A Crown of Camellias Red as Night, Red as Fire, Red as Blood - Part Three of Three
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Part One: [tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Part Two: [tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
When potential invaders take the Marquis away from the Marchioness’s side, a new source of tension is going to risk everything he promised and more. [young!Twelve nobility/arranged marriage Whouffaldi AU ]
It was Daleks that took him away. They had attacked a Kasterborsian stronghold with more might than they ever had in the past, threatening to break through the border and pillage the hinterlands. A courier had delivered the news during an outdoors lunch, where her lord and lady had been eating with their counsel and mother-in-law.
“I shall return in a fortnight at the earliest,” the Marquis said as he mounted his horse. Ashildr was already sitting astride another horse, ready to take off soon as her lord was ready. “Keep a close watch on the horizon—an inordinate amount of smoke and you shall need to initiate invasion protocols.”
“Invasion hasn’t been possible since well before Troy was a child,” the Serdaressa frowned.
“Mama, Clara, Rigsy, I am counting on you to prepare accordingly, yet not panic the people,” he replied. He bent down and took his wife’s hand in his, kissing her knuckles. “Take care.”
“If you love me in any way, you’ll come back,” she stated. It wasn’t a request or an observation, but an order, firm and resolute. Their gazes met and they wordlessly agreed; there would be no compromise.
A snap of the reins and a click of his tongue and the Marquis was off, galloping towards the main gate so that he could join the remainder of the war party. Those who remained were glad that the luncheon had been nearly over, as their appetites had thusly soured.
“Rigsy, I know you and Jen enjoy living in your cottage outside the city walls, but pack your things and move into the castle for the time being,” the Marchioness said. “Take only what is necessary, though make it seem as though you shall merely be keeping us company while His Lordship is away.”
“What about the others who live outside the city walls?” he asked. “When will we give them warning?”
“When we know there is a warning to give—I need you here ahead of time so that we can concentrate on matters at-hand if there is truly reason to worry.” She shooed him away, leaving the two women to walk back to the castle alone.
“That boy of ours better not let the Daleks get very far if he lets them get in at all,” the Serdaressa frowned.
“Don’t worry, Amelia,” the Marchioness said, “Our Johan is more than competent when it comes to dealing with a bunch of quickly-dispatched Daleks.” They went into the castle and up into the family’s private wing, sending away all the servants as they went into the office to bring out varying maps of the borderlands. “Have you ever been to the front?”
“More than a few times; none were pleasant experiences,” the Serdaressa said. She took a lacquered wooden box from a shelf and opened it up, bringing out a miniature blue-stone replica of the building they were in and placing it atop the map. “We need to make certain there are plans in place to bring in the small and middling folk from the hills. Where will we put them?”
“We have ballrooms enough; families with children and the infirm can stay in them whilst others can camp on the grounds,” the Marchioness said. She began setting up figurines representing Daleki and Cyberan soldiers, placing them in known positions on the edges of the march’s borders. “If we can hold as many people as we do during the Violet Sky, then we can hold them now. The trick is going to be making it so Cybera does not think now is the opportune time to strike.”
“Johan was right: you do sound like a Doctor,” the Serdaressa smirked. The Marchioness paused, her face flushing red. “How did he get so mad about you?”
“It was an accident, but one that I would make time and again,” she admitted. “I guess we need to brace ourselves for his arrogant, over-dramatic, idiot children, won’t we?”
“Are you…?”
“No, though I do not doubt that they shall happen once we get to that step.” The Marchioness cleared her throat and closed the box, having placed all the figurines she could. “Less talk of that for the time being, Grandmamma; right now, we need to figure out our evacuation routes.”
The pair talked battle stratagem and civilian safety measures until Rigsy reappeared, his wife and daughter at his side. Once it was certain that the family was settled comfortably into their chambers, work truly began, as there was much to prepare for in case of what they feared.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-
The Marquis had been gone for nine days and his lack of presence was being felt throughout Gallifrey. A few had gotten letters from the front from loved ones describing the pummeling the Border Forces were enduring, news of which spread rapidly. The Marchioness received word from her husband as well, words which allowed her to act with more confidence than she had previous.
“His Lordship has written from the front lines,” she announced from the castle gate, standing on a parapet. The crowd below her was large and anxious, and she sympathized more than they knew. “He has said ‘If this letter reaches you before another, then we are safe for now. There may be more Daleki soldiers than anyone alive has seen, yet they are also finite in number. Do not worry unnecessarily, for it shall only unnerve the people, and they do not deserve to be in such a state.’”
She folded the letter up and slipped it in a pocket. Not all his words were appropriate for the people to hear; in fact, there were entire passages of private niceties and vulgarity, meant only for her eyes as they both yearned in anticipation for his return. War was an excellent re-evaluator of priorities, and the Marquis knew he had no more time to waste. He would return hungry, and she would be just as ravenous, and that would be the end of their dancing around their attraction for one another.
After finishing her reassurance, the Marchioness descended from the wall and made her way back into the castle. Soldiers and guards were prepping for the worst, with smaller halls being used as classrooms for explaining procedure concerning protecting civilians at all costs. There were already people from the hills pitching tents on the lawn, who hailed from lands closer to the border than Gallifrey, and the general sense of urgency was by all means alive and well. She went into the private wing and to the office, where she found Jen—Rigsy’s wife—looking intensely worried as she talked with the Serdaressa. The two women looked at her, glad for her arrival.
“What happened?” the Marchioness asked. “Did you get new news from the front?”
“No; I can’t find Kester,” Jen frowned, bouncing Lucy on her hip. “I was just telling Lady Amelia that he said he was going to the kitchens to get Lucy a snack and he hasn’t returned. That was well over an hour ago. He doesn’t do this, milady. I’m getting worried.”
“Stay with Lady Amelia and I’ll go look for him,” the Marchioness said. “I know these corridors better than you do and it will likely be quicker. Chances are he was pulled aside for march business and has yet to even see the cook.”
“You’d be surprised how often Clara and Johan are sidetracked on a daily basis,” the Serdaressa said, rolling her eyes. “Sometimes it is a miracle I can even get them to attend lunch, let alone dinner, and that was before they grew love-struck.”
“Ha, ha; I’ll be right back,” the Marchioness deadpanned. After tickling Lucy in her side, she left and went to find Rigsy. She checked the kitchens, the offices, the garrison, amongst the multitude of soldiers, and even peered out the window overlooking the temporary encampment.
He was nowhere, and it puzzled her.
“Rigsy…?” she called out, wandering the corridors. She stepped inside seldom-used rooms, becoming increasingly more worried as time went on. Her friend had vanished on the precipice of potential war and to say it was unnerving was an understatement of vast proportions. “Rigsy? Where are you…?”
“Clara!”
The Marchioness tensed at the sound of her name, instantly knowing that not all was well. Rigsy was one of her closest friends, that was true, yet he never addressed her by only her first name. It was a sign that something was amiss, that he needed her help.
“Rigsy! Hold on!”
She ran down the corridor as her mind wondered who or what could have done this. Were there Daleks in the city, slipped in under their noses? She ran into the room at the end of the corridor, only to find her friend bound to a chair whilst a soldier she had never seen before was tying a gag around his head.
“What is the meaning of this?!” the Marchioness snapped, completely outraged. She went to the middle of the room, close to where the soldier was containing her friend and counsel. “What crimes has Riggins committed that require him to be treated in such a manner?!”
“None—he is merely an accidental accessory to be silenced.”
The Marchioness turned and saw Ashildr leaning against the wall, her face a stony mask. Her raven sat upon the rim of a heavy vase, fluffing its feathers as it preened itself.
“Ashildr…? Why are you not at the front? Where is Johan?”
“I am not at the front because Johan had me stay back at Paternoster, to draw a trap in case Daleki soldiers broke through the front lines.”
The Marchioness’s eyes flitted from side to side, searching for where the secret exits were; Ashildr’s tone was unnervingly pleasant. “Then what, may I ask, are you doing here?”
“Drawing a trap of a different sort.”
She snapped her fingers and a dark cloth went over the Marchioness’s head, blinding her as she was grabbed by unseen hands and bound in rope. Strong arms picked her up and carried her away, the only words spoken being those of Ashildr, sending further chills down the Marchioness’s spine.
“Soon, and the pretenders shall be no more.”
-_-_-_-_-_-_-
Standing alone, leaning on the pommel of his sword, the Marquis surveyed the damage and destruction that lay before him. Bodies of soldiers—Kasterborsian and Daleki both—and their mounts were littered everywhere. The ground was uneven from explosions and the remains of tents were scattered haphazardly. Even he was the image of a battered military leader: his dark blue cape was torn with bits of the red lining poking out, his jacket seemed to no longer fit him due to torn seams and popped buttons, and his hair, which had already been on the longer side when he left Gallifrey, was now wild and untamed as he had less time for grooming than the scant amount he allowed himself before. He was a mess, though it was proof that he did more than simply command from a distance as others might in his position. His position of Doctor had been earned, after all, and none within the camp could refute that.
“Tea, your lordship?” He glanced to the side and saw a member of kitchen staff, holding out a steaming mug for him to take.
“Thank you,” he croaked out, voice almost completely gone. Upon hearing him speak, the staff member put a considerable amount of honey in the tea as well, stirring it in to help his throat. He took it and held it up in a silent regard, a toast and additional thanks for the kindness.
Knowing that there was no Dalek to disrupt him now, the Marquis found himself a box on which to sit. He placed his sword down and crouched as he sat, cold and weary. A sip of tea and he realized just how chilled he was and he pulled the remnants of his cloak tighter with his free hand. He was tired and worn and knew that he had just barely made it through by the virtues of luck and sheer quick-thinking cleverness. It was beyond measure, his pain, as he saw the soldiers around him picking up the pieces of what remained after two weeks of war, for when it was one’s true duty to lead and help and protect, any sign of failure hurt.
“We have word from the scouts, milord,” a soldier announced as he stepped into view. The Marquis hadn’t even seen him approach, instead having lost his gaze over the desolate views around him. He glanced up and saw the soldier salute, which irritated him.
“What is it then?” he frowned.
“All Daleki commanders have either fully retreated towards Skaro or have ended their own lives along the way,” the soldier reported. “The borderlands are once again safe.”
“Our losses were not in vain then,” the Marquis nodded solemnly. He stood and took another sip of tea, grateful for the warmth it provided. “Have my commanders meet me at my tent—I shall clean up and make certain everything is being cared for, then I shall return to Gallifrey and see to her.”
“See to Gallifrey, milord…?”
“…yes, of course,” he replied. He knew there was more meaning to it than that, yet that was not important… moving onward was.
The soldier left and the Marquis wandered his way through the camp before finding his new tent. His previous one had been set on fire, making the current one only a few hours old. There were different rugs along the floor and the table seemed scorched, yet everything from before seemed to have been saved. He searched for new clothes in his small travelling trunk—nothing aside from more beaten war finery and battle-worn blacks. It would have sufficed in a previous time, yet now it was unacceptable. The very thought of his wife seeing him in worn-out blacks again made him uneasy; thinking of her in the moments alone he was allowed since arriving was what fueled him, and to imagine her face when she would see the blacks… he had been tamed, and he was glad for it.
Shrugging out of his cape and jacket, he simply washed dried blood from his face and hands and shaved the stubble from his face, pulling the garments back on by the time his commanders came to solidify their orders. He made certain they were able to handle the mess he was about to leave behind, including the newly-promoted captain who had merely been a second-lieutenant the month before, and joined the lethargic, weary convoy that was making its way back to the City of Gallifrey. There were plenty of wounded amongst their number—those who could manage themselves and those who could not—and the pace they set seemed to suit him. It was meandering and gentle, allowing two days to cross what normally took an afternoon’s hard ride to cover. Eventually the convoy could see the tall blue monolith that was Castle Gallifrey on the horizon.
They were home.
As the party approached the city and earldom, a sordid air began to settle on and around them. Something was wrong, they all knew, though could not put their fingers on what precisely it was that unnerved them. Even the horses were uneasy, becoming spooked at the slightest sound. They pressed onwards, only to be stopped at the gate by fellow members of the Kasterborsian Border Forces, swords drawn and arrows nocked.
“Let us through this instant,” the Marquis ordered from atop his horse. “We have casualties from the front—they require medical attention a tent cannot provide.”
“We have orders to escort you to the governance hall,” a soldier said plainly. Tersely. In a manner that unnerved the Marquis.
“Who’s orders?”
“Orders.”
Glancing around to see if he could glean any information, the Marquis decided it was safer to go along for the time being, so as to get to the bottom of the mystery. “Have the rest of the party brought to the hospital, immediately, and I shall go with you willingly.”
The guards parted, with four attaching themselves to the Marquis as sentries whilst the remainder helped bring the rest of the battered soldiers towards the large stone-and-plaster building that served as the hospital. Streets were nearly empty as they rode through the city, despite the midday hour, and the silence that bore down upon them was nearly deafening. When there would be a glance from one of the few small and middling folk milling about, there were looks of worry, of shame, of uncertainty. They were not people gazing upon their liege lord, and were instead people wondering if it would be the last time they would ever see him alive.
What in the names of the stars was happening?
After leaving his horse in the stables, the Marquis was escorted through his own home into the governance hall, where he found a confusing sight. There, upon the dais, was Ashildr sitting in his chair, one leg swung up onto the armrest whilst the other tapped on the floor as she lounged, reading a book. The hairs on the Marquis’s neck stood on-end—this was the furthest thing from good.
“Ashildr, what are you doing?” he asked authoritatively. “Where is Her Ladyship?”
“I am Her Ladyship,” she replied dully.
“You know precisely who it is I am referring to; where is my wife?”
“Your wife is safely tucked away where she belongs, which is not here.” She closed her book and placed it in the bag on the floor before turning to face him. “My quarrel is not with her—she is merely an accidental and temporary complication—but it is with you.”
“I do not understand,” the Marquis said, furrowing his brow. “I was unaware of any disagreement between us, none that would facilitate the need to put a guard on me in my own home.”
“That’s the problem: this was never your home,” she explained. “This should have been my grandfather’s home, where he could have raised his granddaughter to be the magnificent marchioness he always said she was destined to become, yet it was not. Instead it went to his brother, who cruelly threw him out, and had issue that prevented his return. My grandfather died unable to look once more upon the blue stone of his childhood home, because your father and grandfather both forbade it. I am your elder, therefore I should sit in this seat.”
“The way you speak makes it sound as though you are the issue of my murderous great-uncle—the last my father heard, he and all his family died near forty years ago at sea. There were bodies buried in the capitol.”
“My parents and my grandmother were buried, yes, but not Grandfather, and certainly not the line of me.” Ashildr stood and squared her shoulders, attempting to be as tall as her diminutive frame could manage. “I am Lady Ashildr Valkyrie Me, granddaughter to Lord Faolan Yancy, great-granddaughter to the Ninth Doctor Johan Claud, and the true heir to the governance chair of Kasterborous and Gallifrey. Agree to your resignation and I shall be kind. That is what you prefer, correct? Kindness? Mercy? It is more than you deserve.”
“If you are truly my cousin, then why act now?” he wondered. His lord’s mask was firm and resolute, though underneath he was panicking greatly. Never did he think he had family other than his wife and mother-in-law, and now he had a relation attempting to usurp his birthright as her own. “You have been in service to the march and earldom for years with little complaint and no hint as to this nature—the timing is odd.”
“I realized that now was the time to act, before there is also a child in my way, and children do influence the people so,” she said. “Do not deny that you have fallen in love with your wife, that you took extra risks on the front to end your time away early, all because you missed her. You were to die a mournful sap in war, and I would challenge Clara for this chair, and being the only remaining descendant of the Ninth Doctor, I would win it with ease. Now…” she scoffed, “instead you are a besotted fool, and it is only a matter of time before besotted fools put babies in their wives’ bellies. Give up this chair and leave the march and I shall gladly hand over your wife so that you can keep her as large as you desire, but only within Blackpoole’s landholdings.”
“She was promised Kasterborous and Gallifrey, and so she shall have them.”
“Do not promise that what is not yours to give.”
“Except it is mine, and hers, and shall be passed on to any child we have,” he replied icily. “I’m disappointed in you, Ashildr; you were one of the last people I would expect to act like this, even if you were fed whatever lies Faolan deemed fit to groom you to do this.” The Marquis fluffed his wine-red cape and allowed it to fall limp around him as he held his hands behind his back. “You were one of my most loyal and valued retainers—the King himself had even asked to borrow you on more than one occasion and I refused, on the simple fact I wanted you doing good here instead—and yet this is how you repay me?”
“I have been cleaning up your messes for far too long, Doctor,” she sneered. “You are not suited to your position and never shall be. You put so much hope and faith inside people’s hearts, only to leave them to their own devices before they are ready. They are left wondering if it was merely a dream, or in actuality a nightmare. They do not love you; instead they fear you and your name. I owe you nothing.”
“This is the first I have heard such words,” he stated. “Have you been keeping more secrets from me than just a shared great-grandfather?”
“I never told you because you are a poor listener—why would you be anything otherwise though? The Most Noble and Potent Prince of Kasterborous and Gallifrey does not take heed from anyone but himself, for that is what is required of him. You might do your duty, yet the rest of us simply have to live in the chaos that is left in your wake.”
“Had I known there was chaos, I would have quelled it,” he claimed. “You have kept my people’s concerns from me, Ashildr, and now you aim to make everyone believe that you would do better in my job than I ever could.”
“It’s not a stretch of the imagination.”
“Sometimes the only choices you have are bad ones, but you still have to choose. Are you ready to take on that sort of responsibility? That sort of pain? That sort of horror? How will you carry that, I wonder, if you don’t now understand the weight that shall be on your shoulders?”
“It is a weight I already bear.”
“Do you though?” The air tensed around them so intently that it nearly snapped then and there. “Has the search for a ‘good option’ clouded your judgement and warped your priorities? Can you even recognize when there is one before you or not? You’ve played me the scapegoat this entire time—what shall happen when you put on the cloak you plan to make of my hide?”
“Prove you were merely that—a creature worth forgetting.”
Not about to dignify such a claim, the Marquis huffed in irritation as he narrowed his eyes in an intense glare. “Where is my wife? The one you have so conveniently hidden away? My mother-in-law? The advisor I hope is still on my side? I wish to hear from them and know they are well.”
“Rigsy and his family are locked in their rooms—I thought it more comfortable than the dungeons at any rate. As for Clara and Amelia, they have been a pain in my men’s sides long enough…” Ashildr snapped her fingers and two guards emerged from behind a screen, each leading along a bound and gagged prisoner. They let them go and the Marchioness and Serdaressa were easily able to break free, their immobilization mainly facilitated by the guards’ grips on the ropes binding them.
“Johan!” the Marchioness shouted soon as she pulled the kerchief from her mouth. She and the Serdaressa both ran up to the Marquis, though only the former was brought into a tender kiss. “We were so worried that something had happened to you on the road.”
“Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara; I am home now and that’s what matters,” he replied, pulling her close. He accepted a hug from the Serdaressa as well, though all it did was to allow him to glare over their shoulders at the usurper. “Now the question is: how do I get this creature out of our house?”
“I have some ideas,” the Serdaressa growled, turning back around to face Ashildr. The Marquis placed his hand on her shoulder, gently keeping her from storming off.
“That makes it sound like you were naughty while I was gone, Mama.”
“If you were gone half a day longer, Clara and I would have broken free and thrown this child out on her rear,” she claimed.
“There was never a doubt,” the Marquis said. He stepped in front of his wife and mother-in-law, putting himself between them and the woman before them. “The question still remains, however: how do I get you to step down? What do you want so that you will leave and let my family be? Money? A formal title? Familial recognition? An apology for a quarrel between our forefathers?”
“I want your chair, position, title, money, lands; I want it all, because I will use it much better than you ever could.”
“What did you promise these people?” the Marquis asked, motioning around the room. “I see around me men and women who have served the march loyally for many years—over a thousand years between them—and yet we’re here. You not only withheld their potential grievances from me, but you promised them something, claiming it was what I could not give. Not only that, but you took advantage of a near-invasion to attempt this coup, striking while I was away doing my lord’s duty—my duty to not only my King, but to Kasterborous and Gallifrey and all the people in them—to help fortify the border. Are there not farmers on the grounds who are able to return to their homes now that the Dalek invasion is no longer a threat? I contributed to that. What did you do? You were supposed to be in Paternoster setting up the next line of defense!”
“The Paternosters are always in excellent form—I glanced on my way back, and they were solidly protected,” Ashildr said.
“You could tell that by a glance? Were you too busy with your greedy plot to stop and ask to make certain things were as they seemed?”
“I…”
“Don’t you try to argue with me,” he snapped. “I might be a dangerous force, but I am bound to my duty all the same. There are rules for me to live by for a reason, and I am convinced that you do not want to know why they were put in place. I might be a madman or an idiot or whatever the people call me, but I go around, helping out the best I can, because that’s what I’m meant to do. Are you entirely certain you want to strip me of that? My duty? My livelihood? My rules? Because I highly doubt you want to be in that position.”
“…and we never shall,” Ashildr said. She began muttering lowly in the ceremonial tongue, golden dust beginning to appear and wrap itself around her. Out from the rafters came her raven as it sat on her shoulder, becoming a swirling mess of dust itself.
“Stars, it’s magic,” the Marquis cursed. “Everyone get out of here! She could take out the whole hall!”
That sent everyone into a panic, with people rushing towards the doors. Ashildr’s raven grew in size and took flight, swooping around the room as it prepared for its purpose. The Marquis stopped attempting to herd people out and turned to face his cousin.
“I am the Oncoming Storm; I am the bogeyman Davros warns his children about in the night; I am the man who can stop an entire Cyberan platoon from deploying by my very presence; I am Johan Lonan, rightful Marquis of Kasterborous and Gallifrey; I am the Doctor; and I am the man that makes the monsters go away,” he declared loudly. “Give me your worst!” The raven shrieked and dove straight towards him.
“JOHAN!”
In an instant, the raven was not upon him as he expected, but had slammed into the Marchioness, who had stepped between them at the last moment. The spell burst into light and stardust, enveloping her as she was hit squarely in the chest. She crumpled to the floor and lay still, a sharp hush falling upon the hall. The Marquis was wide-eyed as he wrapped her in his cape in a flourish, putting his back to Ashildr as he gingerly lifted her head from the floor.
“Is she…?” the Serdaressa wondered, coming to the Marchioness’s other side. She saw her son-in-law’s face was twitching faintly as he was attempting to process what was before them. Putting a hand on his shoulder, she found his attention, though he was still spiraling deeper and deeper into a state.
“Not again…” he croaked. “I can’t again…”
“My sweet boy… my son…” The Serdaressa stroked his hair as her heart broke for him. “I’m sorry.”
“This is not how it was supposed to happen,” Ashildr said atop the dais, her voice thin. “I’m not—”
“Stop,” the Marquis growled. He gently passed his wife to the Serdaressa and stood, spinning sharply to glare at his newfound cousin and stomped up towards her with his cape billowing and eyes rimmed in red. “You are going to find out that the march and kingdom are very small places when I’m angry with you. Two hours, and you know that’s generous. Leave. Now.”
Ashildr quickly glanced around, attempting to judge the room’s reaction. The soldiers, once staunch and unmoving, were now standing at-ease, troubled thoughts spread across their faces. She slid from the governance chair and made her way out quickly as possible—there was no way she would have been able to come back from this. The Marquis stood atop the dais all fury and vengeance, his scowl penetrating every corner of the hall.
“If anyone wishes to join her, so be it, but remember: my mercy can only be spread so thin before it vanishes, for I am only a man.” As he waited, three soldiers left, dropping their pikes on the way out, breaking into a run soon as they reached the door. Most of the lesser lords and serdars began to awkwardly filter back into the governance hall, watching to see what was to happen.
It was done.
With the threat of Ashildr gone, the Marquis returned to his wife’s side, taking her in his arms again. He cradled her against his chest, surprised by her warmth. Errant tears fell from his eyes into her hair and his arms began to shake.
“She’s still breathing,” the Serdaressa said. “The spell was likely one to kill, but she’s still alive.”
“We need to find someone adept at the ancient magic if we wish to save her,” he insisted. “Karn?”
“If we must,” the Serdaressa said. “I’ll send Rigsy right away.”
“No, he's been through enough today,” the Marquis insisted. “Clara would want him to stay with his family. Get a courier, a trusted one, one that is loyal to the governance chair instead of a person, and have them go.”
“Yes.” The Serdaressa took her son’s face in her hands and kissed him on the forehead before running off. A guardsman approached him after, his expression nearly sheepish.
“Milord?”
“What?”
“Might I suggest moving Her Ladyship to your chambers while we await news from Karn? I can put a tail on Valka to make certain she leaves the march properly, and ensure those loyal to her go as well.”
“…yes. That sounds like an excellent plan.” The Marquis took his wife in his arms and lifted her up, bringing her past the throng of onlookers and through the castle to the private wing into her bedchamber. He laid her down gently, barely even noticing the team of maids that were already milling about in an effort to prepare for a long nightly vigil.
“Let us care for her, milord,” the senior-most maid urged gently. “You just returned from the front—rest so that we do not have to care for you both.”
“My place is here,” he replied. With his answer remaining firm, the Marquis waited until a chair was placed at the Marchioness’s bedside and he sat, silent and still. The maids worked around him, making certain that their lady was in a clean nightdress and sat up in bed, whilst there was food and drink not only for her when she woke, but for their lord whenever he wished. All the while he remained unmoved, eyes fixated on her.
The Serdaressa tried to get him to eat more than a few bites to no avail. Rigsy attempted to distract him with matters of the march and earldom that needed attending to with no luck. Even young Lucy crawled into the sad man’s lap and curled into him for attention, only for one hand to hold her gently whilst the other idly petted her hair. He kept his vigil firmly, leaving for but a few minutes out of every day, using the remaining time to feed his wife gentle spoons of broth and alternate between sitting in the chair and laying at her side.
Days passed and the Marquis began to whither alongside his wife; the Marchioness was beginning to die.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-
People were in the room—people who were not his wife, the Marquis noted. He tolerated people for the most part, as it was mostly maids doing their jobs and his mother guilting him into having tea. There had even been Viscount Blackpoole, unable to say much, accompanied by a man and woman the Marquis had never seen before, saying they came as soon as they had heard. He did not pay attention, truth be told. All he wanted was the Marchioness back, which made him more than interested when the courier finally arrived from the mountains.
“We need more time than what we have,” the Sister of Karn frowned as she looked over the Marchioness. There were less people in the room this time, with only her, her assistant, and their liege lord and lady. “She is too frail; the spell is powerful blood magic, even if she was not the intended recipient.”
“If it is truly blood magic, should I summon the caster back to undo her mess?”
“No—it will do no good—she would need to be nursed back to health before we could begin experimenting with our spells and elixirs, as our magic is nowhere near as subtle as the spell that had been cast,” the Sister explained. “Valka was taught by a true master of the Old Ways—we cannot directly compete with that unless our methods are heavy-handed, nor was she likely taught how to undo her own messes.”
“Why would she, if her purpose was meant to kill me?” he posed. He moved a stray hair from her face, smoothing it down tenderly. “How long does she have?”
“A few days, at the most,” the Sister estimated. “You kept her alive longer than we thought with the broths, though her body should give out soon.” She saw the lost look upon the lord’s face and frowned. “Do you understand, milord?”
“I understand I am soon to be twice widowed against all that is right in the world,” he said. “I knew I could still be the one to lay her in the earth should I commit to our marriage, though it should have been after we were both old and grey; I did not imagine it would come so soon.”
“Life is full of surprises; in fact, some would say that life is just that… a surprise.”
“Then maybe I do not care for surprises.”
“Only certain ones, milord.”
The Sisters finished up their observations and imparted instructions on how to keep the Marchioness comfortable until her life finally expired. They gave the Marquis privacy as they left, only the forlorn lord and the fading lady remaining in the room. It hurt to look at her—to be reminded of what he nearly attained once again as a second chance—that it was all he could do to not break down into sobs.
Idly, he allowed his gaze to wander around the bedchamber, eventually falling upon the vase sitting atop the nightstand. Ornamental red camellias rested in it, one of which he took out to examine closer. As he looked at the night-red petals, he felt the urge to take another, and another, and another, and soon, he was weaving the stems together. By the time the vase was empty, a crown sat in his hands, which he placed upon the Marchioness’s head. She remained still—of course it would do nothing. There was so little that could be done, all because it… wait a moment…
Blood magic.
If he recalled his boyhood lessons correctly, then blood magic was one of the most enigmatic and powerful things in the entire world. It had been a major reason why the northern arts fell out of fashion to begin with, as it established tensions that escalated into irreparable feuds between people who had no stake in the original quarrel and wished to remain neutral, causing difficulty in Kasterborous and the capitol both. Things had been a mess to rectify, bringing the magic of the Ancient Gallifreyans towards the hushed near-taboo it became. He thought about it, wondering…
“Lady Clara Oswald of Blackpoole, Marchioness of Kasterborous and Gallifrey,” he muttered in the ceremonial tongue, taking her hand in his, “as cousin and kin of the one who put this spell on you, I release you from your punishment. My blood’s quarrel is not with you. In fact, I… I…” He choked on his words, unable to continue further without stumbling towards sobs. Holding her chilled hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers as tears fell from his shut eyes, silently attempting to draw strength from her.
He was so enveloped in his grief, however, that he did not open his eyes to see the swirling golden dust winding its way between the two, nor that when it settled, the fingers he had just been holding began to comb through his hair tenderly.
“Johan, you silly thing.”
His hearts skipped beats and he gasped, sitting up to see that the Marchioness’s eyes were open. She gazed at him longingly, despite the fact she remained sickly by all other appearances.
“Am I dreaming…?” he breathed.
“If you are, than I am as well,” she chuckled, her voice sore from lack of use. “The last thing I remember, Ashildr’s raven turned into a spell that attacked you…”
“…because that is what happened,” he confirmed. “Clara, I thought I lost you—that was a spell meant to kill me.”
“Then why am I alive?”
“You were not the intended target, so it worked differently on you. We have barely been able to keep you alive all this time… and I…” He leaned forward and kissed her lips gently, keeping himself from leaning atop her weak frame. Pressing their foreheads together afterwards, he swallowed hard as he attempted to keep himself from shedding a different sort of tears. “You are the moon in my blood-night sky, Clara Oswald, which keeps my way safely lit at night. With you nearly dead, it seemed as though I would be thrown into true darkness.”
“As if I could simply leave you alone without so much as an extra torch to keep away the bogeymen,” she smirked. “You cannot even choose your clothes without consulting me.”
“Only because you have made it so,” he weakly chuckled. He was further cut off by a grumbling of her stomach, at which she began to turn red. “You have not eaten in near three days—let me get you something.” He went over to the tray left on the table and brought it to her, placing it on his lap as he sat on the edge of the mattress.
“Three days? It feels more like three weeks.”
“It could have been years or hours; I do not know,” he admitted. He broke a bit of bread off the loaf and handed it to his wife, though took it back when he saw how shaky her hand was and decided to feed her himself. She glared at him in irritation, though accepted the offer of bread all the same. “Don’t eat too quickly, or you might get sick.”
“I know.”
“I will be there for you, and remain at your side until the end of your days.”
“I know.” She then scrunched up her nose in thought. “Johan…?”
“Yes?”
“What is on my hair?”
“…oh, that.” He blushed as he took the camellias off her head and placed the crown upon his own to show her. “Do you like it?”
“I love it,” she smirked. She allowed him to replace it and they giggled, cut off by the sound of the door opening and someone else walking into the room.
“Clara!” the Serdaressa gasped. She held her hands over her mouth and attempted to not cry. Going up to her, she stared at the younger woman in near-shock, sitting down on the bedside chair.
“Good morning, Mama,” she replied. “How long ago did we last see each other?”
“Three weeks,” the Serdaressa confirmed. “It has been so bleak that your stepmother has been summoned to see you.”
“Then she shall see me having survived death itself,” the Marchioness said with a grin. “It will take more than a false raven to stop me.”
“…and I’m glad for it, glad for you both.” The Serdaressa held one of Clara’s hand in hers, the other going to the Marquis’s. “We can finally move forward as a family.”
“Yes,” the Marquis agreed. “Finally we are a family.”
-_-_-_-_-_-_-
Word soon spread about the Marchioness’s recovery, giving most in Kasterborous and Gallifrey reason to raise a pint or cup in celebration. They were in no mood for a succession crisis so soon after the prior one had ended, which made the collective breath of relief all the stronger. Highborn quarrels were best solved quickly, and the speed at which this particular one arose and vanished was nearly assuring, in its own way, as it meant that there had been genuinely nothing to fret over.
Within a few days, the Marchioness began to take guests—her father, her former paramour, her remaining advisor and his daughter—and a full week passed before she felt well enough to attend court, helped through the castle by her husband. The Marquis fussed over her and ended court early so as to attend to her welfare, despite the fact she insisted as to otherwise. Irises and lavender littered her chambers as she continued to recover, reminding her of the dizzying dedication of the man who before would not share a bed aside from pretenses, yet now slept nestled in her bosom, arms wrapped around one another as though to never let go again.
Months passed and the Violet Sky arrived, and with it news of an even happier sort. The Marchioness was with child, to be born in the late Spring, to solidify the line that was nearly snuffed out. In the meantime, to little surprise, the Marquis also announced his wife’s creation as Doctor, as she was truly his other half and deserved the title even more than he. She was made Doctor during the thaw, when she was large from showing child, reciting the folk title’s vows before taking her seat on the newly-widened governance chair, meant to accommodate the Dual Doctors with ease.
Nearly a year to the day from the near-coup was foiled and the Doctors’ daughter was born. The Marchioness’s pains first came during a storm, and she was able to cradle the newborn as gentler rain replaced it. There was little more beautiful than the babe in her arms as the child wriggled and suckled and protested her new environment. The child’s father walked in and suddenly the mother knew what was just as precious, just as loved, just as cared for in the entire castle. She and the Marquis kissed lightly, both exhausted from different combinations of worried and worn, and basked in the relief that was now upon them.
As their child grew, siblings came, and the Doctors remained devoted towards one another. They endured beyond their daughter’s creation as Marchioness in her own right and well into old age, lasting longer than any would have thought possible before their marriage. A Doctors’ Love, it was said, was an accidental love, though one that would last through the ages, worth more than could be fathomed. The story of their courtship and love lasted beyond either of them, inspiring others as long as their story was told.
