There's a scene in this part that was inspired by a whump piece of Frederick by @just-a-space-rabbit ! Go check out their art, they're awesome!
This is gonna be in multiple parts, so stay tuned! Also, this is a long one, so it's going under the cut!
Frederick turned another page of his book as the carriage bumped and jostled him down the long road to the Northernmost part of Ridire. Galiot stared out the window, his sword within reach. Frederick would’ve called him paranoid were it not for the fact that they were heading to Hallanheld. The village itself was peaceful, but it lay just on the border between Ridire and Ledyanoy, the old mountain kingdom. Ledyanoy had claimed for years now that Hallanheld belonged to them; however, Hallanheld maintained that it was a remnant of the true Ledyanoy, and it would not rejoin the twisted version of its old homeland except under very specific circumstances. Since most of the village lay on Ridire’s side of the border, it was up to Frederick’s father to lead negotiations between the Edelkalts and the Frostborns.
The snow began to pile up on the windows in little white lumps. Frederick leaned back, closing his book. He always got sick when he tried to read in a carriage, but the boredom he felt on long journeys always made him do so anyway.
“Sick again?” Galiot asked.
“Mm,” Frederick mumbled, closing his eyes.
“Sorry, Lad.”
Frederick’s parents were in their own carriage about a quarter-mile ahead, surrounded by Ridirian knights and some of the royal guard. Frederick’s coach had been given the same treatment. The presence of the soldiers alone should have prevented anything from going wrong.
And yet no amount of knights or guards could prevent a blizzard from kicking up. Within minutes, the carriage was buried up past its wheels in deep, powdery snow.
“Stars above!” Galiot exclaimed, “quite a mess this is. I’ve no idea how we’re going to arrive on time now.”
Frederick adjusted his winter cloak, pulling the hood over his head. He clutched his sword in his left hand and opened the door with the other, bracing for the chill. Galiot followed him out into the howling wind and pelting precipitation.
“Any chance we can get moving again, coachman?” Galiot called over the gale.
The driver shook his head, jumping to the ground.
“Not in this weather, Sir Galiot,” he answered, “Besides, the horses are tired. They need food, water, rest, and most importantly, warmth. I’ve instructed the men to start a fire and make camp for the day. We’ll set off again when the storm quiets.”
Frederick shielded his face from the flying ice.
“I’ll go on ahead,” he shouted to Galiot.
“Are you mad!?” Galiot demanded.
“I need to be there before the negotiations start. Besides, I don’t want Mother and Father to worry.”
Galiot looked like he was going to argue, but sighed and nodded in agreement. This came as a shock to Frederick.
“Aye, then I’ll come along with you. We’ll take two men with us.”
Frederick, Galiot, and two Ridirian knights set off on horseback. Ainmire shook the snowflakes out of his mane, though it didn’t do him much good considering more of them fell every second.
The terrain wasn’t doing the group any favors either. Knotted roots, uneven paths, and obstacles hidden under the snowfall made it rather difficult to traverse the path to Hallanheld.
Frederick was just thinking about how he wished he had brought an extra cloak like his mother had said when Galiot cried out. His horse took off, away from the path, clearly spooked by something unseen.
“Galiot!” Frederick shouted.
Frederick rode after him, despite the two knights’ protests. The blizzard blurred Ainmire’s hoofprints into nothing.
“Galiot?” he called.
He turned Ainmire in a circle, but there was no sign of the old knight. He had found himself in a clearing. Frederick dismounted, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
As soon as it had come, the blizzard quieted into stillness. The light reflecting off the fresh powder nearly blinded Frederick. He heard a crunching sound behind him. He whipped around, but didn’t see anything.
“Galiot?” he tried again.
He heard a crossbow locking into position. He dodged just as a bolt whizzed through the air. Frederick drew his sword.
“Show yourself!” he shouted.
A soldier stepped into the clearing, crossbow at the ready. He wore the colors and armor of Ledyanyoy. Frederick’s brows furrowed; he dropped into a fighting stance. Like all princes before him, he had been extensively trained in Ridirian knighthood, including the art of melee combat. He could take one Ledyanoysian soldier.
Five soldiers, on the other hand…
Four more Ledyanoysians appeared from the thicket, slowly approaching in a circle. Frederick kept his sword up, waiting for them to make the first move.
The first solider swung. Frederick blocked the swing with his blade. The second solider came up behind him, while the third and fourth came at him from either side. The fifth stayed back, shouldering his crossbow.
Frederick was a good fighter, and quick on his feet, but even he wasn’t skilled enough to take on four opponents at once. It was incredibly unfair. As Frederick was backed further and further into a defensive position, he caught sight of Ainmire out of the corner of his eye. He could attempt a mounted retreat, but that would put his horse in more danger, and Frederick couldn’t bear the thought of his friend’s untimely death. Luckily, or unluckily, Ainmire tore off, back into the forest, no doubt going to get help. But would it come in time?
A swipe to his shins and a graze to his side had Frederick crumpling to the ground, where his various other injuries sustained in the fight made themselves known. His blood stained the snow around him a deep scarlet. He panted, trying to catch his breath.
The Ledyanoysian soldier that had first engaged him stepped forward. Frederick tried to force himself up. A polished boot found itself on his chest and rammed him back down into the snow.
“Stay down, Ridirian,” he sneered.
Frederick’s grip on his sword was becoming weaker. He tried to raise it in one last attempt to defend himself. The pressure released from his chest, instead moving to his wrist. Frederick cried out as the soldier pressed down. His hand opened, and the soldier kicked the weapon away.
Frederick wanted to send his killer a sharp retort, but he barely had the energy to breathe. The blood loss became more apparent. The soldier spoke with his comrades, but Frederick was only picking up every other word. Before he knew it, he was being sat up while his attackers wound coarse rope around his wrists, arms, and torso.
The sounds of the forest grew muffled, as though Frederick was submerged in a lake. He could only pick up one last sentence before the darkness claimed him.
This part is super super long, so it's going under the cut!
Frederick’s anxiety was not unfounded, much to his dismay.
Hushed, worried voices and shuffling footsteps woke him in the waning hours of the night. He stirred, sitting up with bleary eyes. The fire had died some time ago, and it wasn’t until a nurse hastily built another that Frederick had any idea what was going on.
Nurses laid Njord Edelkalt on a bed while a Hallanheldian doctor came up, still in his sleepwear. Njord’s breathing was shallow and labored, and he clutched his right arm like his life depended on it, which it did, if the blood trickling between his fingers was anything to go by.
As the doctor began to examine and operate, Halvard hobbled into the space with his crutch.
“What’s going on then?” he yawned.
“It’s Njord,” Frederick whispered.
“What!?”
All they could do was watch; the nurses would not let either of them near the bed, and eventually even Leigheus was called out to assist. Between a moment and an eternity, they had done all they could. Njord’s arm had been stitched, bandaged, and set in a sling.
“You are lucky to have an arm at all,” Leigheus remarked, “who did this to you?”
“Ledyanoysians,” Njord breathed through gritted teeth, “…please…do you have- gah! Anything… for the pain?”
Leigheus produced a vial and offered it to him. Njord drank at once, though by his grimace Frederick could tell the liquid inside was horribly bitter.
At this point, Frederick and Halvard were finally allowed to approach the bed.
“Ledyanoysians? Did you see their faces?” Halvard asked.
“They came in the darkness,” Njord said, “there was little light at first. They attacked me in my tent; I managed to get outside, and in the moonlight, their Ledyanoysian blades glinted at me. They fought without honor; A Hallanheldian or Ridirian would never fight an unarmed opponent.”
He paused, relief softening his features as the painkiller kicked in.
“I thought they would grant me the mercy of a quick death, but they left without striking a final blow.”
“Why would they violate the truce?” Halvard asked.
“To force him to forfeit,” Frederick said in thought, “if he doesn’t show up tomorrow, then King Aspen automatically gains control of Hallanheld, and he wouldn’t have to even unsheathe his sword.”
“Can we not prove the Ledyanoysians sabotaged him?” Halvard asked.
“It’s only… my word… against theirs… the Ledyanoysians will never accept it, and then we’ll be right back where we started; with more bloodshed.”
“At least where we started is better than where we’re going.”
A flame seemed to ignite in Frederick’s head.
“If I recall, didn’t King Aspen say he accepted the challenge, and all the rules of succession by combat?” he asked.
“What good will that do if we can’t prove his side cheated?” Njord mumbled.
“We won’t need to,” Frederick said, “I have an idea.”
…
The blow of a horn blasted across the battlefield. Aspen approached the designated trial ground, dressed in full Ledyanyosian armor.
His opponent approached him, helmet closed over his head and wearing the battle garments of Ridire.
Aspen laughed, the sound echoing off the trees.
“Do I take this to mean Njord Edelkalt forfeits? What a shame! Well, I suppose the war is-”
“Not quite,” the Ridirian said, “per the rules of succession by combat, if either challenger is unfit to fight by the time of the trial, then he may choose a Second to fight in his place.”
Njord hobbled forward, supported by Halvard and Weland.
“As all may see, Njord Edelkalt has been grievously injured and is unfit for battle.”
Aspen’s expression soured.
“I seem to recall the rules mentioning that the identity of the Second must be made known at the time of combat,” he sneered, “so, unless you are willing to unmask yourself-”
Frederick pulled the helmet from his head, letting his hair fall in curtains around his face. He ingored the gasps that fell from the Hallanheldian and Ridirian side. He could feel his father’s eyes burning into him. He didn’t dare turn around, for fear of seeing the stark, protective anger that would ultimately dissuade him from going through with this.
“I am Prince Frederick Highcrest of Ridire, and Njord Edelkalt’s Second.”
Aspen’s pale face burned red with anger.
“It was foolish of you to present yourself on a silver platter,” he said, “You slipped my grasp once, I won’t let that happen again.”
Frederick unsheathed his sword and assumed an en garde position. Another blow of the horn, and the fight was on.
Their blades locked. Frederick had the advantage of skill, but Aspen didn’t have any healing injuries to worry about. Aspen would surely notice how Frederick favored one side over the other and would use that to his benefit. Aspen thrust, Frederick parried. Though Aspen fought dirty, his anger made him sloppy. Frederick slashed, managing a graze to Aspen’s underarm. Aspen cried out, his attacks becoming more frenzied and unorganized. Frederick used the momentum against him.
In the midst of the battle, Frederick heard a popping sound under his armor. Oh Alberich. Leigheus was going to kill him if he didn’t die first. He needed to wrap this up. Slash, parry, beat, thrust. Advance, lunge, retreat, lock. Pivot. Sweep. Finally, disarm.
Frederick held the blade inches from Aspen’s throat, panting heavily. Aspen was just as winded.
“Stand down,” Frederick ordered.
“Are you so cowardly you will refuse to kill me?” Aspen spat.
“Do not conflate my mercy with cowardice, Aspen,” Frederick responded, “this fight is over.”
Cheers erupted from Hallanheld, Ridire, and surprisingly, even Ledyanoy. Frederick turned to make his way back to Njord. He heard shifting in the snow behind him. He turned just as Aspen was about to plunge a dagger into the back of his head.
Aspen never got to do so. The pommel of Stormstrider’s blade came down on the deposed king. Aspen fell face-first into the powder beneath him.
“King Frederick,” Stormstrider nodded.
“Ah,” Frederick said, “thank you, Captain. About that…”
Frederick took Aspen’s sword from the ground and presented it to Njord.
“As of this moment, I am abdicating my claim to the Ledyanoysian throne. I have chosen my successor, Njord Edelkalt of Hallanheld.”
Njord took it.
“Thank you, your highness,” he said.
Frederick bowed.
“Your majesty.”
A raucous cacophony of cheers and elation rippled out from the battlefield. The war was over, however short-lived it may have been.
Stormstrider and his men bound Aspen in chains and carried him off to a tent. He would wake up with no crown, and a lengthy list of charges laid against him.
As the people rallied around Frederick to congratulate him, he caught sight of his father’s face in the crowd. Beneath the expression of anger, Frederick saw fear, and beneath the fear, relief.
Hrethric pushed through the masses directly towards him. Frederick sighed, stiffening. He knew this was coming, even if he came out of the fight completely unscathed, but he still didn’t want to experience it.
“Frederick,” Hrethric said.
The crowds fell to a whispered hush.
“Father,” Frederick greeted, “before you say anything, you ought to know that- ah!”
Hrethric embraced him so tightly that Frederick was sure he was going to dent his armor.
“I am proud of you, Son,” he said.
The cheers returned with renewed vigor.
Hrethric squeezed a little tighter.
“Do not ever do something like that again,” he went on, “do you understand?”
“Yes, Father, I…mm…”
“Frederick?”
“…I may have popped a stitch…”
“Frederick!”
Darkness encroached on his vision like a sudden nightfall. He could hear the joyous shouting die down to concerned gasps. His legs refused to support him any longer. He fell limp in his father’s hold.
“I don’t f-f-feel well…” Frederick mumbled, “I wanna go home.”
“Stay with me,” Hrethric said, “we’re going to the healing cottage.”
“Hmm…”
Hrethric repositioned Frederick so he was leaning against him. Galiot pushed through the throng and came to support Frederick from his other side.
“You are mad, Frederick,” Galiot said, “absolutely, unequivocally, completely mad.”
The crowds parted to let them pass. They quickly but carefully made their way back through the gates of the village and to the healing cottage.
“Where is Mother?” Frederick asked.
“We’ll send for her,” Hrethric said, “just hold on.”
For what must have been the millionth time in the past two weeks, strong hands laid Frederick on the cursed bed in the healing cottage. Nurses worked at removing his armor while Leigheus came down the stairs.
It was only when the elven doctor started cleaning the wound that Frederick allowed himself to go under.
This is a long-ish one, so it's going under the cut!
The cold stone floors of the dungeon chilled Frederick to the bone. He had made himself hoarse from shouting through the gag, and he had further exhausted himself by struggling. The restraints never gave, and neither did the gag.
Frederick leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. Ever since being taken, he had been trying to find a means of escape. He had discovered none. The only thing he had managed to do was give himself abrasions under the ropes.
Somewhere, water dripped from the ceiling, filling the dungeon with a wet echo that became annoying in a matter of minutes. How many hours had gone by? Was Frederick going mad already? He had heard of what solitary confinement could do to someone. The most battle-hardened soldier could go insane, let alone a prince brought up in luxury.
The gag made it difficult to breathe well, and he could feel his haunches going numb from the hard stone beneath him. He shivered. He couldn’t even pull his cloak tighter around him to block out the cold. Curling in on himself wasn’t an option either, his injuries would surely prevent that.
It was only then that Frederick truly acknowledged his predicament. He was alone, trapped, and would be dead soon, either by tomorrow night or within a week of false courtship. His eyes shut tighter as tears brimmed in them. The lump in his throat forced a muffled sob from his mouth. The crying made it even harder to breathe, which in turn caused him to suck in air faster and faster until he was almost hyperventilating.
Calm down, he scolded himself, you’re acting like a child.
This of course did nothing useful.
The sound of a door opening made Frederick sit bolt upright. He tried to rub his eyes on his shoulder and hopefully dry any evidence of his despair. He was upset enough about breaking down like this; the last thing he needed was an audience.
Frederick forced himself to glare as Stormstrider marched in, followed by Orvar and two people he didn’t recognize. Stormstrider held Frederick’s sword and dagger in one hand. Orvar produced keys, one of which he pushed into the cell’s keyhole. The bars swung open with an ear-splitting creak.
“Change of plans, your highness,” Stormstrider said.
Stormstrider knelt down in front of Frederick. He set the sword down and gripped the dagger firmly.
Well, if Frederick was going to die right now anyway…
Frederick kicked at him with all his might. Stormstrider fell back with a yelp, while the two men who had accompanied him scrambled to hold Frederick down. One of them pinned his arms, while the other got his legs.
Stormstrider wiped the blood from his nose and scowled at him. Frederick returned the look, but fear shone through his façade.
“Hold him still,” Stormstrider grunted.
He raised the dagger high, and Frederick closed his eyes. He tried to relax his body. Leigheus had told him that tensing up only made pain worse. If Frederick was going to die this way, he wanted to minimize his suffering as much as he could.
He heard the dagger come down. The rope fell from his ankles, letting his legs come to rest slightly apart. Frederick cracked an eye open. Stormstrider got to work on his arms and torso next. He cut the ropes into slivers on the floor. The two mystery men turned him over, and Stormstrider freed his wrists next.
Frederick jumped up. He stole a glance at his sword, but the pair held him fast once more. He struggled with renewed vigor.
“Listen. Listen.” Stormstrider growled, “I’m going to take that off next. If you scream, we’re all done for. Understood?”
He pointed the dagger at the gag. Frederick gave him a puzzled expression, but fell still all the same. Stormstrider circled behind him and untied the fabric strips. Frederick spat the last wad out onto the floor. He flexed his sore jaw. His mouth was bone-dry. What he wouldn’t do for some water.
As though reading his mind, one of the men holding him offered him a flask. Frederick took it. He sniffed it first, making sure it wasn’t poison. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he drank. Water it was, and it was ice-cold. He drank until the flask was empty. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“We are getting you out of here,” Stormstrider said, “you are to do exactly as we say. No deviations. Otherwise it won’t be the river you have to worry about tomorrow.”
The captain picked up Frederick’s sword. He offered it and the dagger to him. Frederick took them, setting them in their proper places on his belt.
“I don’t understand,” Frederick finally said.
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Stormstrider replied, “and let’s get one thing clear. I’m not doing this for you. I am many things, and nothing if not loyal. But my country comes first, and I will not let a cold-blooded murderer sit on the throne of Ledyanoy any longer.”
“We have to go,” Orvar hissed quietly.
He had been standing watch at the cell door, crossbow in hand.
Frederick stirred to a bitter taste on his tongue. He bolted upright, trying to cough up the intruding liquid. He immediately regretted this, as his side screamed for him to stop.
“Awake then, Ridirian?” a cold voice inquired.
Frederick fell back into a laying position. He forced his eyes to open and stared up at the rough fabric of a tent’s angled ceiling. A face came into view. Olive-green eyes, brown hair with streaks of white. A small braid on one side. A thick beard. A scar across the left eye. And a gaze that held all the icy darkness of the lost mountains. It was the Ledyanoysian soldier that had defeated him, however unfairly.
“Stormstrider,” he said, “captain of Ledyanoy’s royal legion. I wouldn’t advise running. We’re in Ledyanoysian territory now, and even an elite soldier can die in this cold if he goes alone. And you are most certainly alone, prince Frederick.”
He seemed to spit the name like venom from his mouth. Frederick tried sitting up again, but he couldn’t move his arms in front of him to prop himself up. He had gotten only slightly less reclined when the captain shoved him back down roughly, eliciting a wince from him.
“I wouldn’t,” Stormstrider said, “we cut you up into pieces. I barely managed to put you back together. I thought Ridire was known for its swordplay, boy. You’re letting your kingdom down.”
Frederick glared at the captain with unconcealed ire.
“What do you want with me?” he bit out.
“Me? I’d love to see you freeze into a treat for the wolves,” Stormstrider said, “it’s King Frostborn that wants you alive. He’s anxious to speak with you.”
“About what? I was already on my way to Hallanheld before you kidnapped me.”
“This discussion is to take place at Isbreen Castle in Zhelevet, away from the prying eyes and ears of others. It is a private matter I’m told.”
“The capital!?” Frederick demanded, “that journey would take-”
“Days, yes.” Stormstrider said, “so you’d best behave yourself. I’d hate to open those wounds.”
He pressed a finger into Frederick’s side. Though it was a light touch, it was still enough to make him grit his teeth to avoid a cry.
“We break camp at first light. Sleep, little prince, there isn’t much else you’re able to do.”
With that, he stood and pushed his way out of the tent. Frederick heard him speak with the other soldiers. When Stormstrider’s shadow passed away from the tent, Frederick finally willed himself to sit up.
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. his wounds pulled and throbbed with every movement, and even lying still had not brought him much relief. His cloak had been taken and draped over him like a blanket. As Frederick moved, it fell away to reveal rough bandages peeking through the tears in his clothes. His arms had been pinned to his sides with rope, and his wrists had been secured behind his back with the same material. His ankles had been given similar treatment. The fibers were strong, and well-knotted. In addition to this, both his sword and his dagger were nowhere in sight.
The situation looked rather hopeless, Frederick would admit that. Judging by the dimming light outside, he had been unconscious for hours, which would’ve given the soldiers plenty of time to put distance between themselves and the Ridirian convoy. With nothing in sight to free himself, and with the state of his injuries, he wouldn’t get far if he tried to run. He wasn’t even sure he could run, if the state of his legs were anything to go by.
He still couldn’t get the taste of that bitter liquid out of his mouth. It was probably medicine of some kind. Stormstrider had made his disdain for him abundantly clear, but he still needed him alive. It wouldn’t do him much good to poison him now. And if his wounds got infected, he wouldn’t be useful to anyone.
He huffed, testing the strength of the restraints some more. When they still didn’t yield, he fought the urge to shout in frustration. He prayed someone would find him before his captors reached the capital.
…
Frederick wasn’t sure when he had fallen asleep again, or how he was able to do so in his situation. All he knew was he was awake now, and he wished he wasn’t. A chill blasted him in the face as Stormstrider opened the flaps to enter the tent.
“Rise and shine, your royal highness,” he greeted, “we’ve a long trip ahead of us.”
Two soldiers hoisted Frederick to his feet and secured his cloak around him.
“His dressings will need changing,” one of them, the one with the crossbow, noted.
“If we’re to get there before negotiations begin, it will have to wait,” Stormstrider said, “He’s a strong lad, aren’t you, boy? He can handle it.”
Frederick was placed sideways on a deep brown horse, Stormstrider climbing in the saddle behind him. The other Ledyanoysians mounted their own steeds. Stormstrider flicked the reins, and the company was off.
Frederick’s face flushed pink, either from embarrassment or the cold, or perhaps both. He kept glancing longingly at Stormstrider’s sword in its scabbard as it glinted in the winter light. If only he could somehow reach it.
They crossed stone bridges with intricate symbols carved into the rock, and various frozen waterfalls glistened alongside them. Mountains stood tall on either side of them. They were traveling through a frozen pass to get to the largest peak, upon which lay the capital city of Zhelevet.
Frederick noted every landmark they passed, hoping to commit the trip to memory when he escaped.
The group made camp a bit after midday, at which point Frederick was finally removed from the saddle and placed against a tree. The group shared a meal next to a roaring fire, while one of the men brought him a small bowl.
Frederick stared incredulously.
“Open your mouth,” he instructed.
Frederick would have preferred to not eat at all than to be degraded in such a way, but his hunger had other plans for him, as did the soldier.
“You can eat willingly, or I can have Stormstrider hold your mouth open,” he said.
Frederick scowled. After a very long pause, he slowly let his lips part. The soldier started feeding him. The stew was bitter, and some parts of it were burnt, while others were underdone. Frederick was too hungry to be but so picky, and he wasn’t so stupid as to comment on the soldiers’ lack of culinary skill. Bite not the hand which feeds you.
After a short while, they packed everything away and started off again.
It wasn’t until nightfall that Frederick was back in the relative warmth of a tent. The soldier that had remarked about Frederick’s bandages came in to examine them. He crouched down, looking at the dressings through the tears in his clothes. Without warning, the soldier lifted his shirt, exposing the skin underneath to the cold air. Frederick winced as the soldier moved the bandages to look at his wound. He worked with a clinical distance that was most unlike Leigheus or the other medical professionals in Ridire.
The solider slid the fabric back down, then left the tent. He returned shortly with Stormstrider.
“Orvar here says you need fresh dressings,” he said, “if it were up to me of course-”
“Yes, yes, you’d let me die from infection,” Frederick mocked, “thank you very much.”
Stormstrider scoffed with a smirk. He knelt behind Frederick and shoved him down into a laying position. Orvar removed the ropes around his arms and pulled up his shirt once more. He changed the bandages over his side, wrapping them tightly but not too roughly.
He did the same to the wrappings on his arm, then moved down to his legs. Frederick squeezed his eyes shut at that part, being that they had to remove his trousers to access the dressings underneath.
After what felt like an eternity, the business was done, and his clothes were back in their proper place.
The rope went back around his arms and middle, despite his struggles and protests. Orvar produced a small flask and poured three drops of liquid from a vial into it. He swirled it around a few times before pressing it to Frederick’s lips.
“Drink it.” Stormstrider ordered.
Frederick’s eyes were like daggers as he looked up at him.
“It’s for the pain. And it’ll help you sleep.” Orvar added.
At that, Frederick acquiesced, tasting the horrid liquid from when he had first woken up yesterday evening. He grimaced and pushed down his gag reflex as he swallowed. He let out a shuddering breath. Stormstrider left him, as did Orvar. Frederick drifted off a few minutes later.
this one is a lot shorter than the other parts, but here it is all the same!
Everything that night had happened so fast; Frederick’s head swirled with so many questions that he couldn’t figure out which ones to ask first until the first rays of dawn peeked through the trees and bounced off the snow. That, and he was feeling a bit more fatigued than usual.
He had managed to learn the names of his companions, at the very least. Halvard Haldorson, and Njord Edelkalt, son of Weland Edelkalt, who was the Steward of Hallanheld. Both were in Zhelevet for a reconnaissance mission. They had been captured by some of Stormstrider’s inner circle, but before they could be presented to the king, Stormstrider had found a better use for them as Frederick’s rescuers.
Given the fact that they were on foot rather than horseback, it would take even longer to get to Hallanheld. Frederick wasn’t keeping up as well as he should have. He was no battle-hardened warrior, but he stayed fit enough for someone of his station, so it was very odd that he should have such little stamina now. His side twinged with every step, but thankfully, the bandages held fast.
They made camp for the night a little way’s off the trail. Frederick fell asleep as soon as his head hit his makeshift pillow.
...
It took longer than usual for Frederick to wake up the next morning. His side spasmed and shuddered as he sat up. He winced, curling in on himself for a moment. He shivered, chills running up and down his entire body. Cursed Ledyanoysian weather.
“Are you all right, your highness?” Njord asked.
Frederick glanced up at the concerned face above him. He forced a weak nod.
“Just tired,” he mumbled.
“Well, try to find some energy. We’ve got plenty more ground to cover today.”
Frederick nodded. He stood, his body shaking from the movement. He gathered around the fire with Njord and Halvard for a brief breakfast, then they were back on the road again.
It was taking even more effort to keep walking today than it did yesterday. Frederick’s breath came out in little clouds, and his gait was sluggish and uneven. Every gust of wind knocked him off-balance, and there were plenty of times that Njord and Halvard had to stop and wait for him to catch up. It was embarrassing; he knew he was inconveniencing them, and he hated to be the weak link of a group.
This pattern went on for the next two days. It was only when the distant chimney smoke of Hallanheld came into his sight that Frederick’s legs gave out completely.
Njord and Halvard turned as Frederick face-planted into the snow. They rushed over to help right him.
“Come on, your highness, we’re so close,” Halvard said, “you’ll be able to rest soon.”
“Sorry,” was what Frederick tried to answer, but a pained groan escaped him instead. Njord’s eyes narrowed.
“Lift his shirt,” he said.
The cold assaulted his skin, the bandages doing little to block out its bite. Frederick saw Njord and Halvard exchange glances. He could swear he saw panic cross their features.
Njord said something else, but Frederick couldn’t make it out. His eyes drifted down to where Halvard’s gaze was fixed. A bit of unsightly green stained the bandages, tinged with bits of red here and there. The forest sounds grew muffled, and darkness fell on him a moment later.
Frederick’s footsteps echoed against the harsh stone of the dungeons as he and his unexpected rescue party crept up the long, spiral staircase. They took no light with them, for fear of being detected. All they had for illumination were a few sconces stretched sparesly along the walls.
They reached the ground floor of the castle. Stormstrider peeked around the corner, then made a motion for the others to follow. A light began to bob up and down at the end of the hall. Stormstrider held out an arm for everyone to freeze. Frederick’s hand drifted to the handle of his sword. He might have been injured, but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
The stranger came into view; it was one of the soldiers that had taken him. Frederick went to draw his blade, but Orvar stopped him.
“Well?” Stormstrider asked.
“The coast is clear from this checkpoint,” the soldier said gruffly, “you shouldn’t have any trouble until you reach the stables.”
“Thank you,” Stormstrider said, putting a hand on his comrade’s shoulder as he passed him.
“Down with the tyrant,” the soldier whispered.
“Down with the tyrant,” the others, save Frederick, repeated.
Stormstrider seemed to know the castle like the back of his hand. They reached the door that led to the stables soon enough. Stormstrider opened the door and held it for the others to pass. He then made his way back to the lead.
A harsh whinny stopped them dead in their tracks. Stormstrider cursed under his breath. A black mare was shaking in her stall, her ears pointed forward and all her muscles tensed. She stared right at Frederick and the two unnamed companions, the whites of her eyes showing. She started to rear up, kicking around bits of hay and dust.
“Who goes there!?” a voice from above barked.
Orvar dragged Frederick behind the stable, and the others followed save Stormstrider. A guard on the ramparts shone a lantern down on the spot where they had just been standing.
“Captain Stormstrider,” the guard called down, “is there any trouble?”
Stormstrider waved up at the guard. He gestured to the mare.
“Seems Cinder here had a fright, that’s all,” he answered.
“From what?”
“Who’s to say?” Stormstrider stretched his arms out, “you know anything can send her bolting.”
“True, poor girl,” the guard went on, “…what are you doing out here, anyway?”
Frederick winced from his hiding place.
“I needed a bit of air,” Stormstrider said, “thought I’d check on the horses at the same time.”
“All right,” the guard said, “…you are sure there’s no problem?”
“None at all.”
The door they had just come from started to open. Frederick and the group would surely be seen from this angle. Another guard began to step out. Stormstrider caught the sight out of the corner of his eye.
“Well, you’d best be getting back to your patrolling,” Stormstrider said.
“Aye, though it’s been a quiet night, unless you count that prisoner coming in. Do you know who it was?”
Orvar loaded his crossbow, his hands shaking. Frederick took a deep breath.
There was a harsh clang of metal against flesh. The guard dropped to the ground, out cold. Behind him stood another of the soldiers that took Frederick. He held a finger to his lips and sheathed his sword, flipping it so that the blade was down instead of up.
“I don’t envy him, nor his headache in a bit,” one of the unnamed companions whispered.
Orvar breathed a sigh of relief, unloading his crossbow.
The lantern light finally pulled away from the stables. The group started up again. Their boots crunched through the snow as they eventually reached the castle gates. The last of Stormstrider’s soldiers let them through.
“Guards litter the city at night,” the first unnamed companion said, “this will be difficult.”
“You would know, wouldn’t you,” Stormstrider grumbled, “you’re lucky we’re in the middle of a rebellion. Any other time, I would have thrown you in the dungeon so fast-”
“This way,” a woman’s voice called.
A Ledyanoysian commoner waved them over from an open doorway. They crossed the cobblestone street into her unlit tavern.
Her husband opened a little door behind the hearth.
“In you get,” he said, “down with the tyrant.”
“Down with the tyrant,” Stormstrider agreed.
They crawled through a long, winding tunnel until they reached a chapel near the edge of the city. The friar there led them out a back door to the edge of the parish. Another Ledyanoysian rebel took them to the west-side gate of Zhelevet.
“This is as far as we go,” Stormstrider said, pulling Orvar next to him, “Godspeed, Ridirian.”
“What?” Frederick asked, turning.
“The world will know by tomorrow that King Aspen Frostborn tried to have a Ridirian prince assassinated,” Stormstrider went on, “war is coming. Be ready for when it does. And Prince Frederick?”
Frederick nodded his chin up.
“Make sure you win.”
Frederick didn’t get a chance to respond. The gates swung shut, and the two companions that had broken him out began to lead him down a trail that was nearly invisible under the snowfall.
here's another long one, under the cut it goes! This series is really getting away from me, haha, but I hope you guys are enjoying the ride- I know I am!
Frederick willed his eyes to open. They staunchly refused. He felt a hand against his forehead. He weakly reached up to try and brush it off.
“’M fine, Leigheus,” he mumbled, “jus’ an experiment, nothing to worry over…”
The hand moved to set Frederick’s arm back down at his side, then drifted down to his middle. Odd, the skin there felt exposed, more so than if only his shirt were off; no, this felt more intense, almost like the flesh had been opened like a coin purse. There was something else; it felt like a viscous mixture was being rubbed into it.
His eyes finally snapped open. Warm light welcomed him into the waking world. His eyes fixed themselves on a familiar Elven doctor. It was then that the memories came flooding back, as though a dam in his mind had broken.
“Leigheus?” Frederick exclaimed.
It came out much more quietly than he intended.
“Your highness,” Leigheus greeted.
“I don’t… am I home?”
Leigheus shook his head.
“No, you’re in Hallanheld. The healing cottage to be exact. I must say, I am impressed you are so cognizant right now. I hadn’t expected you to even wake up until nightfall.”
Late morning light filtered in through grilled windows that had snow on their sills. A fire crackled and popped in a stone hearth, and tables and shelves were littered with many plants and mixtures. Frederick lay on his good side in a small bed, the pillows piled around his head like feather-filled mounds. He had been dressed in sleepwear, the top of which had been pulled up to gain access to his injury. Despite his ordeal, his body felt clean.
In his other hand, Leigheus held a mortar, in which lay a pungent, crushed poultice. He dabbed more of the concoction into Frederick’s wound.
“What happened, Leigheus?” Frederick asked, “the last thing I remember is… there were two people with me… and I felt cold…”
“Njord Edelkalt and Halvard Haldorson,” Leigheus said.
“Are they all right?” Frederick asked, going to sit up.
Leigheus pushed him back down,sighing through his nose and keeping his expression neutral. He resumed his work. Frederick barely felt any pain.
“Yes, they are fine,” Leigheus said, “you, however, are not. Your wound had an infection that could have taken your life. The fact that you got as far as you did without medical attention is… quite a feat.”
Frederick recalled how he had been feeling the past few days. The chills, much more intense than those caused by mere cold. The fatigue and his inability to keep up with his companions. The twinging in his side that seemed to grow worse every hour.
Then Frederick recalled something else.
“I thought you were staying home,” he said, “how did you get up here so fast?”
Leigheus pulled open a drawer, from which he retrieved fresh bandages.
“I didn’t. You’ve been unconscious from the fever. You’ve been in the Hallanheldians care for three days. It was only last night that I arrived.”
As he spoke, a Hallanheldian nurse came over. She held Frederick upright while Leigheus dressed the wound. Frederick’s head spun from the sitting position; he doubted he’d be able to hold himself up on his own.
“Thank you,” Frederick said.
“Your highness.” The nurse bowed her head.
The nurse laid him down, then went back to her duties.
Leigheus’ lips were pressed into a thin line, and he was intently focused on putting the extra bandages away.
“Is… something the matter?” Frederick tried.
“Your near-death experiences are becoming a habit,” Leigheus said, “and I can’t even be cross with you because it isn’t your fault this time.”
Frederick chuckled, regretting it almost instantly as dull pain rippled through his otherwise-numb side.
“My apologies,” he said.
Leigheus grunted, then stood.
“I am going to fetch your parents,” he said, “do not leave this bed. Do you understand?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Frederick promised.
Leigheus was barely out the door when Frederick bolted back upright. He flung the covers off and started to stand.
“Wait!” he called, “what happened to Galiot!?”
Leigheus whipped his head around like an owl and gave Frederick a glare that could cut through any blade. Frederick shrunk under his piercing gaze and slowly climbed back into bed.
“Is he alright?” Frederick asked, quieter this time.
The Elven doctor took a deep breath.
“Sir Galiot is fine; a picture of health for someone his age. So, unless you want to give him an early heart attack by running about the place with your injuries hardly on the mend…”
Frederick lay down. That seemed to satisfy Leigheus, for the moment at least. He left, the door creaking shut behind him.
The moments dragged into what felt like hours. Twice, Frederick almost fell asleep. He was nearly nodding off for a third time when the creaking of the door startled him into wakefulness.
“I will thank you not to crowd him,” Leigheus said.
Morgana and Hrethric entered, both dressed in their winter garments. Galiot followed closely behind.
“Galiot!”
Frederick tried to sit up again. Morgana closed the distance between them and set him back down.
“Don’t excite yourself, you’ll stall your healing.” she chided.
“I s’pose I shouldn’t have come in right away,” Galiot said to the king, “I can go, your majesty, I wouldn’t want to make things worse.”
“No!” Frederick said quickly.
“Stay, Sir Galiot,” Hrethric said, “Prince Frederick won’t jeopardize his rest.”
Hrethric fixed him with a gentle yet firm look.
“Please, don’t go,” Frederick said in the calmest voice he could manage, “I was worried about you is all.”
“Well, now you know how we feel,” Galiot said with a rueful laugh, “don’t worry about me, Lad, I can handle myself. Been doing it for over fifty years now, and I don’t plan to stop anytime soon.”
A nurse brought a bowl of porridge with a wooden spoon into the space, setting it on the bedside table. She bowed to Hrethric, Morgana, and Frederick before leaving. The sight of breakfast made Frederick’s mouth water.
Morgana sat down on a wooden stool by the bed. She pulled Frederick up into a sitting position. She supported him with a hand on his back and brought a spoonful of porridge to his lips. Frederick’s cheeks turned pink.
“Mother, I can feed my- mmph! Mmph…”
Frederick swallowed the morsel that Morgana had shoved into his mouth. He looked away from the others.
“Come now, Frederick,” Morgana said, “everyone needs help sometimes. How do you think you got cleaned up and into sleepwear? You weren’t sleepwalking, and the dream fae didn’t visit you.”
Frederick’s face burned hotter, but he let his mouth fall open for the next spoonful.
Midway through the meal, a Ridirian knight burst in. Frederick stopped eating then and there, and gave his mother a quick, pleading look. Morgana sighed, setting the spoon back on the table.
“Your majesty,” the knight said, “apologies for the intrusion. Lord Torsten has arrived with the reinforcements.”
“Very good,” Hrethric said, rising from where he had sat down, “I will address him at once.”
The king started to leave with the knight.
“Father, wait,” Frederick said, “reinforcements? Whatever for?”
The knight gave Frederick a puzzled look, then remembered himself. He forced his face to maintain a more neutral expression.
“The Ledyanoysian people have grown tired of their monarch’s tyranny. They are preparing to revolt, and both and Hallanheld and Ridire have pledged to aid them,” he said, “more importantly, King Frostborn has made an attempt on your life. It will not go unpunished.”
Hrethric left with the knight, his winter cloak swishing behind him. The door swung shut. War was swiftly approaching.
