Interlude: Disparate individuals, but a common love

"Mama?"

Grace shook herself free of her thoughts and smiled down at Felicity. "Yes, what is it?"

"Why are you sad?" Her daughter was looking up at her, bright blue eyes wide with worry.

"Oh, little butterfly..." Grace gathered her daughter in her arms, but Felicity was not to be deterred so easily.

"Is it because Father is going away to the capital?"

Grace held her daughter close, trying to think of what to say. How could she explain that her father was a criminal and because of his actions, both herself and her mother had been left in a very precarious position? Obviously, she could not. But she had to assuage Felicity's worries somehow. "No, dear, I suppose I'm just sad that the last of our guests have left now."

"Oh. Me too, Princess America was so nice and pretty! I want to be like her when I grow up."

Grace's entire being rebelled at the thought of letting Felicity anywhere near a sword, but she only smiled and said, "We'll see. Now why don't you go back to playing? Mama still needs to finish writing this letter."

"Okay..."

But even after Felicity had lost herself in her own little world again, Grace stared unseeing at the half-filled sheet of paper on the desk before her. Princess America and Ser Brandis had been very good to her and Felicity, but not even they would be able to keep Lord Murtell's crimes under wraps forever. When it came out, what would happen to her position in society? She would be regarded with suspicion, excluded, shunned. None would wish to associate with the wife of a convicted felon, for fear it might damage their own reputations.

And what would happen to her daughter? To grow up in the shadow of such a terrible scandal... How could she ever enter society? A twinge of resentment flared in her chest, directed at the princess. Grace crushed it instantly, shocked at herself. Princess America's actions had only been just, and she really had been far more kind than Grace had any right to expect. No, the princess may have brought it to light, but this scandal that threatened everything she knew was not her fault.

That lay with her husband. Even now, weeks afterwards, she could still scarcely believe it. She had not loved him; she had not even liked him overmuch, but she had never imagined him to be capable of something like this. Egotistical, supercilious, blustering, but essentially harmless; just another self-important petty noble who paid little attention to anything but himself. The perfect husband for her situation, really, at least until his true colors had been revealed.

She repressed a sigh. She had thought she had put any silly romantic notions to bed a long time ago. Marrying for love was a privilege given to few, and she was no longer a young girl who could afford to entertain dreams of handsome princes coming to sweep her away. Of course, she knew why such thoughts obtruded themselves again after nearly a decade of being fully resigned to remaining forever a stranger to romantic love.

It was Ser Fenrir.

Ever since he had left, she had been doing her best to forget him; to busy herself with preparations for when the scandal became known, but thoughts of him seemed to creep in at every unguarded moment. From the very first time she had seen him, when she was sure the only reason she had not fainted from terror of him was because she had had Felicity to protect, to that last goodbye in the corridor, when he had taken leave of her with such gentle kindness, every interaction she had had with him was indelibly etched in her memory.

It sometimes seemed like a fever dream. A great black wolf-like Dark-race had descended upon her estate, engaged in two different surprisingly deep conversations with her, for the space of a week quietly dominated the attention of every room he occupied, and then vanished like smoke. She might have been tempted to believe he was a specter brought on by the stress of being shown her husband's true nature had it not been for his companions. Two succubi, an oni, and a high elf? It was far too strange to be anything but real, particularly as they had all been friends. And they had left with him, along with several of the princess' party.

'Lucky girls...'

She ought to have been shocked at this thought as well, but the fact of the matter was, she had been entertaining thoughts much like it for the past fortnight as she struggled to determine what she should do. Her husband ought to be standing beside her helping to shoulder her burdens, not have been the cause of them! If she were married to Ser Fenrir, he would not abandon her. No, he would smile that warm smile, tell her not to worry, and then he would go out and find a solution to her problems. He would care for her as a husband ought to do.

Grace let out an incredulous little laugh. What was she thinking? He was a Dark-race, no matter how well-bred he seemed, and anyway, even if she were free to marry who she liked, it was a bit much to think he would wish to involve himself in her troubles. What did her wealth and position matter to a Dark-race?

...But he had comforted her when she had inadvertently betrayed some of the guilt she felt, and he had only refused her invitation to visit her again because of his concern that he might make her a target of his enemies. He had traveled all the way to Eldfall to save Lady Cidrin, not because of her status but because he cared for her. Dark-race or not, he had a good heart.

She pulled her thoughts away from Ser Fenrir, refocusing on the letter in front of her. It was an apology for missing an upcoming function to which she and Brigham had been invited. Impossible to attend now, of course. She had spent some time canceling every engagement she could, in preparation for- she didn't know quite what. A part of her thought it would be better to leave Eldfall, for some years at least. Perhaps she could rent a townhouse in the capital, or maybe one of the cities further east along the coast would be a better choice as it would be further removed from the scandal.

Grace signed the letter, folded it, and placed it in its envelope. Her sudden withdrawal from so many social functions would set tongues wagging, and she had considered carrying on as though nothing had occurred, at least for as long as possible, but ultimately decided against it. It would not do any good to pretend nothing had happened; at best, she would only delay the rumors by a week or two. She stood, and calling Felicity to her, set her steps towards the nearest exit to the gardens. She needed some air, and who knew, perhaps a walk in the shrubbery would help clear her mind.

Grace woke abruptly. There was a presence in her room. At first she thought it her lady's maid, Janet, but some instinct warned her against speaking out, and as the figure crossed in front of a window she espied a distinctly masculine frame and caught the glint of an unsheathed dagger in its right hand. The figure made his way on stealthy feet to her bedside, the dagger lifted into the air above her, and then Grace, now certain that he meant to kill her, shrieked and surged up and out of bed on the opposite side to that of the intruder.

The assassin muttered a curse and leaped atop the bed in pursuit. Grace retreated further into the corner of the room, almost tripping over one leg of her dressing table. Her toe throbbed from the impact, but there was no time to assuage the pain. Whether deliberately or otherwise, the assassin stood between her and both exits from the room. Her eyes flashed to the windows, but she was on the second floor. There was no escape for her that way.

The assassin was advancing on her, blocking her in, knife raised in preparation for a strike. The darkness made it difficult to see much of anything, but this was her room, and she had spent many hours seated before her dressing table. She did not need to see to know what was placed there. Snatching up a jar of powder, she emptied it into the intruder's face, making him curse again and flinch back, his free hand coming up to try to clear his eyes of the stinging substance.

Taking the opportunity, she ran for the door. Her arm burned with a swift hot pain as a blind strike from his dagger connected and blood streamed down her forearm. Then she was past him and out of his immediate reach. She didn't waste time, however; it wouldn't take him long to renew the pursuit. Reaching the door which led into the nursery took only a moment.

Felicity was already out of bed, roused by her mother's earlier scream. "...Mama?"

"Felicity! Come quickly!" Grace grabbed her daughter's hand and continued on to the door which let out into the corridor. Frightened by the urgency in her mother's voice, Felicity came along without fuss.

The hall was better lighted than the bedchambers, and Grace stopped short as she found her path blocked once again by the assassin. Now she could see he was dressed in dark close-fitting clothing with a cloth over his nose and mouth. There was still powder liberally besprinkled over his mask and the little of his skin that was exposed. "That wasn't very nice," he growled. Grace pushed Felicity behind her as she began to back up slowly.

There was a shout from the far end of the corridor and one of the estate guards appeared, running towards them with sword in hand. The assassin cursed again as his eyes flicked back and forth between the guard and Grace, weighing chances, then he dived towards her. She dodged his first strike, then his second, then he lost patience and tackled her to the ground, overwhelming her with his greater body weight. Her head bounced off the hard floor and stars swam before her eyes.

Dimly she felt the weight of the man on top of her, and heard his voice as he grunted, "Slippery fucking bitch."

A childish cry cut through the haze like a dagger to the heart. "Stop hurting my Mama!" There was a grunt of pain from the man atop her, then a much higher pitched cry of pain and a dull thud to her right. The sound galvanized her into **** action and she scratched furiously at the face she could only dimly make out above her. One of her fingers found an eye, making him flinch back and yet another curse fall from his lips.

Then his body stiffened convulsively, and the dagger fell from his fingers to clatter on the floor. A silver point ringed with a growing red had suddenly appeared in the middle of his chest, and as Grace blinked away the haze she realized that the silver point was the tip of a sword. The estate guard's sword, who had run the intruder through from behind.

No sooner did she realize that she was now safe than her thoughts jumped to the cry of pain she had heard. "Felicity!" she gasped, attempting to push the rapidly dying body off of herself. The guard helped free her and she half crawled, half staggered over to where Felicity lay limp against the wall. "No, no!" She gathered the little body in her arms and could have cried with relief when she saw the little lashes flutter and heard a moan escape her treasure's lips. "Oh, my dear little darling! You're alive!"

"Mama...?"

The voice was weak, but Grace only cared that it was still there at all. "Thank the gods..."

An hour later, some semblance of order had been restored. Grace sat in her room with both her head and arm bandaged and a note in one hand. The other hand rested on Felicity's chestnut locks as she slept peacefully in her mother's lap; thankfully, she had not been badly hurt from being thrown into the wall. The note had been found on the assassin's body and was the only identifying mark he had carried. She read it through again.

This is what will happen to the friends of the princess and everyone who helps her in her foolish crusade if she does not stop now.

That was all, but it was quite enough. Clearly, her husband's less savory associates had meant to make her dead body an example and a threat to the princess. And it was unlikely that they would give up simply because they had been foiled once. She was no longer safe here.

But where to go? Her thoughts immediately flashed to Ser Fenrir, but she did not even know where he was or how to find him. And even if she did, would he be willing to protect her?

Yes, she decided. He was too kind and caring not to. But how could she find him? She considered for a moment. Princess America might know how to contact him; they had been allies, after all. And even if she did not, the princess was her next best option for safety, though it did place her uncomfortably close to her husband and the scandal that loomed there.

Yes, that was where she would go. Ringing for her lady's maid, she began making plans immediately, sorting through in her mind what she would need and what could be left behind even as she rose and made her way over to her dressing table. There would be no more sleep for her this night.

In the capital, things were not going well. Well, to be fair, most things were going precisely as they usually did, but for one princess in particular, life had become unbearably dull. After the excitement of hunting down slavers and meeting Ser Fenrir and his followers, the normal routine of life at the citadel felt stifling. Not even the fun of ordering a new gown for the upcoming ball could put much of a dent in her melancholy.

It didn't help that she'd had to leave Eldfall before their work there was truly done. They hadn't been quite quick enough to outrun all the rumors, and the cell in Eldfall had already been on high alert when they'd sprung their trap, which had resulted in many of the more important members evading them. Tracking down each of them would take time, time she didn't have with her upcoming duties as a princess back home. So she had had to leave the pursuit to Flint, Miss Cassia, and the men they had picked out. Even Flint had only accompanied her home, then left again to direct the soldiers' efforts along with Miss Cassia.

It was what she herself would have chosen for him to do, but it did mean that now she didn't even have him to help alleviate her boredom. This also meant that her plan to curb her feelings for Ser Fenrir was going very poorly, since she had so little to do which could distract her from thoughts of him. She tried her best, she really did, but he wasn't the type of person who could be easily forgotten.

She had replayed her last conversation with him a million times over in her head, including how his arms had felt around her, safe, warm, and strong. Even now it still sent a shiver down her spine. When would she see him again? America knew she wasn't ready for another meeting; not with thoughts like these, but she couldn't help but want one.

'I really need something to do which can properly occupy my mind and my hands, or I'm never going to get over him.'

In another quarter of the city, there was another whose thoughts frequently dwelled on the direwolf, but unlike America, Elmeria made no attempt to direct them elsewhere. To do so would have been anathema. Marstolle was still her goddess, but Fenrir was now her master. She didn't know what she would do if the two came into conflict, but she wasn't very concerned about it either, since Fenrir had shown that deep down he followed the spirit of Marstolle's teachings, no matter how much he pretended not to care about the goddess.

It was lonely here without him, though. She had done as he had directed and continued to make friendly overtures to the servants. At first it had only garnered her confused looks and even a little fear, but as time had passed she had actually managed to get several of them to speak with her a little. But their company was a poor replacement for the wealth of emotion Fenrir's presence raised in her. Just to have him nearby seemed to make life brighter.

She took a breath. It was fine. She had an important job here. She was protecting him. It was something no one else could have done. So why did she want him to be here so badly?

That was a stupid question. Why wouldn't she want him? He was the only one who really understood her, after all. She had worn a mask for so long, she had forgotten how it felt to take it off. Then he had ripped it from her, and to her own surprise she had found she had loved the freedom its absence had given her. Her hand caressed her lower stomach, where beneath her clothes his mark still rested. She was more thoroughly owned than she had ever been, which for her was really saying something, but at the same time she had never felt more free. It was an odd contradiction.

Of course, ruminating on the strange turn her life had taken didn't lessen her loneliness much, but it wasn't as if she was unused to loneliness. If it was what Fenrir required of her, she would face it for as long as he needed her to. Just knowing he was out there and he cared for her; really cared for the real her, made it a far easier burden to bear.

Tomoko had come to the Cathedral for a visit several days ago. She had apparently found a lead on a Key of Apollyon, but it had been tenuous enough that when she had gotten the news Elmeria was safe, she had decided to come visit her before she continued tracking it down. Her relief at Elmeria's safety had made the dark elf feel a little guilty, since she could only imagine what would happen if she were to come clean about what had actually happened.

But she comforted herself with the thought that protecting Fenrir was the right thing to do, even if it meant lying to her friends. Perhaps he could someday convince them he wasn't evil the same way he had convinced her. Well, maybe not just like her; she wanted that to be special, something just between them, but along those lines at least.

In the course of their conversation, Elmeria had wondered what Tomoko intended to do once the war was over, and she hadn't had an answer. Though to be fair, if she had been asked that very same question only a month ago, Elmeria wouldn't have had much of an answer either.

Tomoko had eventually said that she figured she would just keep seeking out and defeating Dark-races wherever and whenever they threatened innocent people. This was potentially dangerous to Fenrir, but Elmeria decided that it wasn't worth risking exposing him just to tell him about it, even though she really wanted an excuse to go see where he lived. Contacting him without sufficient cause might earn his disapproval, however, so she resigned herself to waiting awhile longer.

Her search for both a means to remove the null rune on Safara's chest and for a way to convict the bishop weren't having much more success, but that didn't surprise her considering how carefully she had to go about investigating them. And anyway, while she would have loved to give Fenrir another reason to be pleased with her, even he had admitted he didn't expect her to find anything. He was just casting his net as wide as possible.

Elmeria had also considered contacting Princess America. Fenrir had mentioned how he and his followers had worked with her, and that they had parted on good terms. She was hungry for someone with whom she could talk about him, and it was possible, if unlikely, that the princess might have more recent news of Fenrir than she had. The only thing that stopped her was the thought that Fenrir might want Elmeria to keep her connection to him a secret from even the princess. He hadn't given her permission to reveal her true allegiance to her, anyway.

No, she would just have to wait until Fenrir contacted her again, and in the meantime she would continue to follow his instructions faithfully. She thought back to the last time he had praised her, and how it had made her feel good all over. Maybe if she did well enough, he would praise her again the next time he saw her. That thought was enough to send her into her study with fresh determination. If he didn't have reason to praise her when next they met, it wouldn't be for lack of effort.

Melanoche was not happy. Ever since that first glori- ahem, infuriating time, her pussy had remained whole and unravished, and the longer that passed without a repeat performance, the harder it was to convince herself that she didn't want to feel it again. And the worst of it was, she couldn't even say anything about it to anyone, as that would mean admitting that it had happened in the first place.

She had taken to watching Fenrir a great deal, for she was almost certain it was he she had felt inside her, and that was only reinforced when she saw his prowess in bed. It took a little more digging before she discovered how, but when she saw the midnight-blue cylinder that reeked of Carnachias' power tucked away in his pouch, all questions were answered.

But he never used it! And when she looked at those who surrounded him, there was no wonder. He was kept busy enough satisfying all of his followers that a masturbation aid was entirely superfluous. It was of course a bit much to suppose he knew what the pocket pussy actually did, or he would never have dared use it in the first place.

Even so, though... She considered arranging for an 'accident' to befall some of his followers so more of his time would be freed and he would have less outlets for his lust, but in the end she had to discard the idea on grounds of it being a bad idea to weaken him, even peripherally, if she wanted him to be ultimately successful in subjugating the Light. But how was she to get him to use it?

Then it burst in on her. He wanted to be stronger, so what if she gave him a little power every time he used the toy? She could explain it as... shit, she didn't have any good explanations. And if she waited for him to discover the benefits himself, who knew how long it would be before he used it again, without any incentives to do so.

Melanoche buried her head in the pillows of the bed she was lounging on. Aaagh, why did it have to be so complicated? Usually if she wanted something, all she had to do was demand it. If only he had never used the pocket pussy in the first place, then she wouldn't have this dilemma.

And it wasn't as if she could just satisfy her needs herself. She'd recently tried masturbating for the first time since she had become a goddess, and while it had felt good, it hadn't held a candle to him, and neither had the dildo she had made modeled after his cock. Well, truth be told, she hadn't actually been brave enough to try putting the dildo inside herself, but that was irrelevant.

She raised her head to glare balefully at the wall. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Melanoche was the goddess of War, ****, and Domination. That a mere mortal, Champion or no, should be the cause of this much disquiet was humiliating even to think about. If only he hadn't chosen Status Effects as one of his Powers, it would have been simple to slip a subtle suggestion into his mind to use the pocket pussy more often. But if she was going to overpower that protection, the suggestion would end up being anything but subtle.

Slipping from the bed, Melanoche started walking towards the door, her usual clothing materializing around her as she went. In truth, she didn't need to use such things as Euclidean geometry or even the concept of walls and doors, but even forty thousand years after ascension, she still felt more comfortable using at least some of the foundational laws of the world in which she had been born.

Carnachias had always been better at manipulation than herself. Perhaps spending some time with her would give her an idea for how to convince their Champion to use her- that is, Carnachias' gift more often without actually seeming to be doing so.

My longest interlude yet, but then I've also got more things happening in far flung places. I've updated the stats chapter (found here) and now I'm going to take the time to read back through my story, editing as I go. I'm also fairly certain I'm going to add a little something something to ...And back again. I've never been quite satisfied with it. I may also partially rewrite some of my earliest chapters, but no promises there. Once that's all done, we move on to the next act, but for now,
Enjoy!