Wanted this one to sound more dangerous and foreboding but... Anyway, this is how my Logan always turns out: doing silly things seriously. May be considered slightly spoiler-ish to those who haven't launched the rebellion yet. Not too much really. Enjoy!

It was risky, Logan knew, but he also knew his beloved kingdom would fall if he didn't try. A war was coming, one that required a great effort and even greater funds. Currently, there was neither. The citizens didn't even realise their lives were in danger, threatened by a strange foe that lurked in the shadows, that crept upon them with every passing moment. An enemy that promised a fate worse than death. They would be devoured, inside out.

That day, looking at the royal treasury - nothing more than a few stacks of gold, easily gained by selling a few trinkets, and easily lost buying the same - he had resolved to do something. It was too much, leading his people into a future cloaked in darkness, himself tortured by that knowledge. He was hated by the people, but they weren't better off for it. And yet, if he could save them, he didn't care if his became the most abhorred face on earth. Lives of thousands were more important than that. That day, he determined in himself to rescue Albion. The first step was a visit to the treasury.

His assistant, a young woman who seemed more interested in his associates - specifically Reaver - than any official business, followed him there. She watched him curiously as he scooped up handfuls of gold, putting it into one large bag. The plain canvas material bulged and swallowed up the clinks of the coins. He ignored the gaze, which felt oppressive and judgmental. He would spare her life, whether Benjamina knew it or not, and he just hoped his efforts wouldn't be wasted on her. She was still young and had so much more to experience. That thought steadied his apprehension.

Swinging the bag over his shoulder, and wincing as it struck painfully with his thin back, he pushed past the female without another look. The king didn't know what he'd see in her expression, but as he was, any look might stop him. He needed to do this, ignoring what his nerves told him. This was quite literally a matter of life and death. If only his life had to be sacrificed in the end, then he wouldn't have failed and this would all be worth it.

The second stop was the servants' quarters. He brushed by the guards with a lowered head, ignoring their greetings, not looking up until after the door had securely shut behind him. It was a small room he stood in, beds cramped together making it look even more so. Clothes were strewn about, a river of them running between the two rows of beds. There wasn't sufficient storage for them, he realised.

His heart squeezed painfully at that. Oh, the things he could've and would've provided them had the time been more opportune. If there were not death looming over their heads... But his hope was strong that he could give them such things after. He might never redeem himself but at least his people would be able to hope for a future.

After he had dressed himself in a few of the articles of cloth he found, the poor material scratching maliciously at his skin, he went to the kitchen. His head ducked again, shuffling through as discreetly as possible. He fingered a few treats just laid out, before pocketing them or shoving them into a second sack. The exit came none too quickly.

Next, Logan grabbed a carriage. He chose the plainest one he could find amidst grandeur, gaudy, and intricate transports. It would be easier to slip away like that. The outside was beaten up wood, boards splintering and rotting. The wheels were mismatched and wobbly. All the seats seemed to have been confronted by an irritated balverine. The only horse that didn't seen odd pulling it was an old mare who wheezed and snapped at air, sometimes getting its own mane between its teeth. Logan frowned.

Every ounce of royal pride was telling him this wasn't suitable, that he could just as easily get to his destination in one of the safer vehicles. Nevertheless, he steeled himself. The place he was going had no use for pride. This was the humbling experience he needed in preparation for the inevitable wave of self-hatred and indignation.

It took him a week to arrive at his destination. The horse had died right outside the first town, and one more had to be purchased because of it. The bag of money rested a little lighter against his hip. The new animal wasn't much better the last, its tongue always lolling out. It seemed to also have a case of wanderlust, as any time Logan didn't have his eye on it, it would stray from the path. Usually it found him in dark forests, branches crunching ominously, the air still with tension, a panting breath right by his ear and then gone the next moment.

After a day, they made it back on the road, himself sporting a few new injuries, the horse seeming no more skittish than before. The bag lost a bit more weight, its contents going towards bandages and salve. A map was also procured, with the purpose of making the trip shorter and less dangerous. Time from then on when more smoothly. Hardly had any time seemed to pass when he found himself nearly at his journey's end.

He lowered himself from the carriage, taking a few stumbled steps. His head swam from a lack of proper nutrition. A few steadier steps brought his feet to stand upon a dilapidated bridge. Stones were scattered, chunks of the bridge were entirely gone, and he fancied he could see the whole structure sway in the wind. He wrung his hands and moved on.

Crowds of people milled about past the gates. The sudden amount of people, after a week spent in company of a solitary horse, felt stifling. The scents mixed themselves into a strange cocktail and choked him. Eyes seem to pierce him, reminding him of his assistant. All these people - plebeian or not - were people that would cease to exist if he did not do something. They were remnants of the old monarch, a piece of him, and parts of the future.

As his feet carried him farther, a vision replayed in the king's head. It was the vision Theresa had shown him. Albion being swallowed up by manifested darkness; Albion erased from its own map; Albion and its people lost forever. His Albion...

By the time he came to himself again, the bag of coins was already on the table. The last of his kingdom's riches, all wrapped in a sack. He was being examined, probed, stared at expectantly by the man behind the table. He waved a hand vaguely, indicating something which the man understood. He slid a slip of paper across the paper.

Logan took it, not even glancing at it, and kept his eyes down. All around was a shifty feeling, a tension and dread. There was a sticky smell of sweat, something that clung to his own skin. The people around him became nothing more than a savage, raw ball of emotion. Greed, despair, hunger, anger - manners so foul and human swell up amongst the crowd. He joined them.

As panic, anxiety, and regret welled up in his stomach, he was jostled by the neighbouring people. It only wedged him further into the crowd. There was a faint buzzing, probably much louder if it wasn't competing with the roaring in his ears. He could recognise that they were words but couldn't understand them. He just kept his eye on the forms racing across the field. A chant rose in his throat, coated with bile and indistinct. And suddenly the noise broke through the static thundering in his ears.

"The winner is the Feathered Avenger!"

Logan gulped, looking down at his ticket and willing it to be the name of the one just declared. His kingdom's future demanded it!

Two-Winged Timmy.

Albion was screwed.