Wine Drops

AN: I won't even mention how ashamed I am… So I'll completely ignore it.

I'm doing something I think hasn't been done before: I'm going to include a peerage system to Araluen and a few Game of Thrones influences. It took me quite a long time to iron this all out in my head — creating a goddamn map, the other thirty-eight fiefs and rulers (my map of Araluen looks like it has chickenpox, haha), their names, researching how a peerage system works (Ugh America…), the ranks, etc. — but now that I have, I've got this going on.

The first part is pretty boring but it introduces important characters! I'd like to keep this as realistic as possible, so the first part is essential to the struggles in being Crowley and having to deal with pompous noblemen (and women!) when somebody's been murdered. The second part... well…

There will be multiple point-of-views throughout the story, multiple ones per chapter, and not always fun to read (or write). But just bear with me on this, I'm trying my hardest.

And Elfpen, if you're reading this… ;_; I'm sorry I didn't ask you to edit.

Everybody else enjoy! It's taken three years to get chapter one out!

-confetti-

"With every Choice,
there is an Echo.
With each Act,
we change the World."
-Sandy Lamb
BioShock

Chapter 1
"Questions, Questions, So Many Questions."

It was the evening of Lord Elrin Rickard's funeral. The man was, in Crowley's personal opinion, a disgusting slob who was more careless with his finances than his appearance. And as far as he knew, an abusive drunk and better off dead. It was a tradition for Crowley to escort the insipid fool to his apartment once a month when he'd been too drunk otherwise. Only his family name saved his social standing, but now dead — killed — the whisperings and scorn poked through the woodworkings like termites.

Even from close friends. How typical.

Crowley was not sure if even Lady Rickard — Adwina, he believed her name to be — was relieved or horrified at her husband's death.

But it mattered little how well-liked Elrin was amongst his peers. He was a man with a title who'd been outright murdered. Shocking, yes, but when news spread that the King had been wounded in the attack as well, calls for public execution were nearly unbearable to stifle.

If only other news could spread so efficiently, Crowley brooded, as he refrained from tapping his fingers on the table. A droning voice from one of the other lords was soothing a stressful knot at the back of his neck. Restless nights were amounting to a never ending battle against sleep, even (especially) at this High Council meeting.

Orange evening sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows high above them. It gave the polished pine table an almost ethereal glow, the combined wood and marble of the room a dramatic flourish. Ivy hung from the ceiling in tendrils and cast shadows that swayed dozens of feet above. The torches had already been lit, including the enormous candle chandelier above the half-empty table. It was completely audacious, a remnant of King Therald ten years before, and one of the nine preserved rooms in the castle that bespoke of an earlier king.

He supposed he was glad nothing had been gilded… or worse.

Encrusted.

Blinking, he refocused his attention to hear the ending of Lord Tyret's announcement.

"... Houses Branden and Sansell have threatened a storming of the castle dungeon if actions are not partaken."

Crowley nearly rolled his eyes. Oh, the posturing. Everybody knew of the small unrest that belied the two houses and the crown. On more than one occasion both had been evicted from the capital, only for a marriage to invite them back in. The Rickard's were intertwined with them somehow, making the threats serious but harmless.

Nonetheless, ire rose through the council.

"Since when do we take into consideration threats from the Brandens and Sansells? Might as well invite a peasant to the council meetings!"

Crowley agreed, but winced at the metaphor. Lord Hagor, a rather young and brash individual, was popular for his idiocy. Crowley both despised and gained great entertainment from his presence.

A slam against the table broke the arguing voices.

"These people that are threatening are Araluens: influential ones that can very well rally the people to join in a siege! They should be immediately banished from the capital for suggesting incompetence of the High Council!"

Crowley begged to differ but held his tongue. The common folk would sooner flay any opposers than rebel against their beloved king. As for the banishment, well…

As if summoned by his thoughts, King Duncan spoke and instantly quieted the room.

"Carlten is somewhat correct." Oh how Crowley fought to keep his smile. It wasn't often that Duncan lied to appease the lords and ladies — 'It upsets my delicate sensibilities, Crowley, stop laughing.' — and in this instance Crowley knew he was lying: his fingertips were white as they pressed against the table.

He continued talking, much to Crowley's amusement. "We cannot be arrogant enough to overlook such rebellious intent. I want an audience with the two Lords later tonight arranged. Any other courageous declarations of storming my castle will result in detainment. Further punishment will be decided after I have met with the lords." An approved hum and the scratching of a quill filled the silence, the royal secretary hurriedly writing out a summonings in the back of the room.

Crowley caught and held Duncan's eyes. The King cleared his throat. "Now, Commandant, would you be so kind as to inform me what I will be telling them?"

All eyes turned to Crowley. Standing, knowing he'd have to project sure body language — it most certainly didn't matter that he was as tall as an adolescent — he spoke with an authoritative voice that he hoped matched the gray in his hair.

"The killer is still unconscious, however there are a series of arrangements pertaining to the incident that are equally pressing to address." There, he'd gathered their attention. "Firstly, after examining the situation with many of the retired Rangers in the castle, we have come to the conclusion that the target was most definitely not the King."

Carlten, often the voice of stubbornness in these council meetings, interrupted. "And how do you all know that? The assassin is unconscious and unable to confess, you said so yourself."

There were few people Crowley respected at these council meetings. King Duncan, a close friend of his, was an obvious choice — but Lord Carlten was another. Carlten, though holding the Ranger Corps in high regard, was a man of his own intelligence and suspicions. He was middle-aged with a receding hairline and a set of well-groomed sideburns. His eyes were a deep brown that knew of every loophole in every system and his tall frame often dwarfed others.

At the moment, however, Crowley wanted to throw his saxe knife in the man's face.

He sighed instead. "We found it more than coincidental that the boy was able to kill Lord Elrin with such accuracy and not the King as well… if you'll beg such talk, Your Majesty."

Crowley almost, almost rolled his eyes.

The King nodded and gestured to hurry up.

He did. "In fact, after perusing his person we found that the throwing knives were the only weapons he possessed. And two of the three were wasted on a bottle and goblet of wine."

Hagor, bless the imbecile, interrupted. "That's easy, in his haste he missed his main target."

If one more person interrupts me again...

Crowley raised a finger and smoothly lied. "That was what we originally thought, as well, if we're assuming the knife to kill His Majesty had instead hit his goblet. But why the wine bottle? It was a fair amount of distance away from the King. If he did, in fact, intend to kill His Majesty as well, why did he waste his knife on the wine bottle and not His Majesty's neck? And why did Elrin get killed at all? That trail of thought makes little sense, especially since the leftover wine was tested to be poisoned."

Most of the lords jerked at the news, pondering over what such a thing meant. Duncan, at the end of the table, rubbed his bandaged forearm, where the knife had knocked the glass goblet from his fingers and pierced through his arm. The various cuts littering his hands were visible to all. His pale eyebrows were drawn together and his mouth pursed.

"Are you quite certain?"

Crowley nodded "Yes. Waltar had what little was left of the wine — and the various wines that were to be served afterwards — tested. All the rats that consumed the wine from that particular bottle were dead within the half-hour. He suspects cyanide."

There was a tiny bit of stunned silence that Crowley would congratulate himself on later. Rendering the men of the council — even as small as it was now — speechless was a rare occurrence.

Lord Mikhail, a bald man with a set of sly green eyes, seemed to know of every rumor in the castle and country and was quite possibly the most dangerous man Crowley knew. More than once, the Ranger Commandant had approached the Earl to confirm a rumor or two before launching an investigation. Crowley distrusted him greatly but respected his ability to know which gossip was worthwhile and which came at a high price.

It was him that spoke next, a raised eyebrow accompanying.

"So does this make our would-be assassin a savior?"

Crowley frowned, the question having grated him for the past few days. "I haven't the slightest idea to his motives, yet. At the moment, however... yes."

More squabbling, this time one man at a time. Which was impressive, given the two dozen present.

"That doesn't change the fact that he potentially crippled our King and killed Lord Elrin! That is more than enough for a fair plea towards an execution order."

A chuckle, "Not to mention he injured a girl of the castle's kitchen..."

"He did intrude upon royal grounds, as well."

"None of the people will believe this, you do know. And even if they did, the boy grievously injured our King —!"

"Grievously?"

A silence blanketed over the table from Duncan's sputter. Crowley fought the oncoming smile, just managing to stifle a laugh, and had to look down at the table to hide his smirk.

"Good heavens, I did not realize I was bedridden and fatally wounded. Why, if that were the case, somebody please inform my daughter that she is to be coronated."

Lord Hagor looked properly chastised for his exaggeration and was red with embarrassment. "I only meant, Your Majesty, that —"

Duncan waved his hand. "It does not matter. What does matter, is that a boy, whether he intended to or not, saved my life. Yes, I was grievously —" A look at Hagor. "— injured in the process, but I'd take a knife to the arm than blood foaming at my mouth."

Lord Mikhail rubbed his beard. "You are grateful for his actions? He killed one of your men at your lunch table and undeniably injured yourself and a servant of your kitchens. In any other situation, an execution would be the proper form of response."

Lord Tyret, a man twice as old as Crowley, shakily countered with a strength of indifference that only comes from such an age. "And yet this is hardly a proper situation. Lord Elrin's death is a double-edged blessing; the man was a fool and an embarrassment to the court. His actions have more than once created unnecessary problems, but his absence will be enough to incite the other lords and ladies into calling for an execution. I propose instead of focusing on the aftermath of his death, that we focus on why he was killed." The elderly man finished his speech with a cough and settled to catch his breath.

Crowley's heart gave a triumphant thud. Despite Viscount Tyret ruling one of the lesser fiefs, his knowledge was a coveted and well-respected source of information. With him voting for an investigation, the others would be hard-pressed to ignore such a decision.

One of the Duchesses, a woman with graying blonde hair and a hooked nose — Her Grace Brewster, Crowley noted with growing satisfaction — turned towards Duncan. "Lord Tyret has proven a very good point. The boy knows about and prevents a bottle of poisoned wine from reaching your lips... and then kills Elrin? If I'm going to be so bold, I'd say it's too much coincidence to ignore."

Lord Carlten's smirk could be felt by everyone. "You are suggesting, Your Grace, that the late Lord Elrin was involved in this plot somehow?"

Before she could answer, the Duke of Carson Fief — a man with ink black hair — came to her defense. "I can tell by the look in your eye that you are in agreeance. As are most of us here. Her Grace simply voiced what we were all in accordance on."

Though not a supporter of Elrin, Mikhail looked faintly surprised. "So a boy comes in, murders a Marquess — not a small crime, if I may remind everybody — and now he's being proclaimed a hero for killing a trusted man of the King's court, all because we suspect said-Marquess to have had a hand in attempting the King's murder? It sounds very far fetched and something of a minstrel's song. Especially considering Lord Elrin's before-mentioned unsightly behavior accounted for nothing serious."

The youngest at the table, Lord Hagor, jumped onto the Earl's reasoning. "This suspicion is all news to me. I didn't have such assumptions on Lord Elrin's person before this council. Even his surroundings garner no significance. It was a luncheon for the Marquesses and Marchionesses of the kingdom, which, if I recall, happen once a month. Elrin had at any point the opportunity to kill our King if he so wanted." He nervously glanced at Duncan. "My apologies, Your Majesty."

It was probably the most infuriating and most intelligent detail the young Viscount had ever suggested.

The King was impressed as well. There was a moment's hesitation, the likes of which Duchess Brewster took advantage of.

"I, for one, agree with an investigation. The circumstances are far too unusual to not launch one. And if Lord Elrin is innocent of such crimes, then no evidence will come forth. An investigation will also prove if the boy was acting alone or not. Who's to say Lord Elrin's family is not at risk for whatever scheme is unfolding?"

It was a sway in the conversation Crowley needed and eagerly jumped. Crowley wanted to be back in his apartment and sleeping before nightfall. "Another factor, Your Majesty, is that the boy comes not from Araluen. His clothing and coloring are distinctively mainland and it makes a fair chance that he will not speak the commontongue. If an investigation is approved, myself and a fellow Ranger who speaks a fair bit of the mainland languages, will be on the case. As well as any of the retired Rangers in the castle who you deem essential."

Instantly a gleam shined in Duncan's expression. "And which Ranger is it that speaks a 'fair bit of the mainland languages'?"

Crowley couldn't help his raised eyebrow. "I can request for Ranger Halt's presence at the castle. He could be here within a week." He also couldn't help shifting his weight. His back was beginning to ache from standing for so long.

There was a silence in which everyone pondered on Ranger Halt's integrity. The silence did not last long.

"Well, there you have it!" The Duke of Carson exclaimed, "Ranger Halt is a man nobody can deny is of utmost morality. I fully trust the both of them to handle a case such as this with the delicacy it needs."

Oh hell, Crowley thought, as he watched the many nods and agreeable dispositions. He would need a whole keg of ale before sleeping — for one could call Halt many things, but delicate and moral weren't two of them. If only there was someone else Crowley could trust to handle such a scandalous and difficult task with... But, sadly, there wasn't.

Even the skeptical Lord Mikhail sighed and relinquished his grip as devil's advocate. "I agree. Ranger Halt and yourself, Commandant, is what brought the Ranger Corps back to its respected intelligence. I call in favor for an investigation as well."

"Yet we are only a small portion of the High Council. We must wait for the others to arrive before making a decision such as this." Carlten sighed and rubbed his forehead. "But I, too, must agree. Something has to be looked-into and since the boy is, as of yet, still unconscious..." He gestured to the air in front of him.

King Duncan rubbed his temples. A young girl — definitely not the same as before — came to refill his cup of cinnamon tea and the smell wafted over the table. Crowley nearly gagged, having far too much of a coffee addiction to appreciate the bitter drink.

As he set his cup down, the King clasped his hands and looked around. A fair half of the usual council dotted the table, each one looking on with a fair bit of trepidation and concern.

"No. It will take at least another two weeks for those of the southern fiefs to reach the Capital, and that is a span of time too long." He made eye contact with each of the members of the room, and it was in that moment Crowley remembered why Duncan was such a popular young king.

"Though I am king, I like to think of myself as a fair listener. I have heard what you have all had to say. I'm not denying the possibility of an investigation, but I am not blessing one, either. We will wait for seven more lords or ladies to appear, making a two-thirds majority, before we contemplate such a decision in its finality."

There was a tension in the air that spoke of dread. Crowley could see in the shoulders and faces the stress of yet another council meeting. He could see arguments and counterarguments charging behind their eyes. Crowley sat back in his chair smoothly and watched his friend do what he did best: manipulate his noblemen and women.

"Elrin's death was tragic. But with the circumstances as they are, and no other leads or suggestions as to why such a heinous act was committed, we have no other options. I would like to appeal to the half of you here to consider an investigation. I like to know what is happening in my kingdom and castle. And at this moment there is a mystery under my roof that unsettles me deeply.

"For the safety of you and the nobility that are arriving within the next few weeks, I would suggest having a double-up on guards. Regarding the people of Araluen, we shall wait before distributing such news. We don't need more outlandish rumors being spread, especially such a complex one as this."

The King of Araluen leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

There was another drag of silence that Crowley was very unused to. It was eerie to him, how quiet the lords and ladies were in the face of such a decision. Perhaps it was the absence of their peers or Duncan's injury that brought them to such timidity. Or the bandages on their King's arm.

With nothing being said, Duncan gestured to his secretary. "I need to see Lady Rickard and speak with her before the Brandens and Sansells arrive. It is only fair that she be aware of this impending investigation."

"Lord Elrin's family is taking a holiday into the countryside. They left four days ago, with Elrin supposing to join them yesterday. No doubt they've heard of his death and funeral and are on the return."

Well. A ripple in the council as they all turned to Lord Mikhail in various degrees of apprehension. That was a bit of news Crowley was absolutely unaware of. He crudely studied the man's pale face and wondered when, exactly, the Earl was going to bequeath such information. And how the Rickards' departure had slipped beneath his — a Ranger's! — notice.

"Then," Duncan tentatively continued, "I suggest their apartment to be cordoned and temporary housing provided for their return. No doubt they could accidentally tamper with evidence, if an investigation is to be pursued. I want Lady Rickard immediately brought to me upon her arrival. If nothing else is to be said, I'd appreciate having a small bit of rest before I'm to have further company."

A chorus of 'Of course, Your Majesty's followed soon after as the scattered council rose to leave.

"Crowley?"

The Ranger turned, having been halfway to the main doors. Others stopped to listen as well and Crowley took careful note as to who.

"I want to be instantly notified when the boy awakes and when Ranger Halt rides into my fief."

With a sarcastic smirk that really shouldn't have been on his face, Crowley called, "Why of course, Your Majesty," and strode out the double doors.

Duncan's tired eyes pierced him from across the room, even over his cup of tea.

After everybody dispersed, the most powerful man in the country took a minute to wonder at just how pleased Crowley looked. For all his stoic training, Duncan could still read him like they were young children. He knew the man must be preening. He thought maybe he would be, too, if his arguments had been argued for him — which, of course, never happened. The damn council had practically jumped at the possibility of a treacherous scandal!

He rolled his eyes. Any shred of excitement was pounced on like a kitten. Bringing the hot tea once more to his mouth, he winced at the bitter taste and the resonating throb in his forearm. The delicate glass cup made an equally delicate sound as he set it back on its matching saucer.

How badly did he want clarity to the madness around him? His curiosity was inevitably piqued, which he knew Crowley was hoping for. But was he willing to vouch for somebody who murdered one of his own men? Just for answers that may or may not lead to something more? Mikhail's reproachful voice echoed in his mind and his frown deepened. The whole plot did sound something of a minstrel's song. One he would find in Cassie's fairytale books.

He scrubbed his face once more and tried to will confidence through his hands and into his heart and brain. If his curiosity was misplaced, and he did provide temporary amnesty to the child — assassin, he had to remind himself — then he would be forever guilted by an unjust decision and a dead Marquess that would no doubt haunt him.

But if he was right and, through a decision of the council, was forced to execute his savior, he knew he would be equally tortured by the possibilities and what ifs.

He supposed, being King and all, he could just order a secret investigation...

But with that thought, Duncan's mind cast to just what secret investigations resulted in, and nausea curled in his stomach. He remembered with vividness the interrupted council meeting, the stuttering whisper in his ear, and the blood pooling across pillows and fur…

He shook his head and groaned into his hands. He could not unearth such thoughts now else he'd be irritable and likely to have the lords beheaded for looking at him funny. Which was an entertaining thought considering Lord Sansell had somewhat of a lazy eye…

His mood lifted somewhat at the thought. With a little less than an hour before two of the most imbecilic men in Araluen arrived in his throne room, he decided to see to his daughter's shenanigans. He had to prepare for their idiocy somehow.

His tea was lukewarm by the time he drank from it again.

The boy awoke in a cell of swords and screams.

Of course, there was no battle to the death happening in the cramped stone room. Instead of the bright, dusty air of Vizeno and the colorful carnevale, his eyes opened to darkness.

It was blinding.

Eyelids stretching as far as they could, he panted through his pounding heart and tried to regain a semblance of awareness. His head ached, his arms and legs burned, and his mouth felt drier than the Impassible Desert. It took such a massive effort not to groan in pain, but a small grunt slipped through.

Almost immediately there was blessed orange light to his left, and a helmeted face glittered through black iron bars.

The man's deep voice should have startled him. Instead all he could do was squint through blurry vision. The man asked him something he was sure was in a different language, but he couldn't be too sure with such addled thoughts. A loud clanging followed the ensuing silence and caused pain to explode behind his forehead. The voice came again, angrier.

This time he groaned at the intense pain. His eyes felt as if they were going to pop out from the building pressure. He closed them. There was no change in the color — or pressure — and he scrunched his face to make sure his eyes were actually closed.

What had happened to him? Where was he? Sluggish memories of a long boat ride and cold, dirty villages slung through his brain. The pain dulled to a point where he could think somewhat clearly.

After a moment of silence, he gathered that the loud-helmet-man had finally left. He couldn't hear the footsteps and worried at his state of mind that he couldn't hear an armored, fully-grown man walk away.

He wasn't sure how much later it was when the light came forward once more. He had managed to remember the mission, Entonio's words of advice, and falling off the wooden support beam. He knew there had been one of those Rangermen at the luncheon. His fingers twitched when a particular throb of pain seared above his eyebrow. Had he succeeded? He hoped this pain was worth it and he'd managed to kill the Templare bastard.

A grating instead of a voice accompanied the light. The black iron bars moved and the light spilled further into the room. A small man entered, barely taller than himself, and the light from the burning torch showed light-colored hair and an oval face.

The cell was small enough so that the man extended the torch and lit one of the sconces on the opposite wall. Light slowly bloomed through the darkness, enough for the boy to see that he had been dressed in a loose nightgown while unconscious, that he was shackled — wrists and thighs, how clever — to the floor, and that the man before him was the Rangerman from the luncheon.

His head pounded and his eyes blurred.

The man spoke and this time he was positive it was in a different language. A figure came up behind the Rangerman and set something metal on the floor. The smell of wood and smoke slowly penetrated his clouded mind. He watched as the man carefully dragged a metal tray across the ground — dannato, so much noise — and crouched beside him. The torch was propped against the adjacent wall and out of reach.

He winced in pain when the man asked something he couldn't understand. After a beat of silence, where he guessed he was supposed to have replied — he could barely focus on the man's face let alone form coherent thoughts — the man sighed and picked something off the tray.

A smooth cup was pushed against his lips and water poured over his mouth. The boy jerked and madly grabbed for it, his wrist shackles tugging on the floor and cutting into his wrists. The cup was pulled away with an accompanied "No," — finally something he understood — and a barrage of other words.

He didn't care. The water felt so, so good and already the ache in his head was lessening. The cup returned and this time he allowed the man to continue with only a twitch of his fingers. When the last of the water dripped into his mouth, he leaned his head against the wall and tried to subdue another intense wave of pain.

The man spoke again and he cracked an eye open. After a moment, the man sighed and said something else. The accent was poor, but he knew Gallican when he heard it.

It was a shame he couldn't speak it.

He slowly shook his head. After a series of different questions, punctuated with more drinks of water, the man finally reached Toscan and he smiled. His tongue was still swollen, his eyes were heavy, and his hands and feet were numb.

But he opened his mouth and forced his parched throat to speak, all the same.

"Is... your... king... alive?"

The man just stared at him with a frown. He was confused for a moment, wondering why there was no reply, when his question was answered.

"Toscan throw no. Pigeon."

In his confused mind, the boy could only stare dumbfounded as the man searched his face for... for something. He wondered at how disgusting he looked, for a brief second, before the pounding in his head overtook his thoughts and he had to close his eyes.

There was light shuffling. Another sigh. The metal tray and items were picked up, scraping across the floor and startling him into opening his eyes. Expecting to see the tray flying at his face, he was faintly surprised and greatly relieved that the Rangerman had turned around. The light and heat from the torch faded as he passed through the gate. A few words were exchanged in the strange language after the shrieking of the closing door.

Even in his pain-filled mind, the boy couldn't help scoffing. Of course there was a damn guard. It was probably the same stronzo from before. The pounding in his head seemed to increase tenfold at the reminder of loud, angry voice.

The bright light faded entirely. His ears were ringing too much to fully hear the fading footsteps but wished he had been left some water. He quickly realized how pointless that would be if he couldn't even scratch his own neck.

When the guard checked on the boy ten minutes later, under Crowley's careful instruction, the deadly assassin was fast asleep with his head resting awkwardly on the wall and a faint line of drool on his cheek.

AN: If you're not royalty or a Duke/Duchess, you're called a Lord or a Lady.

If you're me, you use a lot of em-dashes in your writing.

... And take three years to update with a mediocre chapter.

-crying-

GtG