III

Draconis Fernier, Captain of the Jörmungandr, Conqueror of the Icy Seas, Blessed by Odin and Thor, Son of the Mighty Elodin stood furiously, his hands gripping the rails of his sturdy ship in a white knuckled grip. His crew walked about doing their work, all of them tentative; aware of their Captain's fury… he was for the lack of a better analogy behaving like a wounded wolf.

"Ay, lad… ye hafta stap yer obsessing." Said his second in command, MacDonague, "That lass ain't bound ter survive very long with that bastard Helios, I reckon you'll be seein' her dead body float up some beach soon enuf unless she gets with a wee bairn soon."

Draconis whipped around furiously, glaring at the older man, "Don you be taking yer anger out at me, lad." Said MacDonague softly, "Ye know I'm jus tellin' the truth." He grunted, Draconis knew his taciturn friend was right and it was highly likely that Hermione was pregnant, the suckling she would carry would be his and Draconis vowed that no child of his would grow up in that bastard Helios's home.

"Dun do it lad, ay, I see it in yer eyes. Forget the lass, dun even think about it."

"If she is carrying my child, Mac… I cannot let her stay with Helios."

"Ye canna think that way, lad… and even if she's carrying a bairn, you reckon its yours? After all the lass did marry Helios."

"They aren't married yet." He said.

"Ay, dun ye be getting carried away now, she might not be pregnant at all, my friend. Are ye willin' ter risk it? Jörmungandr, yer father's legacy, yer legacy, the lives of yer men… all for a woman? That's not the Draconis I know, lad…. Pull yer head outta yer arse and think straight. Helios may be a bastard but he is powerful. I know that Sea Farers don' follow any one man's rules but come now, is a mere woman worth falling out of the favor of sucha powerful man, lad? And if he gets in a fury, he'll hunt ya down and you won't stand a chance, not this side of world."

"And what if she is!" he snarled, whipping around, "What then Mac, I let her die and let my child be raised by some sick, psychopathic fuck?"

"We're docked 'ere for another two days, lad. Find her, meet her, ask her if she is carrying and then make yer decisions. Dun ye be goin' in blind."

"I will get her Mac, mark my words. I will get her. Pregnant or not."

"Yer makin' a mistake lad, that lass ain't gonna bring ye nothin' but bad storms an' set ye unmoored." Said the older man grimly, his deep voice cryptic.

Draconis just turned around and walked away, his head swimming with both Mac's words and the thoughts of Hermione.

….

She was used to luxury, even though she was the princess of poor kingdom she was used to luxury but the outright opulence of Helios's court embarrassed her. Everything was over the top and exaggerated; food and drink was in abundance flowing indiscriminately, the men were loud and boisterous and the women were cold, haughty and judgmental. Following the example of Queen Isabella they were all dressed head to toe in restricting black silk with wooden or ivory rosaries around their pale throats, from behind their fans their eyes followed each of Hermione's movements, judging and finding her lacking.

They had been married in true Christian style and Hermione was having what felt like an out of body experience, she was so detached from all the festivities that all she could do was plaster a fake smile on her face and pretend to enjoy the festivities held in honor of their marriage. Hermione's own things that she had brought with her from Illyria were carefully hidden from Helios's staff who were on a mission to 'civilize' her. Hermione had begun to notice small articles of either clothing or jewelry that were going missing, later on she had found her clothes shredded and her jewelry broken.

The message was clear, her beliefs or culture had no place in this kingdom but more than anything she was dreading the night that was to come. All day long Hermione had noticed the strange man, Marco staring at her. Tendrils of fear spiraled up her spine, and his chilling gaze made the fine hair on the back of her hand stand in fear.

Maybe it was what the old crones called 'women's intuition' but Hermione could feel the wrongness of this place, the evil that festered within its walls hidden in euphemisms, lies and secrets , she could feel it and it scared her.

In the Imperial world there is nothing more dangerous than having no allies and Hermione had none, escaping had never crossed her mind because she knew she couldn't, her people would suffer and if that wasn't enough of a reason to stay she knew that without external help the walls of the Citadel which housed the Royal Family were impregnable but now in the midst of the wild festivity Hermione felt a sudden urge to flee but she pushed it down with the sheer force of will and the tenacity of lion hunting its prey, but it was hard for her. Where in her own land she could have voiced her thoughts and fears here she knew that opening her mouth and saying something wrong or offensive could cause her death or worse...

Helios sipped the fine, tart wine from the gold goblet at his side. The young woman beside him was stiff and her hand gripped the table in a white-knuckled grip, unfortunately Helios's compassion and sympathy was seared, withered into a dried husk of hate. He had nothing against this woman personally… hell she would have made a fine friend had she been male but some people just want to see the world burn and he was one of those few.

Women… he thought with contempt were all that was wrong and corrupt with the world. Years ago a woman had hurt him, scarred him forever, warping his perceptions in a way that could never be undone and now all these other …substitutes would pay the price for her mistakes. He wanted to see Marco hurt her, thrust into her like a wild rutting animal with no control, he wanted to see her face contort with pain, fear and mind-numbing agony, he wanted her to cower before him, he wanted her crushed… will, soul and body. And when he was done… he would kill her, squeeze the life out of her and watch as the breath left her body and she went limp, he wanted her to know who had delivered her to her rightful place beside Satan. And by God he was going to enjoy it.

Covertly he studied his own hands, from the sleeves of his robe the barest hint of his own scars showed rising up against his skin, white, ugly and distinctive.

He would kill her.

A manic look had appeared in the King's eyes, Marco knew it was almost time to swoop in and catch his prey, like a hawk; his cold blue eyes studied the young woman seated beside the monarch. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and tasted the blood gathered at the chapped edges, his hand crept towards the fine, jeweled dagger in its ivory case that rested on his hip, he could almost hear himself unsheathing her, it's fine silver blade drawing a line of blood in its wake as it made patterns on soft, white female skin.

It was time.

…..

Had a bit of a writer's block lately. I'm glad to be back :D leave me nice, long reviews telling me what you think of what is to come. Expect a longer and slightly gory chapter after this one

….