Long Live The Princess

Chapter 4: Return

The castle halls are abandoned when Alun leads them back inside. He hadn't wanted to, at first, but Cassandra had threatened to go back on her own if he didn't take her. Hours in the safe house, isolated from the fight, had done her little good. Her father had been right, of course, when he had declared his decision to stay at the castle and fight. He had been right to send her and Horace away. But it was her home too. It was her crown, her family, and her legacy, too. She needed to know that they were safe. Needed to see that her people were safe.

Of her people there are little left roaming the hallways. Tapestries, paintings, and statues have been torn down. There's traces of blood where blades cut through human skin and the smell of burned wood fills her nostrils. These aren't the halls Cassandra grew up in. These aren't the halls of laughter and games, of hiding behind statues as her father tries to find her, or wandering around in the peaceful silence of the night. Instead, these are halls of fighting. Of hurt. Of pain.

Nothing is left of her home, and yet something about it all seems strangely and painfully familiar. As if Cassandra somehow always knew that the peace wouldn't last.

A cold hand clutches her heart as she takes it all in. The tapestry of her father hunting a boar is ripped in three. The painting of her grandma has lost half of her head. The armour of King Oswald is missing its head, a leg, and both of its hands. Its swords stand straight, proudly piercing two men to the ground. Cassandra doesn't need to see the colours of their uniform or the symbols on their chest to recognise them. She knows the faces. Even if they lie still and lifeless. The white walls of a castle that these men tried to protect are besmirched with dirt and the soft rug she used to walk over barefooted, is hard with dried blood. Even the giant, unmoveable, daunting chandelier lies smashed in pieces on the ground.

The cold hand tightens its grip and for a moment, Cassandra has to stand still. She doesn't close her eyes. Her men - men who died fighting for her - deserve her attention. The princess tries to remain calm, resolute, dignified. But cold shudders are running down her spine. She raises a hand - a trembling hand - to her mouth, trying to keep the sobs in. She has trouble breathing. And yet despite it all, she doesn't feel sadness. Or anger. Or hurt. Only numbness. Only a terrible, horrible, nothing.

Cassandra will later tell herself that it was the shock. That she was in shock and therefore couldn't register her own emotions. That it was a completely, utterly, normal reaction. But at the time, she is almost ashamed at the seeming lack of emotions as her eyes scan the ruined hallways.

Amidst the ruins sits a familiar figure. His distinctive cloak is nowhere in sight, his bow and empty quiver on the ground next to him. Occasionally, a servant or guard will approach him, ask him something, and the figure will answer, reply, give an order. But he doesn't move. He just sits there, as if waiting for something. Or someone.

"Crowley?"

It's Horace who speaks. Just like it's Horace who is keeping her on her feet. The figure looks up and before Cassandra knows it he's run towards them. Or did she run to him? She doesn't know. Doesn't remember. All she remembers, years later still, is the look on his face as their eyes lock.

"Where's my father?" she demands. Crowley swallows and she can tell he's fighting the urge to look away. But he doesn't. He keeps their gazes locked as he answers.

"He's up in his room. But Cassandra..."

Cassandra. Not your highness. Not princess. Cassandra.

Fight, Cassie. Fight.

"Duncan-"

Duncan. Not his majesty. Not king. Duncan.

"- he cannot make this decision. You were the target of this vicious attack. You need to make a decision about what to tell the world about it. And you need to do it now, so I can send the messages and control the rumours before they've left the fief."

His tone is so business-like. So casual. As if this is a day like any other. As if he didn't just avoid taking her to her father.

With one hand, Cassandra maintains her grip on Horace's arm. The other supports her belly. The baby inside it is kicking, but Cassandra ignores the pain that's flaring through her body. She shakes her head resolutely, much like she did hours earlier. She can barely disguise the tremble in her voice, but she fights, and speaks.

"No. No, no, I'm not making any decisions until-"

"Decisions about what?"

It's the sudden sound of Will's voice that finally forces a sob to escape from Cassandra's throat. She knew that Crowley had sent for reinforcements from Redmont. She had also known that those would probably come too late. Still, the sight of Will, and Halt standing next to him, is a comfort to her. As it is to Horace. Still by her side, the knight lets out a shuddering sigh and for a moment, his strength falters and their arms drop. Will jumps forward to help the exhausted knight prevent a paling Cassandra from sinking to the floor. But Halt is focused on Crowley. The older Ranger recognises the look on his friend's face. He's only seen it twice before.

Once, when Crowley had denied him leave to go after Will.

And once, almost three decades ago, during the official statement of Rosalinde's passing. A cold hand clutches Halt's heart as realisation dawns on him.

"Crowley," he says softly, "tell us what happened."

The Commandant obliges.

"The Red Fox Clan managed to infiltrate the Castle. They caught us by surprise. We fought them off. They never reached their target."

"That's... that's good, isn't it? I mean, not the- but definitely the-" Will is struggling to get the words out, but he does. Sweet, kind, optimistic Will, who doesn't know yet. Cassandra doesn't know yet either. But somehow, she does. She can feel it. Halt can, too.

"There's more," the Ranger states. Crowley nods, the movement barely visible. Cassandra's shaking her head and she hears the words almost before they are spoken.

"Duncan's dead."

---

Fight, Cassie. Fight.