Technically it wasn't Shakespeare who coined "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," but since it inspired the rest of the Shakespearean Arc, I'm keeping the title :). Firstly inspired by Carrie Underwood's Before He Cheats. First in a series of one-shots, KW of course!

Hell Hath No Fury

I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive,

Carved my name into his leather seats.

I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights,

Smashed a hole in all four tires.

Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats. -Carrie Underwood, Before He Cheats

Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd. -William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

The leather made satisfying snicking sounds as her knife cut through it smoothly. Kel lifted the neatly-cut ends to her face and frowned.

"Too neat."

Flipping the belt knife she held so that the blade was at an angle, she began to shave the ruined reins until they were little more than thin pieces of leather, the shavings scattered all around her feet. She removed the bit and tossed it into a spare barrel of rainwater just outside the tack room. The lamp she had lit, the only source of light in the dark room, flickered as she passed to approach the saddle she sought. She scanned the names on the beaten plates, squinting in the dimness until she found the one she was looking for.

Sgt. Domitan of Masbolle

Lips curving in a humorless smile, Kel heaved the saddle – cinch laid over top – and dumped it unceremoniously on the floor. With her knife and a bottle of ink she had tucked in her belt pouch, she went to work. The black stains that dripped down the soft brown leather, smearing the blue-white trim that denoted his rank in the Own, fed the flame that burned steadily inside her, made her feel partly whole again.

She wasn't sure how long she was there, mutilating Dom's tack and scattering the remains from one end of the tack room to the other, but by the time she'd satisfied her need for revenge, her arms and shoulders were stiff with exertion and a faint glow under the door told her dawn was coming. Packing up her tool kit, she got out her thinner dirk and pried Dom's nameplate off the wall. In its place, she carved the symbol for adulterer. It didn't have any of the magic associated with the mage-stamps on the foreheads of true criminals, but it felt right to expose him for what he was to his fellows.

Kel stood back, surveying her work with a crooked grin that had nothing to do with happiness and everything to do with vengeance. She was about to leave, blowing out the lantern flame behind her, when the door creaked open and a tall, lanky figure stood in the frame, blocking the growing daylight with broad shoulders.

"Hello, Wyldon," she said neutrally. At this point, the anger had left her, leaving her tired and empty; all she wanted was to go to bed.

He walked slowly into the room, dark eyes roving over the damage expressionlessly. Then, sighing, he approached her and laid a large hand on her shoulder.

"Remind me never to make you angry."

This time her smile was more genuine, though her throat felt raw and tight. She swallowed, trying to move the lump lodged there, but it refused to budge; with some alarm, she felt the tell-tale prickle of tears in her eyelids. Not wanting her old district commander to see her crying, Kel turned away, unable to speak.

To her surprise, however, his hand remained on her shoulder, sliding down as both arms snaked around her from behind to pull her close to his chest. She managed one ragged breath before the tears hit full force, and she buried her face in her hands, shaking, as he held her tight.

She wasn't sure how long she cried, but finally the sobs that wracked her body stilled, and she sagged limply against Wyldon's sturdy form. It felt so good to lean against another human being, one who she trusted so completely. Gradually his hold on her loosened, and he moved his hands up and down her arms soothingly. She fished a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her face, willing the puffy redness to disappear. No such luck, she thought ruefully, and turned to face him.

"Thank you."

His mouth pressed into a thin line, though his eyes were tender. "You are most welcome, Keladry. And rest assured, I saw nothing of this." His gesture took in the entire room, the destruction becoming more evident in the growing dawn light.

She sighed, looking at the ground. "I know it was childish, but I just… I couldn't handle it. I thought he loved me." She bit her lip to stop the flow of words that threatened to spill out.

"I believe he did, at one time. But not all men are as honorable as they should be, and others will always suffer for it."

Wyldon didn't try to comfort her any further with words, but let her stand quietly and compose herself. He knew she was more herself when she looked up, eyes bright with curiosity, and asked, "Why are you in the Own's stables?"

One side of his mouth turned up, and he beckoned her out into the hallway, closing the tack room door solidly behind him. In the watery daylight, she could see that his rough linen shirt and canvas breeches were somewhat bloodstained, and sprinkled liberally with bits of hay. "One of Raoul's breeding mares was birthing, and he wasn't available. She was bred with one of my own studs, so I have a particular interest in the foal. Would you care to see?"

Kel felt her heart lighten, and nodded eagerly. "Yes, please."

"Come, then." He led the way down the open lane, horses still asleep in their stalls to either side. At the very end, toward the back of the building, was where the King's Own kept their breeding mares. Although they did not traditionally keep stallions, both the Crown and fief Cavall supplied powerful, swift-footed studs – often of Bazhir descent – to provide the Own with their mounts. It was here that Wyldon led Kel, and she looked around with interest, having rarely been there. The stalls were more spacious, and more private; through Daine, the mares had conveyed their desire for more sequestered places to have their young.

The particular mare who had recently given birth was a beautiful chestnut, with delicate Bazhir lines and white socks echoing a white star splayed directly in the center of her forehead. Her peaceful expression clearly said the whole affair was old hat. The foal, a near-black colt with red undertones in his still-damp coat, suckled busily, slight spread-eagled on long, slender legs. His build suggested the stocky, sturdy frame of a warhorse, though he'd kept his mother's elegant face.

"He's beautiful," Kel whispered, standing at a polite distance while Wyldon closed the stable door behind them.

"Yes, he is. Takes after his father," he said, sounding as proud as if the colt were his own son. "May we take a closer look?" he inquired of the mare, speaking with the air of a courtier to a noblewoman. At her acceding whicker, he approached to run experienced, weathered hands over the colt's haunches. The newborn snorted at the contact, hindquarters twitching, and pulled back from his mother's teat. The reproach in his liquid brown eyes was nearly palpable, and Kel stifled a delighted laugh behind her hand.

"Does he have a name, yet?" she asked, coming forward to extend a hand. The colt sniffed it, and promptly sneezed, nearly falling over; but Wyldon's steady hands on its flanks kept it from pitching face-first into the straw.

"Not yet. Perhaps you would like to do the honors?"

Chewing her lip, Kel knelt before the newborn and regarded his thin, solemn face, the tiny muzzle still smeared with his mother's milk. It would a shame to geld him, she thought. There was such spirit and intelligence in those eyes, looking back at her like they belonged to an old, whiskery philosopher.

"I rather like Socrates," she admitted at last, startling a laugh from him. "What?"

Wyldon shook his head, feeling the colt's legs carefully. "It's just not a very noble name. Belonged to an old philosopher, didn't it?"

"Yes. Sir Myles is quite fond of his work." Kel tickled the colt's bristly chin, grinning. "Yes, Socrates it shall be."

"Good. He's yours."

Kel's mouth dropped open, and she yanked her hand away as if it had been burned. "What?"

This time Wyldon kept his amusement carefully tucked behind a serious face, though she could see the laughter in his eyes. "You never really had the chance to train and rear a horse from foal to adult. You have a very special bond with Peachblossom, but Raoul decided you ought to have a better riding-horse, especially if you take charge of Group Askew."

"How did you know about that?" she demanded, forgetting for an instant that she was his subordinate.

Wyldon raised an eyebrow. "Because Evin Larse offered the position to me first, and I suggested you instead."

"Oh, but sir, you'd make an excellent knight-captain, and Askew is so well-suited to you –"

"That's quite enough, Keladry," he interrupted, forestalling her with a dry smile. "I've already decided. My fief needs me more than the realm does, especially with harvest coming up and no one there to oversee things. Perhaps in the future I'll take a more active role as a knight, but for now I… need a break."

She was reminded forcibly of the death of his wife over the past winter to a particularly savage strain of fever, and trained her eyes back on the horse. The sight of his serious little face reminded her of their original conversation.

"So it was Raoul's idea, that I have this little boy."

"Yes." His reply was too quick, and he colored slightly at her disbelieving glance. "I did suggest it, but he was quick to agree."

"I appreciate the sentiment. But I can't train Socrates – don't laugh – and command Group Askew at the same time," Kel reminded him. "Besides, I don't even know where to begin. I've never trained a horse in my life."

"That is true enough," he conceded, finishing his examination thoughtfully. With another twitch of his brush-like tail, Socrates returned to his feed, and Wyldon levered himself back to his feet. "Askew – and Larse – are not desperate for a commander at the moment. Perhaps if you remain in Corus for the time being, I can assist you."

She regarded his face closely. It was so familiar to her, now, after four years of reporting to him, and another year of close friendship as they served the realm in and around Corus. Sometimes she thought he understood her better than Neal did. And Goddess knew she needed his reliability right now. His stone. The unpredictability of her own anger frightened her, and his steadfastness was a balm on her weary soul.

"I'd like that," Kel said finally, managing a smile. She squeezed his hand with her own, briefly, and looked down at her new colt. "Thank you."

Please review, I'd like to know what you think! I'm hoping no one's getting tired of KW, because needs more KW love and I'm here to supply it! :D