at the sight of this monster.

“I- I realise that this is your territory,” she whispered, wetting her lips anxiously. “But my horse... he bolted, so if you’d just- if you’d just let me pass...?” Far from commanding, Shaylee all but wilted under the stare of those wide, dead eyes.

Visible as little more than a death’s head mask, Vraliest laughed a twisted laugh at the girl’s pitiful display of terrified defiance. Her fear was written all across her body, but her attitude; the Hound scowled, demanding proper discipline and punishment for bad behaviour. She was no pack leader, though she was his own, if raised by a rival and used as a weapon against him.

“Silence,” he snarled, leaping down close to the girl, but going instead towards her horse. The beast (a fine, fine beast, though possibly ruined by her bad treatment) snorted in alarm, likely scenting his mask or seeing the alarming eyes it held, and as such Vraliest removed it. Underneath, his face held nothing of the beauty it once had, twisted by age, weathering and scars, but he still looked a little like the King (the voice in his mind had been quick to remind him of that).

With hands more gentle than his voice or appearance gave him credit for, he soothed the animal as best he could, paying no mind to the girl. She would not run away, and if she chose to he would simply retrieve her. When the beast was no longer frantic, he whistled shrilly for one of his men to come to him, and then, at last, turned towards his captured Princess.

“Your treatment of this animal was unacceptable; even a girl your age should know better to ride so hard. You may very well have killed the poor creature with your recklessness.” His eyes were hard as he looked down at Shaylee, trying not to think on the voice at the back of his mind screaming that this was his daughter.

The Hound wanted revenge on the King, and to die in final unity with that voice. For that to happen this girl needed to be safe, he knew, but she also needed to unlearn several of the bad habits she seemed to have gained during her time with his enemy. He would not accept such poor treatment of a beast, nor would be allow her to be insolent.

He continued, still stern, even as he heard the telltale signs of his man approaching. “I will not have any of your attitude here, girl, but do not be afraid; I mean you no harm. You will come with me now, and I will see if there is anything to be done for the poor animal that you have so sorely used.”

Timed well, his stern words broke off just as a second bandit entered the clearing, looking about in surprise at what he saw. “Hound...” he grunted, head ducked in some form of reverence that he never would have shown had Shaylee not been present to require formality. “You have a task for me?”

“I do. I wish for you to take this horse and see to it. If anything can be done, let it be done, if not...” his eyes strayed back to Shaylee. “You will find where this girl is being housed, and have her personally put it out of its misery. She is responsible for the harm that has come to it, and as such should face the consequences should that harm result in the death of the animal, don’t you think?”

His man blinked, some confused on his face, before nodding. “Yessir,” He stepped forwards, taking over the care of the trembling stallion as Vraliest put a hand on Shaylee’s arm.

“There, now you will come with me, if you please,” he told her in a tone that gave no room to object. “You’ll be staying in Lawless for some time, but we will do our very best to make you comfortable.”