Demon Lord of the Frozen North

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

"The King is dead! Long live the King!"-William Shakespeare

Chapter 1: A Hapless Bride

(A/N: I believe it is worth noting, once again, that the Kurt depicted in this story is much, much different from the show. In this tale, he is a young, haughty yet insecure prince who has just recently ascended the throne, and feels very uncertain about both his appearance and his ability to rule. Kurt is also made more bitter growing up without a mother and father, and has NO IDEA how to deal with people in general, ESPECIALLY women [He's totally clueless on how to be a husband, so lots of comedy there]. XD And in keeping with my series, he retains his mutant form but lacks powers, and Polenicus, the AU version of the Professor, will be the only other cast member to appear in this fic [I'll try to think of some others, but right now I can't make any promises. We'll just have to see, okay? ^^]. Finally, this story is different from "Devil of the Sea" in that it focuses more on angsty and romantic fluff than action scenes. But I will confirm that there will be an EPIC battle in this tale's climax, so don't worry. ^^ One more thing: the flashback part is WAY cooler if you listen to "Here Comes the King" by X Ray Dog while you're reading it!)

Denmark, 1183 A.D, one month before our story begins…

By any stretch of reason, Denmark was cold. The icy waters of the frigid North Sea crashed and broke furiously along its shores, sending towers of foam and spray rocketing skyward amidst the jagged dagger-tips of stone that hugged the coast. Floes of ice and sheets of snow jostled for space in the deep water, and the frost on the crests of seawater resembled the icy head on a mug of ale. The land was even less hospitable, perpetually in the freezing grasp of Father Winter, and the howling shrieks of numbingly cold wind and rain soaked the earth with their hazardous precipitation. The spiraling towers of evergreen and pine soared to the heavens, laden with snow and dangling with icicles, and they bent and swayed in a frenzied dance to the blizzard's onslaught that fateful day.

For it had been proclaimed to all and sundry that a new king had ascended the throne of his father. Regardless of the unbelievably harsh winter weather, all the people who dwelled within the borders of their King made way to be present for the coronation. Obviously, attendance was mandatory for such important occasions, but even so, the social norms of the day frowned on anyone who was remiss enough to shirk such a monumental event for their own selfish reasons. It would not do for a man to be absent when his name was on the proverbial guest list.

So it was a long, long line of humanity that shuffled into the yawning maw of the castle's entrance. The imposing structure, while built for defense, had more in common with a large, fortified city. The outer walls were over ten feet thick, made of gray stone quarried in the surrounding wilderness. Battlements lined the walltops at regular intervals, and these were separated by a series of large, squat towers from which a sentry could see for miles around. Further inside the city, another string of granite defenses provided another fall-back point in case an enemy breached the outer fortifications, and lastly the heaviest defenses of all were concentrated around the royal palace itself. The effect was to create a concentric ring of stone bastions, each more powerful than the last, and this wise strategy had resulted in the successful slaughter of any foolish enough to try their hand at invasion. The people here were a hardy breed, and thousands of loyal subjects lived their lives within its thick stone and mortar walls. Masons and innkeepers, carpenters and cobblers sold their wares alongside the country folk who brought their livestock to market. It was a hubbub of commercial and economic activity, a shining nexus of civilization in a continent racked by famine, disease and war, and such obvious success was a testament to the wisdom of the monarchs who'd ruled this land for over six hundred years. The royal line stretched back far into the mists of legend and folkore, and it was the newest generation of such an esteemed lineage that prepared to take his seat on the throne.

The great stone cathedral in the city center, instantly recognizable from its Gothic architecture, rang its great bell loud and clear to let the world know that a new age was dawning on the most powerful kingdom in all of Denmark, the realm that stretched from the coastal town of Frederikshawn to this great city known as Arthus. The brazen knell echoed through the cobblestone streets as banners snapped and cracked in the wind, and the emblem of the two-headed eagle that signified the royal house seemed to be rejoicing on its background of navy blue.

BONG!

In the palace courtyard, noblemen and peasants alike held their breath for the entrance of the new regent.

BONG!

Within the bowels of the castle, a shadowy figure swirled his elaborate crimson cloak behind him as he walked slowly down the drafty corridor.

BONG!

Two blue, furry hands made the oaken double doors creak, and the Crown Prince faced his people as the snowstorm reached fever pitch. The moaning and screeching winds seemed to be rejoicing as the white-out partially obscured his bizarre-looking features, thereby giving him an even more mysterious air. The new monarch's armor of chain and plate clanked audibly as he slowly sat on a large, elaborate throne carved of expensive dark walnut wood, and two pairs of golden eyes closed momentarily as an elderly, kindly-looking courtier reverently lifted a crown from a pillow of purple silk. The silver band, studded with deep red garnets, had been passed down through the ages, worn by each and every King and Queen who'd ruled here, and now the old man's wrinkled hands shook with emotion as he gently placed the crown on his Lord's blue, furry head.

BONG!

The old one spoke, and his tones were laden with almost paternal pride. "By the grace of God…"

BONG!

"…And with the trust of your people…"

BONG!

"I hereby crown you King Kurtillian Wagnerius I, Lord of Denmark."

BONG! BONG! BONG! BONG!

The elder knelt in deference to his liege. "Long live the King!"

BONG! BONG! BONG! BONG!

All present, men, woman and children alike, followed suit. The masses kneeled like wheat before the scythe. "Long live the King!"

Now…

Catherine of Prydian had never been so scared before in her young life.

She felt her heart catch in her chest as the unconquered walls of Arthus hove into view through the light sheets of snow that caught in her shining brown hair, and the horse she rode whinnied and rolled its head as if mirroring her own anxiety.

Beside her, a column of armored soldiers surrounded her like a sheep amidst a pack of wolves, their halberds and swords glistening in the soft moonlight as they thundered toward the gate. The presence of such men only served to remind Catherine that her entire life had crumbled.

A tear squeezed from her eye. It had only been a week since this new king had invaded the lands of her father, King Desiderius, with all the fury and suddenness of an icy flood. The disastrous campaign had only gotten worse when the young Lord had captured the cities of Vejle and Esbjerg; the loyal men who had opposed their new overlord had been slaughtered mercilessly on the killing fields outside the city walls. This Wagnerius had proceeded to lay siege to the city of Catherine's father, and to her anger and humiliation, the once-proud metropolis of Odense, where the Prydians had ruled since time immemorial, fell in just ten days.

The kingdom that Catherine's ancestors had built now lay in ashes and ruin, her father missing, probably dead. The entire campaign had taken a little over a month, a month marred by blood and fire, and now all of Denmark lay under Wagnerius's banner.

But as terrible as all of this may be, Catherine's problems had multiplied once the new king had made his rule absolute. It was not difficult, as her people were not about to challenge the reign of such a person, but Wagnerius had gone one step further to cement his claim to the former kingdom of Prydian. In a manner typical of most lords of his day, he decided to take the vanquished King's daughter as a bride. This served two purposes: first, as stated, taking Catherine's hand in marriage served to legitimize his rule. And, even more importantly, the presence of a Queen would assure the presence of an heir to take over upon Wagnerius's death.

It was a shrewd political move, one that assuaged the fears of the conquered and satisfied the conquerors. The only one who didn't profit from the deal was, of course, Catherine.

She had no desire to be Queen of this land. While the bride had never met the groom in person, Catherine knew full well how abusive and domineering many monarchs could be. An icy hand of fear gripped her rib cage at the thought of such a cruel man forcing himself upon her. It was not at all unlikely that he would beat her if she failed to please him or produce an heir, preferably a son, and if he were REALLY unstable, a simple mistake could land Catherine on the headsman's block.

The black cloud of misery settled over the poor woman like a heavy coat, and Catherine bit her lip as the iron gate clanked upward to admit them to the city.

The horses' hooves clip-clopped loudly the soldiers steered Catherine through the unfamiliar streets, and her mind unconsciously remembered the tale of Daniel and the lion's den.

The princess did not expect to be as fortunate as Daniel, and Catherine barely contained a sob as the soldiers hailed the walltops of the Royal Palace.

It was a beautiful building, Catherine admitted. Its crenellations and battlements were stylishly ornamented as animals of heraldry, and the Palace's graceful arches and towering spires would have made her smile under any other circumstances. It was a structure that had been well-cared for, protected from the ravages of time, but all thoughts of décor and architecture were dashed as the lead soldier, Lord General Valens, hailed the guard on duty high above.

"It is I!" the scar-faced general called. "We have returned with the Lord's new bride! Admit us, and be quick about it!"

Catherine spared a glance at him. Valens was obviously a career soldier, as evidenced by his marred face and scratched armor. She had no doubt that the brilliant campaign only just past had largely been his brainchild, and it was obvious that the man was very versed in his chosen trade to achieve such a rank. Doubtless Valens had served under Wagnerius's father, and maybe even his grandfather, judging by the lines near his eyes and mouth.

"Stay there!" The sentry shouted back. "We'll open the gate and send a boy to take your horses, sir!"

"And a mug of ale, while you're about it!" Valens snapped. "I've been riding for three days straight, you know!"

"I will see to it, sir!" the other man saluted smartly and disappeared below the walltop.

As if on cue, a small boy of about twelve seemed to materialize beside Catherine's chestnut roan. He tugged his ear respectfully. "I'll be takin' yer horse, if'n you please, miss."

The formal way that he'd addressed her was nothing new. Catherine was a princess, after all. She nodded and smiled kindly at him, despite her fear and grief. There was no need to be angry at such a small lad. "Thank you," she said. "If you give him a carrot, he'll warm up to you right away."

"I will, miss," the boy replied seriously, her gentle tone lost upon him.

Valens dismounted with practiced ease and offered Catherine his hand so as to help her dismount. Being clad in the normal feminine attire of dress and skirt, she had little choice but to comply. The fine woolen garments rustled as the new bride touched the streets of Arthus for the first time, and Valens did his best to smile reassuringly at her. This was difficult, given his fearsome countenance, but Catherine had to admit that Valens, at least, tried to give her some measure of comfort.

The princess let go of his hand as soon as she regained her balance, resisting the urge to let go hastily as if the proffered appendage were a poisonous viper. Her face trembled slightly, mirroring the all-consuming terror she felt, and Catherine's heart beat thunderously in her chest as Valens led her down the corridor.

"Regardless of your…situation," he said. "This entire palace is at your disposal. If you have need for anything at all, Mary will attend you. The King has specifically ordered that you be denied nothing."

"Thank you," Catherine said, but it was forced. "Who is Mary?"

"She is His Majesty's personal chambermaid," Valens said. "She serves the King, and thus, my lady, serves you."

"Aye," a feminine voice, heavy with an almost Scottish brogue, made Catherine turn to glance at the woman who was now walking beside her.

The servant, Mary Macleod, was short in stature, squat and heavily built. Her eyes seemed to twinkle with a permanent merriment, but her face was actually rather intimidating. Laugh lines and crow's feet wrinkled the skin about her quick eyes, and the copper-colored pupils seemed to taken in everything in a glance with a memory sharper than a steel trap. Mary seemed to have a no-nonsense air about her: her mouth was full, her hair streaked with gray, and her hands, while wrinkled, were strong enough to hoist a pail of water over the city walls yet nimble enough to work wonders with needle and thread. A white apron was tied about Mary's waist, ragged at the edges and permanently stained with food and drink, and her beefy, muscular arms smoothed it down in a futile attempt to tame the worn fabric.

The chambermaid patted Catherine's hand with her own while shooing Valens away. "Be off wi' ye, solja boy," she scolded. "Ye'll have the entire palace down wi' gloom afore along!"

Valens snorted and turned on his heel, and Mary's voice became gentler. "Now don' let yer fears get the best o' ye," she chided softly. "Th' King may not be the most affable lad around, but he be a good sort. I minded him e'er since 'e was in diapers, aye, so I know that he'll be doin' right by ye."

"Is that so?" Catherine snorted.

"Aye," Mary nodded sagely. "But see, th' King's not very good wi' people, ye ken? His mother died in childbirth, don't ya know, an' his father died not too long after. Me'n Polenicus, we raised the lad, we did, as best we could, but Lord knows th' King's got troubles not even we can solve."

"Such as?"

Mary tapped her nose. "That be a secret," she winked. "But our King's one of a kind, all right." The chambermaid pushed open the fancy door that led to the regent's personal chambers, and Mary bade Catherine to rest.

"Ye must be tired from all that ridin'," Mary said, with a tone that added she wouldn't take no for an answer. " 'Is Majesty be a bit busy right noo wi' politics an' such, but 'e'll be a long shortly, lass. Gimme a ring if ye need anythin' at all."

With that brisk statement, the formidable Mary Macleod took her leave. Her skirts rustled as she bustled down the hall, and Catherine, overcome with weariness, sank onto the luxurious sheets.

Sleep was instantaneous, and Catherine gained a brief respite from her troubles in the blackness of sleep.

So tired was she, that the young bride didn't notice someone else enter the chamber not long after she'd been abed. A spaded tail thrashed as he closed the door softly, and those golden eyes alighted on her with such intensity that Catherine was roused instantly.

Her mind went blank with fear at the fearsome sight before her.

The King (for it could only be he), was outfitted head to toe in expensive plate armor. His metal boots clanked as he approached the fire, and the mailed gauntlets that covered his hands stretched outward toward the dancing flames. His cloak was rent by sword and dagger, his cuirass scratched and stained with blood, and the heavy helmet atop his shoulders concealed all but those eerie amber pupils that appraised her from within the T-shaped visor.

The scarlet cape fluttered as it was tossed carelessly aside, and the King of all Denmark slowly, ever so slowly, removed the great helm that hid his face.

The shining metal glinted in the firelight, and Kurtillian Wagnerius wiped sweat from his brow as he turned to face her.

Catherine would have screamed, had she had enough wind to do so.

This…man, if he was indeed a man at all, possessed a coat of thin, blue fur all over his body! His ears were pointed like a demon's, and his mouth opened to reveal a set of wicked-looking fangs! An actual tail writhed and squirmed about his ankles like a living thing, and his feet and hands only had two digits apiece! What kind of kingdom was this, for such a monstrosity to sit on the throne?

Any further coherent thought was cut off abruptly as Catherine fainted dead away.

Kurtillian, or Kurt, as he was more commonly known, sighed with exasperation and gazed heavenwards, as if seeking patience there. A blunt finger rubbed the skin between his eyebrows, and Kurt's voice mirrored his frustration.

"Oh, for crying out loud…"

A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYBODY! ^^ I finished opening my presents this morning, and I thought, "What better gift to give my readers than my next story?" I needed to start, too, 'cause I'm really psyched about it and my fingers were itching to crank this first chapter out! Therefore, it is with pride and pleasure that I present the beginning of the final volume of my Historical Kurtty Series! Consider this my present to you all! XD And if you haven't guessed by now, I LOVE REVIEWS! If you have ANY constructive criticism or ideas on how I can make this story better, LET ME KNOW!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque