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illuminating-dragons · 7 years

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Have Fun Storming The Castle!

Summary: Sherlock doesn't particularly want to get married. His true love John has been dead three years, and he's not at all in love with Prince Jamiarty. Luckily for him, some bandits are out to kill him. And that's nothing compared to the R.O.U.S, Fire Swamps, evil counts, insane cliffs, and the Man in Black...

Read it on AO3

Chapter One: The Bride

If Sherlock had been born in a rich man’s home, he would have become the cleverest man on earth. He had the kind of mind that hungers for knowledge yet is never satisfied. Unfortunately, he was born to two poor farmers who were dismayed to birth a second mouth to feed, and so had to settle for being only the most beautiful man on earth.

Well, close enough at least. He was in about thirtieth place when this story really begins, when he was eighteen. Sherlock was tall, unnaturally pale for someone who spent most of their time riding Skull the horse, and he was fed up with the idiots who lived in the village. His only friend Victor had stopped speaking to him because all of the girls were interested in him. Who on earth cared about girls? Girls wanted marriage and babies and all sorts of boring things. He wanted adventure, he wanted to learn, he wanted to run away and never come back to this farm.

Well, perhaps he would visit, but only to torment Watson.

Watson was the farm boy. He was a slave, an orphan his parents had taken in to work the fields since it was clear that their precious Mycroft just wanted to be mayor of their little village[1], and Sherlock refused to do any work. “I’m busy thinking,” he would snap.

And since his mother was busy ignoring her children and his father was busy arguing with his wife, they agreed to make Watson do the work.

Watson wasn’t much fun to torment, but Sherlock did the best he could. “Watson, clean Skull. Watson go and fetch me some of the flowers that open at midnight. Think of a name for them. Watson, can’t you hurry up?”

“As you wish.”

That was all he ever said, “as you wish.” No matter how unreasonable the request. He even wrote the name of the flower when he presented Sherlock with the bouquet. Moonblossom.

Sherlock thought that would have to do. What could you expect from a poor farm boy?

So Sherlock was eighteen, and his gangly limbs were starting to settle, and his hair was darkening from ginger to something closer to the last drops of sunset in a night sky. He was moving up the ranks (not that he would have cared).

“Watson, fetch me my pipe.”

“I love you.”

Sherlock rounded on him. Watson stood there, face patient, if a bit confused.

“What did you say?”

“As you wish, Sherlock.” Watson frowned. “Was there anything else?”

“No, nothing. Go on, now.”

Sherlock lay back in the grass. It was rather sunny out. Perhaps it was making his ears too hot to hear properly.

“Watson, go let Skull run for a while, then bring her in and dry her off.”

“I love you.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“What?”

“As you wish. Sherlock, are you alright?”

“I’m…I’m fine.” It was the rain, of course. The rain pouring down outside, the rain that had soaked through Watson’s shirt…that’s all it was. Making him hear things.

They were at dinner, all of them, to celebrate Mycroft actually becoming mayor. It was a village of fifty-eight people, but Sherlock’s parents only had dominion over Watson, six cows, two chickens and a pig. It was an accomplishment.

Sherlock had dominion over himself and Skull.

And Watson, of course.

“Watson, clear my plate.”

“I love you.”

Sherlock stared at his parents. “Did you hear what he just said?”

It was Mycroft who answered. “He said ‘as you wish’, little brother, the same thing he has always said. Are you going deaf?”

Sherlock’s cheeks were suddenly hot, but it wasn’t warm. It was a crisp fall day, and he’d made the first important discovery of his life.

Watson loved him.

Sherlock didn’t sleep that night. He paced his tiny room (17 steps around the bed exactly) and tried to unravel it. There was no way on earth that the strong, blonde farm boy would love him. Why, he was cruel to him! He ordered him about, constantly, even when they were both children and sometimes Watson would cry for his parents. He never cried now, his eyes like the sea after a storm calm and patient as he listened for Sherlock’s commands.

Perhaps he liked taking orders?

No, that couldn’t be it.

Sherlock looked on his windowsill. Watson had gotten him a pot, and he’d planted the moonblossom. It was midnight, and the petals were open, almost glowing in the light.

Watson had given him a name for the flowers he’d loved since childhood, this wonderful flower that grew all year long. And he’d brought him a pot to keep it in, so he could observe it on the nights he couldn’t sleep.

Sherlock threw on a long coat and rushed outside, his feet crackling through broken leaves. The moon was high over Watson’s hovel. There was candlelight under the door, and Sherlock banged on it.

Watson threw the door open. “Sherlock?”

“Watson.” Now that he was here, Sherlock felt foolish. Why was he here? Why was he so interested in this simple boy’s crush on him?

There were books on the small table, lit by a sputtering candle.

“Do you need something?” Watson lowered his eyes and frowned. “You cut your foot. Here, sit down.”

Sherlock obeyed, sitting on the hard bed. Watson knelt and took Sherlock’s bony foot in his hands. His foot was bleeding, but Sherlock felt no pain. All he could feel was warmth; strange, unaccountable warmth on this chilly fall night.

Watson took a clean rag from a pile by the door—old shirts, Sherlock noticed. He wiped the blood from Sherlock’s foot, then wound the rag around it, tying it carefully. “Not too tight, right?”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock swallowed. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I know a little about healing,” Watson answered. “My…my mother was a healer. She learned it from her father. This is his book.”

“You can read?”

“I love to read.” Watson looked up in him. The flickering light brought storms into his eyes, though they were still kind. “There’s so much I want to know.”

“So do I! There’s so much out there, it’s a crime we don’t know about it! I swear I’m going to leave this place someday.” Sherlock leaned forward excitedly. Too close, and Watson’s eyes went huge. “Sorry.”

Watson bowed his head. “Not a problem.” He got to his feet, still looking at the ground.

Sherlock realized something. He was the world’s biggest idiot.

“Watson…John.” That was his real name, the name everyone else called him. “John, help me up?”

John looked at him. Hesitantly, as if he was afraid Sherlock would shatter (he wouldn’t shatter, but he might burn with this strange new heat), he took Sherlock’s hands and helped him up. “As you wish,” he said.

Sherlock clutched his hands, refusing to let go. They stood there together for a moment.

Then John swore and pulled him down into a kiss, and the warmth flooded through Sherlock’s entire body. He let go of John’s hands, lacing them in his hair instead, and John was tugging on his curls. And when they pulled away Sherlock’s eyes were shining, and he was beautiful. Tenth in the world.

John stepped away from him. “I need to leave.”

“What?”

“That’s what I’ve been meaning to do for ages.”

“What did I do wrong?” Sherlock asked, heart plummeting.

“Nothing, love. Nothing.” John kissed him again. “I’m…I’m so happy. I’ve loved you so long, and I never thought you’d hear me.”

“I heard you.” Sherlock took his hands again. “Why do you need to leave?”

“Your parents can’t afford to pay me. It’s alright, but I want to give us a good life, you know? I want to travel and see the world with you. I’ve been planning it just in case you…well, just in case you ever noticed me.”

“I should have noticed you sooner. Can’t I go with you?”

“It’ll be hard at first, Sherlock. I know how to work. I want to work for you.” John started to pack. “I’ll go to Marseille and I’ll get on a boat and go to America. There’s so much to see there, Sherlock! So many wonderful things…and I’ll work twenty hours a day and write you once a week until I can send for you. We’ll have our own place, a little house that we can come back to after adventures.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

John turned to him, a bundle over his shoulder. “I’m glad you think so.” He started for the door, but Sherlock stopped him.

“Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?”

(I think the reader might be better satisfied by their own imagination in this case).

Sherlock lost a lot of ground in the rankings the day John left. John was gone, and winter was approaching, and what was the point of doing anything?

Mycroft attempted to bring him out of it by bringing him into village meetings, but after realizing how amazing John was, the problems of petty idiots were even more dull. No, Sherlock resigned himself to being gloomy and sitting in the stables with Skull until John came back.

Then John’s letter came three days later. Paper was precious, and it was short.

My dear Sherlock,

I’ve been gone a day and it feels like a year. I’m going to go slightly mad missing you; do you mind crazy? I’m sure working towards our adventures will cheer me up. I love you. John.

Sherlock could have written back, but he had no idea what road John was taking to Marseille. There were better uses for his time. Like moping, or sulking…

Or maybe…

Well, if John was working towards their happiness and love, then surely he should do his part! He needed to be strong and fit, so John would never have to leave him again! Sherlock leapt up, tucked the note into the pocket against his heart, and sprinted outside.

Fall was turning into winter now, but in the weeks that followed, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care. He was far too busy running, climbing trees, pestering trappers to teach him the ways of the woods, practicing hand to hand combat against bushes as Skull watched. John was his constant companion in his heart, if not in reality, and Sherlock often spoke aloud to him. People watched him sometimes, dazzled by the lovelight in his eyes. He was the second most beautiful man in the world by the first snowfall.

He would have been the first, but that’s when the news came.

The news that John had managed to take the last boat to America before the winter seas became too rough. The news that the boat was called The Voyager. The news that The Voyager had been captured by the Dread Pirate Roberts, who never left captives alive.

When Sherlock heard the news he went into his room and shut the door. It was deadly quiet behind that door for three long days. His parents were terrified when he finally came out. His cheekbones were sharp in his pale face, his hair was cut short and had turned fully black, and his body was stiff and hard. And his eyes, which had always caught the light, had become light themselves; piercing, merciless, and cold.

He was the most beautiful man on earth.

He didn’t care.

“I will never love again.”

That was all he said.

And he never did.

[1] This wasn’t true. Mycroft wanted to be King. Much like his brother, he was born in the wrong house for his ambitions.

Chapter 2: The Groom

Prince Jamiarty was the world’s greatest hunter. No one dared disagree.

He was the only child of the king, the only heir, and Florin had gotten used to that long ago, when as a boy of seven he’d ordered the death of a duke’s son because he called him a name.

The name has been lost to time, but no matter what people have theorized, they have all agreed that it was still “going too far”.

As long as his father was in good health, Prince Jamiarty lived a happy life. He was free to create war strategies that weren’t useful in a time of peace, spend time in the dungeons, listen to any minstrel who could play the latest tunes, and, of course, hunt.

He loved to hunt, which is why he created the Zoo of Death. There was too much legwork travelling across oceans to search for particular prey, so he sent servants out to fetch it for him.

The Zoo of Death was designed by Prince Jamiarty and his most trusted ally, Count Magnussen. It had five floors underground, each with its own category of prey that could be released at the whim of the Prince. Floor one were creatures of great strength; floor two contained creatures of great speed. Floor three (the first without windows) had creatures of the night, for when Jamiarty had insomnia. Floor four were poisonous creatures, especially spiders. Prince Jamiarty loved spiders; they were his official crest.

The fifth floor was simply entitled “Nemesis”. It was empty, but Prince Jamiarty was sure he would find something someday. Or maybe someone.

Who could say?

As I said before, while Prince Jamiarty’s father was in good health, there was no question of him being needed for anything royal. He had all the privilege and none of the responsibility.

But then the king fell ill.

Prince Jamiarty cried when he heard that his father had less than two years to live.

“I don’t want to get married,” he sobbed to Magnussen. “I’ll have some horrible wife that I have to impregnate and have a child with.”

“You can still marry a man,” Magnussen argued. “You can marry a man and have one of the Carriers have your child.”

The Carriers are a family descended from the first mother of a king’s illegitimate child in Florin’s history. If a king should marry a man, it is the responsibility of one of the lucky women of this family to bear the king’s child. They can never be pregnant unless it’s with a royal baby (which might never happen), and even marriage is discouraged. It’s a terrible institution, and Guilder does it much better, but you probably don’t care too much about Florinese gender politics. Or political genders.

“Where would I find a worthy man?” Prince Jamiarty said dramatically. “One who is beautiful enough to be worthy of me?” This, of course, was the condition for royal spouses. It didn’t seem to have much effect on the gene pool.

Count Magnussen thought. “I’ve heard rumours,” he said slowly, “of a man in a village with hair like darkest night and eyes like winter sun.”

“Sounds interesting. Wait, a village? So he’s a commoner?”

“If the rumours are true, he’s hardly common.”

“That might be better.”

The next day they rode out together and found Sherlock in the woods, tending to a patch of strange flowers.

Prince Jamiarty slipped off his horse. “I am your Prince and you will marry me.”

“I will not.”

“I am your Prince and you have to, if I want you.”

“I doubt you would want a man like me. I have no heart to give.”

Prince Jamiarty laughed. “Even better! I don’t want it.”

“You don’t?” The man’s eyes were intense, and Prince Jamiarty grinned. This one was perfect.

“All I need is a spouse, someone who will raise my child and help give away turkeys at Thanksgiving.”

“I am a commoner, your Highness.”

“Well, we can fix that! There’s a small county named London. It hasn’t had a Princess in a long time.”

See, I told you not bother about Florinese political genders.

The man considered that. “If I am a Princess, would that make my brother titled?”

“It could, if you like.”

“Make him Duke of London. He will be good at it. He likes bossing people.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t like being bossed.”

“I never will.”

“And I won’t love you.”

“I don’t want your love.”

“I want a library.”

“You’ll have it.

“Very well. Let’s get married.”

Chapter 3: The Ride

This chapter begins three years after the last, but very little of interest happened in them. Sherlock learned all the ins and outs of royalty, spent many hours in his new library, and endured Jamiarty’s charade of courtship. He was willing to participate, and there were even days when he enjoyed the prince’s company. There was something refreshing about a man who wouldn’t lie. But other than those few days, life just went on. So all that really needs to be said is “What with one thing and another, three years passed.”

Four months before the five hundredth anniversary of Florin, the messengers went out, officially announcing the betrothal of Prince Jamiarty to Princess Sherlock of London.

Those furthest out in the country saw the messengers last, and by then they were weary of describing the beauty of the Princess. Those slightly closer to the capital heard stories of a man beautiful beyond compare, and those closer still actually saw a sketch (most of the sketches were torn to pieces before they got past the first town).

Those in the capital actually got to see the mysterious Princess.

Prince Jamiarty presented his future bride with all aplomb, releasing doves in the hundreds (to be hunted later). Sherlock joined him on the balcony for the first time, wearing a blood-red tunic and breeches. His hair was curlier now, still jet black, and his hands were callused only from the strings of his violin, a present from his fiancé. His eyes were still cold as they swept over the people who were once his peers, but no one minded.

“May I walk among them?” he asked Jamiarty.

“They are only commoners, beloved.”

“As I once was.”

“Go ahead. Do what you like. Will you join me for dinner tonight?”

“I will. After I have ridden.”

Prince Jamiarty lifted Sherlock’s hand and kissed it. “I will see you then.”

See how good they were at faking it in public? Florinese monarchs were expected to marry for love, and they did, so far as their subjects knew.

Sherlock walked from the palace steps towards the stables, letting people stare at him, let them brush their hands against his arms. They were so awed by his presence that none dared speak, which was good. He had no words for them. He had very few words to spare anymore.

Faithful Skull was waiting for him, and Sherlock swung himself up for his daily ride. He rode hard that day; Skull hardly had to be told to go faster. If was as if he sensed his master’s turmoil.

Sherlock had understood that he was going to be married, and that he would be married to Prince Jamiarty. But today, standing on that balcony, he truly felt it. It was strange; he’d hardly felt anything in three years, even when his parents died a month apart.

Well, best to get used to that before a marriage to a man he didn’t love. It was always good to practice.

When Sherlock reached the middle of a wood, he paused, trying to decide if he should ride all the way to the shore. It would make him late for dinner, which the Prince disliked, but he felt an aching need to see something bigger than himself, to look across the shore and not even see Guilder.

In the end, he didn’t have to make a choice.

Three people came out from behind a tree. One was a Spaniard woman, bright hair cut short. The second was, quite simply, a giant: he was nearly as tall as Sherlock was on the horse. The third was a woman, quite as beautiful as Sherlock himself, for those who noticed those things.

“A word, kind sir,” she purred.

Sherlock cocked his head. “Yes?”

“We are circus performers who have lost our way,” the woman explained. “Is there somewhere nearby where we could earn our bread?”

“There is nothing nearby. Not for miles,” Sherlock answered.

The giant approached him. “Then there will be no one to hear you scream,” he said in a thick Turkish accent.

Sherlock tried to grab the giant’s hand, but it closed around his neck gently and pressed against the side, sending him into darkness.

“What is that you’re ripping?” Maria called.

Ireni was on the shore, busily ripping at a red cloak. She attached it to the Princess’ horse. “It’s fabric from a Guilder soldier’s uniform.”

“Who’s Guilder?” Grezzik asked. For the tenth time.

Ireni groaned and sent the horse running. “The country across the Channel. It’s the sworn enemy of Florin! Once the prince sees it, he’ll think that his precious Princess has been stolen by Guilder. And when he discovers the corpse on the Guilderian frontier…well, the war will be glorious.”

“You never said we were killing anyone,” Grezzik said, horrified.

“We’re starting a war, idiot. They always start with a dead body. Preferably royal.” Ireni’s lip curled into a smile. “This is a prestigious line of work, you should be proud.”

“I don’t think that’s right. The Princess is innocent.”

Ireni’s smile vanished. “You don’t think?! How lucky I am that you weren’t hired for your brains, you hippopotamic landmass!”

“I agree with Grezzik,” Maria said, hopping down from the poop deck where Sherlock lay sprawled, hands tied in front of him.”

“Always good to hear the sot speak!” Ireni got in her face. “This isn’t your business. It’s mine, and I only provide the best results. Now, are you going to help, or are you going to go back to being too drunk to afford brandy?”

Maria looked away.

“And you!” Ireni turned on Grezzik. “Brainless, friendless, helpless, hopeless, do you want to go back to where I found you?! Unemployed, in Greenland?!”

“No, boss,” Grezzik muttered.

“Excellent. Now come on, we need to put some miles between us and the shore.” Ireni stalked off, doing nothing useful. As always.

Maria walked up to Grezzik as they got ready to cast off. “Ireni, she can whine,” she whispered.

“Whine, whine…’ Grezzik brightened. “Even when we’re doing fine!”

“She’s probably just in a bad mood…”

“She should probably have some food!”

“You make such lovely rhymes,” Maria said.

“Yes, Molly, some of the time.” Grezzik winked at his friend.

“Enough of that!”

“What, Ireni?” Maria asked. “Did you forget your hat?”

“No more rhymes now, I mean it!”

“Anyone want a peanut?”

“Aaargh!”

When Princess Sherlock regained consciousness, it was nightfall. “Where are you taking me?”

“Don’t worry about that,” the woman said. “You won’t have much to worry about very soon.”

“The Prince will catch you,” Sherlock said. “And he’ll hang you all from the tallest tower with the shortest rope.”

For those of you not familiar with hanging, a short drop means a much slower, more painful death. Of course Prince Jamiarty liked that kind of hanging best.

Ireni unbound his hands. “I don’t think so, darling. I think we’ll be just fine. I guess we’ll know more than you.” She looked up and her beautiful face creased with annoyance. “Maria, stop watching behind us!”

“I’m just checking to see if anyone’s following us.”

“Will you relax? It’s almost over.”

“You’re sure no one’s following?”

“Inconceivable. No one in Guilder knows what we’ve done, and no one from Florin could have gotten here so fast. Why do you ask?”

“Because I looked behind us and someone is there.”

Ireni leapt to her feet. Sherlock craned his neck. There was only a little moon, but it was enough to see a ship not far beyond, cutting silently through the water. There was a man at the helm, dressed all in black.

“Probably a local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise at midnight through eel-infested waters,” Ireni said. She examined her nails. “The night air is supposedly good for your skin.”

This was literally not true. It’s not good for your skin, even the most superstitious peasant women knew that.

While the three were watching the boat, Sherlock saw his chance. He dove off the deck into the water.

“Damn it!” Ireni cursed loudly. “Bring the boat around.”

Sherlock was a strong swimmer (push away the memory of why, the first time he’d ever made John laugh when they were children), and he started swimming as quietly as he could.

But he’d forgotten what Ireni had said.

A high, eerie wail filled the air.

“Do you hear that sound, Highness?” Ireni called to him. “Those are the Shrieking Eels.”

Sherlock stopped swimming. It didn’t help. The moon came shining down again, and he saw a large body move through the water not far from him.

The wail came again, louder now.

“If you come back now, I swear you will die without pain,” Ireni said. “I doubt the Eels will offer you the same choice.”

Sherlock wasn’t afraid of pain. But given the choice between his body being consumed and used, and his body being used to start a war…well, Prince Jamiarty loved to fight. He’d give his fiancé one last gift.

But he couldn’t swim back even though he wanted to, because an Eel was charging him, and there was nowhere to run, and the wail nearly pierced his eardrum—

He does not get eaten by the Eels at this time. You looked nervous. He’s going to be fine. There’s loads left.

He doesn’t get eaten by the Eels.

Chapter 4: At the Cliffs

Sherlock pretty well figured he was dead, but somehow, somehow, Grezzik had gotten within arm’s reach and yanked him out of the water.

“You’re stupid, Highness,” Ireni said, shaking him. She bound his hands tightly, tying intricate knots. But her fingers were trembling.

“You’re the one who took your eyes off your future.”

Ireni raised her hand, but didn’t strike him.

“He’s still following us,” Maria called.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ireni snapped. “We’ll be at the Cliffs by dawn.”

Sherlock slumped against the side of the boat, body shivering with cold. But his mind was racing. The Cliffs…she couldn’t mean the Cliffs of Insanity, could she?

With that unpleasant thought, Sherlock fell into a fitful sleep.

The dawn came, and the man in black was still behind them.

“I wonder if he is using the same wind that we’re using,” Maria mused as she moved the sails.

“Whoever he is, it’s too late. Look! The Cliffs of Insanity!”

Sherlock looked up. And up, and up…

The Cliffs were taller than anyone had ever cared to measure. “Very bloody high,” was the general consensus. Once a year or so some idiot tried to climb to the top. The lucky ones gave up and managed to get back down .The bones of the unlucky were left at the base.

What were these people thinking?

“Are you mad?” he asked Ireni.

“Not at all, Highness,” Ireni replied. She threw the anchor down. “Grezzik, grab the Princess.”

The giant picked him up and slung him over his shoulders. Sherlock felt a rope go around his legs, and another around his shoulders.

“You can relax, Princess.” The giant’s voice rumbled through Sherlock’s body. “I will keep you safe.”

“Until you kill me,” Sherlock retorted. The giant stepped off the boat and, once Ireni and Maria were off, put his foot through it. The boat began to sink.

“That is not my choice, Highness. I do not like to kill the innocent. But I promise you that Ireni will keep her word. You will not die in pain.”

Sherlock said nothing, but he believed the large man, who was now attaching the women to his front, leaving his massive arms free. And now that he was thinking about it, what would be so bad about death? At the least, his existence would end and there would be no more pain. At the best…maybe he would see John again.

The giant strode forward and reached toward the Cliff and grabbed….a rope? Yes, a rope. And he started to climb.

Sherlock couldn’t believe it. They were rising into the sky, pulled only by a giant with tireless arms.

“What the hell?” Maria said. She was looking down.

Sherlock craned his neck. The man in black’s ship was now at the base, but the man wasn’t in it. To Sherlock’s shock, the man was…

“My god. He’s climbing the rope,” Maria whispered.

“Inconceivable,” Ireni said.

Sherlock couldn’t watch for long, but he kept sneaking looks at the man. He was getting closer now, and Sherlock could see that he wore a mask across the top half of his face.

“Go faster, Grezzik!” Ireni snarled.

“I thought I was going faster,” Grezzik protested.

“You call yourself a giant? A strong man? And yet the man is gaining on us!”

“I’m carrying three people, and he only has himself.”

“I do not accept excuses. I’m going to have to find myself a new giant.”

“Don’t say that Ireni, please.”

They climbed on and on, and the distance started to close between the four of them and the strange, silent man in black. Sherlock closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure who he wanted to win. He definitely didn’t want to fall.

He gasped when he felt the ropes being untangled around his legs.

“Relax, Princess,” Grezzik soothed, a little out of breath. “We’re at the top.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. Indeed they were.

Grezzik helped him off his shoulders and set him down. Ireni was kneeling next to the rope, sawing at it with a knife. Sherlock wanted to cry out—no, stop, what are you doing?—but before he could the rope had broken and slid down the cliff side, no doubt taking the man in black with it. There was no scream, and no splash.

Ireni moved to the side of the Cliffs and screamed in frustration. “He didn’t fall?! Inconceivable!”

“You keep using that word,” Maria said. “I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Grezzik went to look too, bringing Sherlock with him. The man in black was hanging onto the cliff, clinging for dear life, and as Sherlock watched he began to climb.

“That’s in—”

��Maria snarled in frustration.

“Fine.” Ireni glared at her. “You want me to stop, pet? Grezzik, pick up the Princess. Maria, if the man gets up here, kill him.”

As Grezzik readjusted Sherlock, this time tied with his arms around the giant’s neck and hanging off the back (the first time he’d felt short in decades), Maria drew her sword. “I’ll duel him left-handed.”

“We’re in a hurry, Maria!”

“It’s the only way I feel satisfied anymore.”

“Far be it from me to deny a woman that,” Ireni sighed. “Come on, Grezzik!” She stomped away.

Grezzik approached Maria. “Be careful, Molly. People in masks can’t be trusted.”

“I will be fine, my friend. I will see you soon.” The woman’s lips were tight.

As the giant began to follow Ireni, taking tiny steps so not to overtake the woman, Sherlock couldn’t resist asking a question.

“Why does Ireni call her Maria and you call her Molly?”

Grezzik sighed. “She still thinks she’s in trouble. I try to convince her that she’s not.”

That made little to no sense. But then again, nothing was making sense today. Sherlock allowed his head to drop against Grezzik’s shoulder, and decided that he was going to try and get all his thinking done. He doubted he’d have much more time.

The man in black was being very slow. He was climbing, certainly, but he climbed deliberately, making a fist and plunging it into a crack in the Cliffs, lifting himself up and trying again.

It made sense. There was quite a drop. But Maria was bored.

“Hello there!” She called.

The man in black looked up at her, nodded once, and then returned to his task.

“Slow going?” She tried again.

“If you wouldn’t mind, please don’t distract me. This is very hard.”

“Of course.” Maria paced away, but came back a few seconds later.

“I don’t suppose you could go faster?”

“Why are you in such a rush? And if you are, why don’t you find something useful to do?”

“I suppose I could help you,” Maria offered. “We’ve got some leftover rope here, but I don’t think you’d want my help. I’m only waiting around to kill you.”

The man in black reached up again. “Well, that doesn’t help us become friends.”

“I promise I won’t kill you until you reach the top.” Of course she wouldn’t, that wouldn’t be fair.

“Comforting,” the man in black said as he wedged himself against the wall once more. “But I think you’re going to have to wait.”

“I hate waiting.” Maria thought for a moment. “I could give you my word as a Spaniard?”

“I’ve known too many Spaniards.”

Maria put her hand on her heart. “I swear on the soul of my father Domingo Montoya, you will reach the top alive.”

The man in black looked up at her. “Throw the rope down, please.”

Molly threw it, and helped the man in black to the top of the Cliff. The man drew his sword, but Maria waved it away. “When you’ve caught your breath.”

“Thank you.” The man in black sat down against a rock. “You’re fair, for a thief.”

“I didn’t know I would become one.”

“What did you want to be?”

“A daughter. I had no ambition above that once.”

The man in black looked down. “I know what that’s like. What happened to your father?”

Maria drew her sword and held it out. “This,” she said bitterly. “This, and a man with six fingers on his right hand.”

Maria loved her father.

She loved him fiercely, even twenty years after his death. It was just the two of them when she was small, her mother gone before her first smile.

Maria’s father made swords. Beautiful, perfect swords. Her father’s friend Yeste ran a sword shop, and whenever an order came in for a special sword, he climbed the hill to their tiny village.

He’d tried more than once to bring Maria’s father down, but Domingo refused. He wanted no fame. He wanted to raise his daughter in peace and make swords for special cases.

One day a special case came, but Michele didn’t bring it. That day, the customer came himself.

He was a count, a noble, and he had six fingers on his right hand.

“I need a sword. One I may use with all my fingers.”

“You will have it,” Domingo swore.

It took a long, intense year, but Domingo fulfilled his vow. He slaved all day and most of each night, long after Maria went to bed.

“This is my second masterpiece, Molly,” he said, eyes blazing. “This will fulfill me.”

He always called her Molly, unless she was in trouble.

At the end of the year, the sword was finished. It shone even in the dim light of their tiny hovel, balanced perfectly.

The count came back the next day. “It’s alright. Not worth the two hundred I promised. I’ll give you a quarter.”

A quarter was fifty gold. They’d never had more than fifty silver.

Domingo took the sword back. “You’ll give me nothing. This is no longer for sale.”

“I’ll take the sword,” the count snapped. His lip curled. “I’ll take the girl too, and give you full price.”

Domingo shook his head. “You’re a fool. You undersell both my masterpieces and you see only gold. I pity your ignorance.”

Without saying a word, the count drew his own sword and stabbed Domingo through the heart.

He fell, and Maria dashed to him. But there was no goodbye, no final word. Domingo was dead before he hit the floor.

The count left the house with his purse full. “The man attacked me, and I defended myself.”

No one believed him. No one did anything.

Except for Maria, who ran out after him with the six-fingered sword. “Murderer!” she screamed.

“Get out of my way, infant.”

“The infant is ten. And I am challenging you.”

The count sighed and stepped away from his horse. “Very well.”

It took less than eight seconds for Maria to be disarmed, but they felt like a long eight seconds for the Count. Her brilliance was only in her fingers then, but there was a hint. Just a hint.

“I won’t kill you,” the count said. “You’re very brave. But I will give you a reminder to respect your betters.”

He cut her, first one cheek, then the other. Then he picked her up, let her blood drip once on the ground, and licked each cut. “Be careful, little baby,” he whispered. “There’s no one to protect you now.” He threw her to the ground.

Maria woke up the next day in Yeste’s house. “I failed him,” she whispered.

“You did nothing of the kind,” Michele whispered. “You are a child.”

“Then I must be better,” Maria said firmly.

She left once her wounds were healed and began to travel. She learned the art of the sword, but so much more than that. She learned to be strong, to be fast, to keep her head in the gravest crisis and to channel her pain into combating weariness.

In ten years she was a warrior, a wizard with the blade, the third woman to attain that rank.

Then she returned to Yeste and asked for a loan of two hundred gold coins.

Yeste would have given her ten times that amount, but she didn’t want it. Two hundred was the price of the sword that was always on her hip (somehow it was perfectly balanced for her, even with only ten fingers), and two hundred was all she would use to find the six-finger count.

After all, how hard could that possibly be?

When Maria was twenty-five, having crossed several countries walking through nights and sleeping from dawn to just before noon, she was forced to admit that it was very hard indeed. Ten years was a long time. What if the six fingered man had sailed across the ocean?

Or died?

And now she had no one to fight; she beat every master she came across. There was nothing more to work for. There was nothing left.

Nothing left but brandy, drowning herself in the liquid to get her through the night. And the afternoon. And the morning. By the time Ireni found her, Maria couldn’t afford brandy, and she lay in the street, the sword by her side still enough to protect her but that was all.

Ireni helped her off the drink and picked her up. She offered her a job, where she could travel and fight and have some purpose.

She couldn’t lose that purpose now. It was all that was keeping her alive, all that was propelling her, maybe, someday, towards the six-fingered man.

Until then, she would be in trouble.

“Well, I certainly hope you find him some day. If he’s done that once, he may do it again.”

“That’s my worst fear,” Maria confessed. “He didn’t even blink. He’s used to taking what he wants.” She set her jaw. “I will stop him.”

“Best of luck.” The man got to his feet.

“We don’t have to do this, you know.” Maria got to hers, her sword in her left hand. “If you leave now and go the other way, I’m happy to let you go.”

“You have something of great value that I wish to take.”

“Ireni will never sell him.”

“Who said I was buying?”

Maria shivered. There was no remorse in his cold eyes. And yet she wasn’t afraid of him.

That purpose had a noble reason, whatever that may be.

Shame he wouldn’t live to fulfill it.

“You are ready?”

“Yes, and I thank you. You’ve been more than fair.” The man in black drew his sword in his left hand.

She’d been more fair than she realized—her weakness against his strength. Maria hoped he was good, hoped it would be a fight. She touched her blade to his. “You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you.”

“You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die.”

They separated their blades, and the duel began.

From the outset Maria was delighted. The man in black knew how to counter, knew how to thrust—he knew how to use the rocky terrain to his advantage. She leapt up on the rocks anyways; he wasn’t much taller than her, but that inch or two might make a difference.

“You’re very good,” She called over the clashing blades.

“Thank you. I’ve worked for it.”

Then the man in black cut under her Agrippa, and Maria started. She’d worked hard on that defense. She backed away, switching techniques, but the man in black’s dancing blades kept finding weaknesses, kept pushing her backwards. Backwards towards the Cliff’s edge.

“You are wonderful!” Maria exclaimed. It was all she could do to keep him from cutting her, all she could do to keep her blade moving. It was fantastic. “I admit that you are better than I am.”

“Why are you smiling then?” The man in black’s blade never paused.

“Because I know something you don’t.” With one quick movement, Maria switched hands. “I’m not left-handed.”

And now she was the one pushing back, still scoring no hits, but breaking through the defenses, wearing down the man in black. And now he was the one with his back to the Cliffs, up a set of stairs and onto an ancient lookout.

“You’re incredible!” He said as she got close enough to push him against the low, crumbling wall.

“I ought to be after twenty years.”

“I ought to tell you something,” the man grunted.

“Tell me.”

The man in black shoved her away. As Maria skittered back, he switched hands. His eyes were bright in his mask. “I’m not left-handed either.”

And that’s when the duel really began.

Maria lost track of the names of her moves, the styles she should employ. For the first time in twenty years, she was going purely on instinct, and all she could do was keep moving, not drop her blade, and pray that her instincts had been trained enough.

They were trained to the utmost of her ability, but in that moment, after five years of brandy and so long without a real challenge, the man in black had the advantage.

He disarmed her, sending her sword flying across the rocks.

Maria fell to her knees. “Kill me quickly.”

“I would never kill an artist like yourself,” the man in black said, circling her with his sword still out. “Besides, you have your quest. But I can’t have you interfering with mine.”

He clubbed her head, and the last thing Maria felt was someone laying her gently on the ground. “Good luck, Molly.”

Then everything was dark.

The man in black stood after he loosely bound Maria’s wrists. He laid her sword by her side. With any luck, she would awaken and run off. That’s what he would do if he was her.

But he wasn’t, and his prize was still ahead…

Chapter 5: The Fight

Grezzik turned when Ireni shouted in frustration.

The man in black was running towards them, about two miles away.

“He’s beaten Molly!” Grezzik whispered. His heart ached; Molly was his only friend. The Princess peered at the man in surprise.

“Inconceivable!” Ireni stamped her foot. “Give him to me.”

Grezzik unslung the Princess. He chafed the man’s ankles, and set him upright. “Can you walk?”

The Princess took two steps, and Ireni yanked him towards her. “Catch up with us after you finish him.”

“Finish him? How?”

“Your way!”

“Thank you, Ireni.” Grezzik hesitated. “Which way’s my way?”

Ireni glared. “Pick up one of those rocks, and hide behind a boulder. The moment the man in black comes around the corner, HIT HIM WITH THE ROCK!”

“Oh.” Grezzik considered that. “My way’s not very fair.”

“You are a war starter! You don’t have to be fair!” Ireni yanked the Princess up the hill, and Grezzik picked up a rock.

There was a time when Grezzik didn’t think he would be a war starter. Hell, there was a time where he didn’t think he would be a fighter at all, and certainly not end up in Greenland.

When he was young, Grezzik wanted to be a lawman.

It is important to realize that Grezzik was never really little. He was fifteen pounds at birth, and by the time he was five he was ready to shave and was nearly six feet tall. His giant body managed to hide his soft heart, but it didn’t protect him from the bullying of the other children, and the frightened looks of the adults.

His father was a lawman, and he worried deeply about his large son. He wanted Grezzik to be happy, but they lived in a tiny Turkish town, and Grezzik would never fit in there. So when a travelling performance group came to town, he asked if Grezzik could join them.

Grezzik was twelve and terrified, but he went because his father and mother promised to follow the caravan. And they did for the next five years.

In those five years Grezzik had some trouble finding a place in the troupe. He was huge now, and strong without exercise. He tried to play fight, but it didn’t work very well. He couldn’t quite stop when it was time, no matter how hard he tried.

And people would boo.

He would stand there, and try to give people a show, and they would boo. His mother said they were afraid of him, but Grezzik didn’t understand. He’d never hurt anyone, not on purpose. He loved people, and all they could do was boo.

He tried just lifting things (and people): “Booo!” He tried dancing: “booo!” He tried to stop performing all together and just pull the caravans, and the group threatened to fire him. People were coming to see him, even if all they did was boo.

Grezzik was okay with leaving. He wanted to go home. But that week, his father became ill, and his mother did too. They were dead by the end of the week, and Grezzik dug their graves before he followed the group to the next town. He was too big to fit in the caravans any more, and it was pouring rain, but Grezzik didn’t mind. He had to think.

Thinking had never come easy to Grezzik, but by the time they reached their destination the rain had stopped and Grezzik had an idea.

“Bring me your five strongest!” he called. “I can take you all!”

And that’s where things changed for the better. People loved choosing their strongest people before the giant came, loved watching them try and fail (but fail less hard than before) to take him down. Eventually Grezzik would be fighting fifteen people at a time, and he would always win, but everyone loved him.

When they got to Greenland, though, he encountered the toughest crowd.

He fought twenty, thirty, forty people at once, but it wasn’t enough. And the crowd began to boo again. Grezzik was now over seven feet tall, several hundred pounds, and he was so strong that he could…well, climb the Cliffs of Insanity using only his arms.

The performance group fired him at last. They were being booed now, and they could see they wouldn’t get much more out of Grezzik. They left him sitting on a rock in Greenland, all alone in the loneliest country in the world.

Well, all alone except The Woman. Ireni had been sitting in the crowd at his last performance. She saw his value; well, his value to her. She needed his strength. Grezzik needed a job.

And he was grateful to the Woman for that, very grateful. So the man in black had to die.

When the man in black came around the corner, he had just enough time to see the rock before it crashed…into a tree, two feet from his head.

“I did that on purpose,” Grezzik said, getting up from behind the boulder. “I didn’t have to miss.”

“I believe you.” The man in black held his sword steady. “What happens now?”

“We will fight. As humans should. No tricks, no weapons, skill only.”

“So I put down my sword and you put down your rock and we’ll try and kill each other like civilized people?”

“If you would prefer, I could kill you now,” Grezzik offered.

The man in black put his sword down. “I appreciate the offer, but I believe my chances may be slightly better hand fighting.”

Grezzik nodded and tossed away the rock. Before it hit the ground, the man in black was on him. He wrapped his arms around Grezzik’s waist and squeezed as hard as he could. Grezzik stood patiently, waiting for the man to tire.

The man did, and jerked away. He stepped back and launched his shoulder against Grezzik’s stomach. He bounced off, swearing.

“Stop playing with me,” he snapped.

“I just don’t want you to die embarrassed,” Grezzik soothed him. He made a grab for the man in black, but he jumped away.

“You’re quick.”

“Thankfully.”

“Why do you wear a mask? Were you burned?” As he spoke, Grezzik kept swinging his fists. The man in black dodged each one.

“No, they’re just comfortable. I think people will wear them more in the future.” The man in black made a lunging movement. Grezzik reached his hands up to catch him, but the man in black bounded off a rock, somersaulted over Grezzik and, before the giant could turn, he was on his back, arms wound around his neck.

Grezzik tried to shake the man off, but he wasn’t budging. He backed into a rock as hard as he could, but the man in black wouldn’t let go. In fact, his arms started to tighten.

Grezzik brought his hands up, trying to shake the man’s grip, but he was having trouble getting his hands up. In fact, he was starting to have trouble seeing.

Why was this so hard? It was one man, he’d fought forty!

Oh, but it had been so long since he had fought one person at a time. And he was using the wrong moves. He just had to adjust his strategy…

That was Grezzik’s last thought before he fell unconscious.

The man in black released him immediately and rolled him over, checking to make sure he was breathing.

“I don’t envy your headache. In the meantime, sleep well.”

The man in black retrieved his sword and headed in the direction of the footprints, a man’s and the Woman’s.

Back at the Cliff’s of Insanity, Prince Jamiarty was tracking.

“There was a duel here,” he said, tracing the footprints. “Both masters, they fought hard.”

“And how did it end?” Count Magnussen asked. He was riding, as were the sixteen men the Prince had summoned to chase after the Princess. They’d had to go around the Cliffs, but they’d made up some time.

“The loser lived. She ran off that way, and the winner followed those footprints—” Jamiarty indicated the footprints of a giant man and a dainty woman. “They lead to Guilder. We need to follow those. They will have the Princess.”

“Do you think this is a trap by warriors of Guilder?”

“Charles, I think everything’s a trap. That’s why I’m still alive.”

Chapter 6: The Battle of Wits

Twenty minutes later, the man in black caught up with Ireni and the Princess.

Ireni was sitting cross-legged on the grass with two glasses in front of her, with a bottle of wine and a small plate of cheese. Princess Sherlock was next to her, bound, gagged, and a knife to his throat.

“Good afternoon,” Ireni called.

The man in black kept moving forward.

“If you wish him dead, please keep moving.”

The man in black slowed but didn’t stop. “Let me explain…”

“There’s nothing to explain. You’re trying to take my stolen goods, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“Perhaps there can be an arrangement?”

“You’re killing him,” Ireni said, the knife now gently scraping Sherlock’s throat.

The man in black stopped. “Well, if we can’t have an arrangement, we are at an impasse.”

“I’m afraid so. I can’t compete with you physically, and you’re no match for my brains.”

“And you’re sure about that?”

“What, you don’t think a woman can be smart?”

“Of course women can be smart. I just want to know how smart you think you are.”

“Let me put it this way. Christine de Pizan, Theodora, Ban Zhao?"

“Yes?”

“Morons.”

“Well in that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits.”

“For the Princess? To the death?”

The man in black nodded twice. “And for that plate of cheese,” he added. “I’m rather hungry.”

“I accept,” Ireni said, and she put away the knife. She popped a piece of cheese into her mouth as the man in black sat down on the other side of the rock. “You may have a piece now.”

The man in black did. “Please pour the wine.”

Ireni did. “It’s nice stuff, you know. From America.”

The Princess flinched.

“What’s the matter?” Ireni snapped. “I like it, and you don’t have to drink it, your Highness.” She finished pouring and corked the bottle.

The man in black drew a small bag from his belt. “Inhale this, but do not touch.”

Ireni took the bag and pulled the drawstrings open. A white powder lay inside, and she sniffed carefully.

“I don’t smell anything.”

“What you do not smell is called iocane powder. It’s odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid…and is one of the more deadly poisons known to man.”

Ireni’s eyes sparkled with delight.

The man in black took the two cups and the bag of iocane. He turned his back carefully, and was busy for a few minutes.

Then he turned, and placed the goblets back on the rock, one in front of him, one in front of Ireni.

“Now, where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. You choose a glass, and we both drink. Then we find out who is right, and who is dead.”

Ireni pouted. “Oh, that’s so simple! All I have to do is take what I know of you, and deduce whether or not you’re the type of man to put the poison in his own glass.”

“Now, a clever man would put the poison in his opponent’s glass, because only a great fool would drink what was in front of him. I’m not a great fool, so clearly I cannot drink the wine in front of me. But you’re well aware I’m not a great fool, so clearly I cannot drink the wine in front of you.”

“Very smart,” the man in black replied.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” Ireni replied. “Because iocane comes from Australia, and Australia is entirely peopled with criminals and crocodiles, both creatures who are used to having people not trust them so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you!”

“Well then…”

“But you must have at least suspected that I knew the powder’s origin, which means that I cannot choose the wine in front of me!”

“You’re off on a tangent.”

“Am I? You’ve beaten my giant which means that you’re strong, and therefore would risk putting poison in your own goblet, which means that I cannot choose the wine in front of you. But you also bested Maria, which means you must have studied, and in studying you would have found out that man is mortal, which means I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me!”

“You’re trying to make me give something away. It won’t work.” But there was nervousness in the man in black’s eyes now, and Ireni could see it. The Princess shifted restlessly, but Ireni wasn't paying attention.

“Oh, but it has, and I know where the poison is!”

“Then make your choice!”

“I will! And I choose—good God, is that a fire?!”

The man in black turned to look. “No, madam, there is no fire.”

“Must have been a trick of the light.” Ireni chuckled.

“What’s funny?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. First, I’ve made my decision. Let’s drink from our own glasses.”

As gravely as two foreign dignitaries at a state supper, they picked up their glasses, clinked them together, and sipped.

The man in black put down his glass. “You guessed wrong.”

Ireni laughed. “You only think I guessed wrong, that’s what’s funny! I switched glasses while your back was turned! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia. But only slightly less well known is this: never go in against a Sicilian, when death is on the line!”

She continued to laugh until the poison took effect, and she slumped back.

The man in black hurried to undo first the gag, then the blindfold. The Princess stared at him with wide eyes. “You’re immune.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You poisoned both glasses. Iocane is deadly, but you can build up an immunity to it.”

“Clever Princess. Thank you for not giving me away.” The man in black handed Sherlock a few pieces of cheese. “Eat. You’re going to need your strength.”

“There was a fight here with a giant,” Jamiarty said, raising himself from his kneeling position. Just before he stood, he spotted footprints. “There are the Princess’ footprints! He was alive no more than an hour ago.”

“Should we find the giant?” Magnussen asked. “He could be dangerous.”

“His opponent was about three feet shorter than him,” Jamiarty declared, standing. “He can’t possibly be that dangerous. No, we need to track the Princess. We may be his only hope. And if he dies…well. Guilder will pay.”

His men cheered, and they rode on, following the footprints up the hill.

Chapter 7: The Ravine

Sherlock only had time to have a few mouthfuls of cheese before the mysterious man in black yanked him to his feet. “We’re going.” He began to run, dragging Sherlock by the hand.

Sherlock forced himself not to stumble as they ran across the rocky terrain. Who was this man? He’d just murdered someone in cold blood, and if Ireni was right (and she probably was), the other two were dead as well. There was something terrifying about the man in black, even if he was at least half a foot shorter. That was making it very hard to run behind him.

The man in black seemed to notice, and yanked him forward, making Sherlock stumble. The man pushed him onto a rock. “Catch your breath.”

“What do you…want?” Sherlock gasped, more from shock and fear than exhaustion. “If you want ransom, I give you my word you’ll have it if you let me go.”

The man laughed, but he didn’t sound happy. “And what is your word worth, Highness?”

“I’m trying to give you a chance. Prince Jamiarty will find you, and he will take your life for taking me.”

“You put a lot of faith in your dearest love.”

“He’s not my dearest love.” No, his dearest love was a man who’d called him ‘clever’ and meant it, who’d run beside him.

“You don’t love him?”

“No. And he doesn’t love me either.”

“And this is the ‘Triumph of Love’ wedding we’ve all heard so much about?”

“We are honest with each other, if not the realm. And it’s none of their business anyways.”

“I don’t think you’re capable of love, Highness.”

That made Sherlock’s blood run hot for the first time in years. “I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream.”

The man in black raised his hand, but didn’t hit him.

“That was a warning. Where I come from there are penalties for liars.” He dragged Sherlock to his feet.

“Come on. We need to keep moving.”

And they ran again, for so long that Sherlock quite lost his sense of direction. But he didn’t stop thinking, and by the time they stopped again he’d deduced his companion’s identity.

“I know who you are. Remorseless, powerful, intelligent…you’re the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

The man in black bowed. “What can I do for you?”

“Die slowly, cut into a thousand pieces.”

“Well that’s not very nice. What have I ever done to you?”

“You killed my love.”

“Well…the man scratched his neck. “It’s possible. I kill a lot of people. When was this?”

“Three years ago. It was the Voyager.”

“Ah. I did take that ship. But there were many women aboard.”

“He was a man. And I loved him.”

“Now help me narrow it down, Highness. How rich was he? As rich as your Prince?”

“No! He was a farm boy. Poor. Poor and perfect, with eyes like the sea after the storm. And he was on that ship, and…and you never leave survivors.”

“Can’t afford to make exceptions, I’m afraid. Otherwise everyone expects it, and then it’s work, work all the time.”

“You mock my pain!”

“Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something.” The man in black paused. “Actually, I think I might remember your farm boy. He was a cabin boy. I could tell you about our meeting. Would it bother you to hear?”

“Nothing you say can hurt me worse than what you’ve done.”

“He died well. No bribe attempts or blubbering. He just said please, please I need to live.”

Sherlock looked away.

“He told me about the man he loved, gorgeous beyond compare and enduringly faithful. I assume that was you?”

He had no heart anymore, otherwise it would have broken then and there.

“You must be glad he never came back.”

“How dare you!” Sherlock snapped, leaping to his feet.

“Faithfulness, sir, your enduring faithfulness. Now tell me the truth, did you get engaged the moment you knew he was dead or did you wait a week out of respect?”

“Do not mock me!” Sherlock snarled. “My heart stopped that day!”

There was a rumble from afar, and the man in black looked up. Sherlock did too, saw the royal horses.

He also saw a chance.

With all his strength, he shoved the man in black off the cliff, watched him start to tumble.

“You can die too for all I care!”

And then he heard it.

“As…you…wish.”

He’d missed it. The eyes. Stupid, stupid.

Before he could think, Sherlock threw himself down the cliff, down after the still rolling man in black.

When he got to the bottom, he laid only a few feet from John. And it was John, the mask had come off in the tumble and it was his face, his eyes clear, his gentle smile, though it looked worried now. He crawled over to Sherlock quickly.

“Dear, can you move at all?”

“Move?” Sherlock said in a daze. Trembling, he reached his hands up, put them on John’s shoulders. They were solid, real, his hands didn’t go through them as they often did. “You’re alive. If you want I can fly.”

John held him close, and Sherlock clung to him, shaking all over.

“It’s alright, love. I’m right here. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock said.

“I doubted you. I never should have.”

“I don’t love him John.” Sherlock was panicking now. “I swear to you, I never wanted to marry him, but you were dead, and he ordered me to, and…”

“Hush.” John stroked his hair. “I understand. I should have known you better.”

“You were dead,” Sherlock repeated. His cheeks were wet. Was he crying again? After all this time?

“I’m not now,” John whispered. “And death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.”

“I will never doubt again.”

“There will never be a need.”

And John kissed him then, and Sherlock slipped his fingers into John’s hair, it was longer than on the farm, and he couldn’t feel the ache anymore and all he felt was warmth, pure warmth…

Alright, that’s enough detail on that. They haven’t seen each other in three years. Let’s give them some privacy.

“Iocane,” the Prince said, sniffing Ireni’s corpse. “I’d bet my life on it. And the Princess’ footprints are fresh!”

Their horses reached the edge of the cliff just in time to see the Princess fall into the ravine.

Prince Jamiarty closed his eyes.

“He may survive the fall,” Count Magnussen comforted him.

“That is not what worries me. That ravine leads directly into the Fire Swamp.”

Chapter 8: The Fire Swamp

“Sherlock, come on. We need to get going.”

“Where are we going?” We. How lovely.

“Sherlock, love, listen.”

“I’m listening, John.” John was here.

“We’re going to my ship. We can run right along this ravine. Then we’ll just go through the Fire Swamp.”

Sherlock was jerked from his pleasant reverie. “Wait, what?! We can’t go in there. We’ll never survive!”

“You’re only saying that because no one ever has.”

The Fire Swamp, as every Florinese child knew, was the ultimate horror. Parents would get good behaviour from threats of “do that again or we’re taking you to the Fire Swamp and leaving you there”. It’s well known for its flame spurts, Snow Sand and R.O.U.Ss.

Sherlock got to his feet. “Do we have to?”

“I’m sorry, love.” John actually looked tired. “But it really is the quickest way through, and I’ll protect you.”

“I can protect myself. I trained.”

“Why didn’t you fight those three, then?”

Sherlock bowed his head. He hadn’t meant to let that slip out.

“Sherlock?” John asked. A look of horror came onto his face. “Oh my dear, you weren’t thinking…”

“I didn’t see much point.” Sherlock said. “Either Jamiarty would bring me back to our marriage, or they would kill me. I wasn’t quite sure which would be worse.”

John kissed his hand hard. “I’m right here, Sherlock. I promise. Do you trust me?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Then come on. We’ll brave the Swamp together.”

The run towards the Swamp wasn’t far, and Sherlock smelled it before he heard it. It wasn’t fully unpleasant; it mostly smelt of a huge concentration of vegetation, mixed with a little bit of still water. Only the sulphurous tinge to the breeze warned them of any danger.

The first steps they took in, hand in hand, were tentative and careful. The light dimmed quickly, and when Sherlock looked up he could see only tangled branches and vines. John, looking up the other way, noticed a flicker of movement, and he kept his sword ready. Even in his offhand, he hoped to be quicker than the lurking beast.

As they moved forward, their steps became quicker. Sherlock kept his hand tightly in John’s, but he was gaining confidence.

“It’s not that bad,” John said.

Sherlock gave him a Look.

“No, love, I don’t want to stay here longer than we have to. We’ll be on my ship very soon, and all our troubles will be over.”

“Your ship. So you are a pirate?”

“You were correct. I am actually the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

“But how is that? He’s been marauding twenty years and you only left me three years ago.”

“It’s a bit of a long story—” John stopped as a popping noise began.

“John!” Sherlock yanked his lover close, just out of the way of a sudden spurt of fire.

John looked up at him in shock. “How did you know?”

“I have access to the royal library,” Sherlock explained. “There isn’t much about the Fire Swamp, but that was one of the accounts.”

“Clever Sherlock,” John said, just as he used to.

Sherlock kissed him, just as he used to.

“They’ve gone in,” Jamiarty said in disbelief. “Where is he taking my Princess?”

“Should we try to get down the ravine?” Count Magnussen asked.

“Of course not! Don’t be stupid, we’ll break our necks. No, if they come out alive, they’ll come out on the far end. We’ll wait there.”

“So, the story?” Sherlock prompted.

“Right. Well, you’ve heard the first part of it already. My saying ‘please’ did happen, and it intrigued Roberts, as did my description of your beauty. Finally he said ‘alright Watson, never had a valet, why don’t we try that for one night? If it doesn’t work, I’ll kill you in the morning.’ Luckily for me, his first mate had a tooth ache, and I managed to help pull the tooth. So he let me live, and I kept treating people. Terrible health care on a pirate ship.”

Sherlock smiled, and stepped neatly away from a popping sound, still hand in hand with John.

“So for a whole year that’s how it was. ‘Goodnight Watson, good work, sleep well, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.’ And I just kept learning how to do things; fight, fence, become stronger…it was a wonderful time, even if I was facing death.”

“And then at the end of that year, Roberts called me into his room in the morning. I was sure that was it; he’d been more than fair. But he closed the door quite carefully, and told me his greatest secret. ‘I am not the Dread Pirate Roberts. My name is Murray.’”

“What?! Oh, I see, that’s brilliant! The title is what scares people, isn’t it?”

John laughed. “Yes, indeed. Murray was the third in the line. The real Roberts lives in Patagonia like a king. Anyways, he wanted to pass the title on to me. And I asked him to let me go instead, if he didn’t mind, because I had to get back to you. But he told me with a couple of good raids, I’d have enough money to take you anywhere in the world, and we could travel without care of money. And I thought…well, what was a little more time? I wasn’t worth much to you otherwise.”

“That’s not true,” Sherlock snapped. “That was never true.”

“I thought it was a few weeks later,” John said quietly. “We did a raid close to Florin, and one of the treasures was an engagement ring. I questioned one of the sailors and he described…well, you. Said it was for the Prince’s bride to be, who loved him beyond measure. And I believed…oh, my dear, I’m sorry, I believed the worst of you. I just—I’m—”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Sherlock answered. “I would have believed the worst too. You just didn’t have enough data. I was playing love. So was Jamiarty.”

John nodded tightly. Sherlock pulled him close. “It’s alright, John.”

“We would have had two more years together,” John whispered. “And my foolish pride…I couldn’t even go and check. If I’d seen you…”

“If I’d seen you,” Sherlock interrupted, “I would have explained. But we can’t live on ifs, John. We’re together now, and everything’s going to be fine.”

John nodded against his shoulder. He stepped away from Sherlock, wiping his eyes. Sherlock took a step forward, encouraging him.

And disappeared into the Snow Sand.

He was gone before he had a chance to cry out, slipping through the sand and falling, drifting down and down. It felt like a supremely itchy cloud, and Sherlock extended his arms and legs and held his breath. He felt absurdly calm. There was nothing he could do right now; the one survivor’s account of the Snow Sand had explained that. Either John could save him, or he would die.

That bothered him, but he couldn’t let it. If he did, he would start to panic, and he couldn’t panic…

He felt John’s hand around his wrist. And now John was pulling him up, but it was so much slower going up than down, and Sherlock’s arm felt like it was being pulled from his socket, and now he was starting to panic, but he swallowed it down, pushed it into the cave where his heart had been hidden, shredded and bleeding, three years back…

But as John pulled him out, and he took his first breath, the cave overflowed. Too much emotion had been hidden, and his heart was stitched back together but it still ached, and Sherlock started to scream. Long, drawn out screams that echoed around the Fire Swamp.

John was holding him, and the screams turned to sobs and shaking all over, and Sherlock clung to John as tightly as he could. As the shaking began to die down at last, Sherlock realized John was covered in sand too.

“Did you d-dive in?”

“Had to, I couldn’t reach you.” John’s voice was full of pain. “Sherlock, I’m sorry, love.”

“You’ve apologized already. I did hear you.”

“But this reaction…”

“I decided to put my pain away,” Sherlock replied. “I didn’t want to look at it, so I buried it. I suppose it was just once too many.”

“You’ll never have to do it again,” John promised.

“That’s assuming I live long enough to have more emotions.”

“But love, we’re almost out. And now we know what Snow Sand looks like, and the popping fire is easy enough—”

“What about the R.O.U.S?”

“I don’t think they exist. We haven’t seen one—” John cut himself off with a shout. “Sherlock, move!”

Sherlock rolled back, away from the Snow Sand. He looked back to see an enormous rat leap at John and bury its teeth in his right shoulder.

John’s cry of pain snapped Sherlock into action. He leapt to his feet and aimed a swift kick at the rodent. It dislodged the rat from John’s shoulder, which was good, but then it leapt at Sherlock, which was Not Good.

Sherlock stumbled back as the rat hit his legs, but he stayed on his feet.

John was up too, his sword in his hand, but another rat came from behind a mossy log.

Sherlock reached for a stick, wishing he had a knife, but then he had an idea. Taking careful aim, and using all the force he could muster, he knocked the rat into the Snow Sand. The creature made one horrible shriek and then it vanished into the sand.

John was circling the other rat, one hand on his wounded shoulder.

Sherlock heard a pop. “John!”

John understood. He feinted towards the rat, leaping back just in time so the lunging rat took the brunt of the flame. It died with the same horrible shriek.

John stared at Sherlock in shock. “Right, so they do exist.”

“As I observed,” Sherlock snapped, hands shaking as he tore at his tunic. “Here, I’ll make you a bandage.”

“My clever Sherlock,” John said.

Chapter 9: Surrender

The first thing Sherlock noticed about being out of the Fire Swamp was the swift change in light. Murky dark gave way to soft afternoon light almost instantly, which showed the depth of John’s wound and the blue of his eyes, weary as they were.

The second thing was the group of soldiers waiting for them. Prince Jamiarty was at the front. “Surrender,” he said.

“You want to surrender to us?” John asked, his sword held high. “Sounds alright to me.”

“Very brave,” Prince Jamiarty said. “Don’t ruin it with stupidity.”

“How are you going to catch us?” John asked. “We survived the Fire Swamp. We could have magic for all you know.” He seemed utterly unconcerned, but Sherlock had seen that look in the Prince’s eyes before. It meant death.

Not again.

“Promise not to hurt him!” he shouted.

“What was that?” Prince Jamiarty asked.

John stared at him in horror. “What?”

Sherlock couldn’t look at him. “If I come back with you, let him go. He’s a childhood friend, a…a sailor on the pirate ship Revenge. Take him back to his ship. He isn’t the one who kidnapped me in the first place. Promise, please.” Put the pain down, put it away.

“I swear it will be done,” Prince Jamiarty said. He gestured to Sherlock. “I apologize, my love. I thought he was your captor. But of course, he is free to go. Thank you, sailor, for saving my precious darling.”

John was staring at Sherlock. “Why?” he whispered. “Why?”

Sherlock still couldn’t look him in the eye. “You’ll be safe, John. I can’t think you dead again. We’ll be alright; we’ve learned how to live without each other. Be happy, John.”

Without another word, he approached Prince Jamiarty, who signalled to Count Magnussen. Jamiarty pulled Sherlock up on the horse behind him.

“Are you hurt, love?”

“No. I’m fine.” Sherlock put his arms around his Prince and shut his eyes. And for a moment, let himself believe that maybe Prince Jamiarty did care, because he allowed the embrace and even put on hand over Sherlock’s.

Sherlock didn’t look back.

What the Prince’s signal meant was simple. It was ‘obviously we’re not going to do what I just said’.

Count Magnussen rode closer to John, who stood watching as Prince Jamiarty and Sherlock—as his whole world—rode away.

“Come, sir. We must get to your ship.”

John looked up at him, and smiled. “We are men of action. Lies do not become us.”

“Well said.”

Two of the soldiers grabbed John and began to tie his hands behind his back. John barely noticed the pain as they wrenched his shoulder. He was looking at something else.

“You have six fingers on your left hand.”

“And you are a prisoner.”

“No offence meant,” John said. “It’s just that someone was looking for you.”

Count Magnussen clubbed him before he could say another word.

A Fire Swamp, a ravine and a couple mile’s run away, Grezzik huddled among the rocks. He’d come to just in time to hear the soldiers, and he’d hidden, but what good was that? Where was he supposed to go? If Molly was dead, he didn’t want to go back to Ireni, but Ireni was better than nothing…

First he would look. At the least, he had to bury his friend…

Dread slowed his footsteps, and it was the darkest hour before dawn by the time he reached the Cliff’s edge. To his horror, there was no body, nothing. Grezzik wept as he stood by the Cliffs. Had the man in black thrown her body over the side? If so, he couldn’t bear to climb down.

No, he had to find Ireni, and if she was…if she was dead too, he would have to find somewhere else to go. Somewhere with people. He wasn’t going to be alone again.

Several miles away, Maria Montoya wandered in the darkness, head throbbing and unsure how to get back. They would meet back at the beginning. They always did.

Chapter 10: The Pit of Despair

Sherlock paced the halls of the castle. The library couldn’t hold his interest for long, but Jamiarty had suggested he stay inside. “I don’t want anyone else to take you, darling,” he said.

Sometimes Jamiarty would join him, an arm around his waist, and they would talk about the 500th anniversary of Florin, which was when they would be married. It was the first time in the three years they’d known one another that they had proper conversations, and Sherlock found that he enjoyed them. There was more to running a kingdom than he thought, and learning about it from Jamiarty, who did know what he was talking about, was enjoyable.

About two weeks after the kidnapping, Jamiarty brought Sherlock a woman.

“This is Sally,” he explained. “She will be our Carrier when we’re wed, if she suits you.”

The woman looked well-fed and groomed, but her eyes were full of hate. Nevertheless, she curtsied low.

“She’ll do,” Sherlock said, looking away.

Jamiarty smiled. “We’ll have our children together, Sherlock. It will be wonderful.”

“Do we have to have many?”

“Oh, no. We’ll have an heir and a spare, and we’ll get nannies to take care of them.”

Sherlock caught the desperate flash of pain in Sally’s eyes. “Why doesn’t Sally take care of them? She will have a biological link to them.”

Jamiarty considered that. “Unusual. But of course, if that’s what you wish. Sally, you will care for our children.”

“As your Highness wishes,” Sally said. But she shot Sherlock a grateful look.

There was time to figure all of this out. The 500th anniversary was still almost three weeks away, and there was still much negotiation to be done.

Unfortunately, it became immediate when the King died suddenly.

Prince Jamiarty was crowned king within three hours of his father’s last breath, and the promised beautiful wedding became a quiet ceremony in the chapel with only Jamiarty’s mother; even Mycroft couldn’t make it in time.

At noon, Sherlock stood on the balcony beside his husband, this time as their Queen. And the crowds cheered like cStamy, even in their mourning black.

“I want to walk among them,” Sherlock said.

King Jamiarty gave his consent, and Sherlock went down. The crowd parted for him, and he walked in his long coronation robe…

And one woman booed.

Sherlock startled, and the crowd fell silent. The woman was old, bent with age, and her face was twisted with hate.

“Why do you do this? Have we met?”

The woman shook her head.

“Then how have I hurt you?”

“It’s not me you’ve hurt, Queen of Trash! Your true love lives, and you marry another! Boo! Boo!”

“They would have killed John if I hadn’t gone back!”

“You had love in your hands! Better to die with it then come back to garbage! I won’t bow to you, Queen of Rubbish! Queen of Filth, Slime, Muck! Boo! Boo! BOO!”

Sherlock jerked awake, damp with sweat.

Now did anyone buy that? Anyone?

You’ve all seen the movie or read the book, haven’t you?

Whoops, I think I just broke the fourth wall twice.

It was still three weeks away, and the King was fine.

Sherlock took just enough time to throw on a pale blue robe before he sprinted down the castle hall.

Jamiarty was still awake, deep in conversation with Moran and Count Magnussen, who Sherlock ignored immediately.

“I cannot marry you. I love John, and always have. I have tried, I have, but believe me, if you tell me I must marry you in three weeks, believe that I will be dead by morning.”

Jamiarty got to his feet. “I could never cause you grief, Sherlock. I’m sorry. Consider our engagement ended.”

It was that easy? Sherlock felt a flickering of doubt, but he nodded his head.

“The thing is, Sher…are you certain that he would still want you? You did abandon him. In front of a large group of people.”

“He will always come for me. Always.”

“I hope that’s true.” Jamiarty pursed his lips. “How about this? You write four copies of a letter, and I will send my four fastest ships in each direction. The Revenge is generally around Florin this time of year. We’ll deliver the message, and if John wants you, I’ll send you the best of wedding gifts.” Jamiarty hesitated. “If not…well. I’m afraid I may have gone back on our bargain, Sherlock. I have developed feelings for you. I have been trying to learn to be a good husband, for you. If John says no…will you consider me as an alternative to suicide?”

Sherlock was touched. “Of course, Jamiarty. I didn’t…I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t fret about it. You can’t help being so beautiful.” The emotion slipped behind the careful royal mask once more. “In the mean time, perhaps we should carry on as is. I don’t want your reputation to suffer, no matter what happens.”

“Thank you, Jamiarty.” To his own surprise, Sherlock found himself kissing Jamiarty’s cheek, and letting his ex-fiancé hold him for a moment. “I’ll go write that letter.”

He inclined his head to the other men and left the room, bursting with excitement.

Sally lay on her cushion at the foot of his bed. “What’s happened, Freak?”

“Looks like you’ll be getting what you want after all,” Sherlock said. Despite her initial gratitude, the two of them had spent most of their time together sniping at each other. Sherlock guessed it was because Sally was afraid he knew about her strictly forbidden dalliances with the idiotic guard Anderson. He did indeed know, but he hadn’t found a moment yet to tell her that of course he wouldn’t reveal that. The penalty was death, and as irritating as she was, the other Carriers were far worse.

Not that it mattered now.

“I’m not going to marry Prince Jamiarty. I’m free to marry John. I suppose you won’t be needed.”

He closed his eyes and leaned back.

John, unfortunately, was not on the Revenge.

He was certain he wasn’t on any kind of ship at all.

Beyond that, he hadn’t the foggiest.

He was chained to a table in a dark room. There was one candle, and just before it sputtered out a silent albino would appear. He would dress John’s wound, which was healing nicely, feed him, ignore all of John’s questions, and leave. That left John alone with his thoughts quite a bit. He’d had a touch of fever the first week, and hadn’t been able to process much, but now his mind was clear. He could hear the faint sound of different kinds of animals above his head, so he had to be under something, but beyond that…

He’d tried wriggling out of his chains as he regained strength, but it was hopeless. They were far too thick, bolted into the metal walls. He’d tried shouting, but no one came. The only response had been a roar of a lion and the high shriek of some nightmarish bird.

It was enough to drive someone mad, but John was good at being alone in body, because he was never alone in mind.

In his mind, Sherlock came to him, and explained that it had been fear and fear alone that sent him away. “Of course I love you, John. Of course you’re mine, and I’m yours. I’m free now, I got away, all on my own. And we’ll go away and have our own adventures together, I promise. Let’s talk about them, shall we?”

After nearly three years of thinking Sherlock didn’t love him, having a dream Sherlock who loved him, really loved him, was more than enough to keep him patient. His opportunity would come.

The door creaked open, which jolted John out of his musings. The albino came in with the usual stew. It wasn’t gourmet by any standards, but it was warm, nourishing and tasted pretty good. That food, coupled with the treatment, made him suspect that he was in for trouble.

Torture.

It didn’t matter. He could cope with torture.

“Where am I?” He asked the albino as he cleaned John’s shoulder. It was pretty well healed now, a day or two would do it. It would probably help if he was allowed to sit up and actually exercise the limb, but who was he to talk?

To his shock, the albino answered.

“The Pit of Despair.”

John swore. “Should have known.”

“Not your fault. You’re from away, aren’t you?”

“No. But it’s been a while.” John decided to risk another question. “Why are you curing me?”

“The Prince and the Count want you at full physical health before they start in on you.”

“They are aware I didn’t kidnap Sherlock, right?” He would never let Sherlock’s royal title pass his lips, not ever.

“Of course they are. They know who did it. That’s not why you’re here.”

John nodded. “Thank you for answering my questions at last.”

The albino coughed. “Yes, sorry about that. I’ve had no voice for two weeks. With the miracle man gone, I’ve had to wait it out.”

“Try some tea and honey, that should help the last of it.”

“Good idea. Thanks.”

“No problem. I’m a healer, that’s what I do.”

There was pity in the albino’s face. “Listen…if you want, I can give you some poison. My cousin is Moran, they won’t kill me. It’ll be quick.”

“I can cope with whatever they throw at me.”

The albino shook his head. “You must be very brave, but nobody withstands the Machine.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

The very next morning, Count Magnussen came in for his regular visit. But this time, he brought the albino with him. They were pulling a strange contraption with them.

John kept quiet as Count Magnussen began attaching suction cups to his chest, his arms, his legs, his hands and feet, and either side of his head.

At last the Count stepped away and considered him. “No doubt you’ve guessed that your crime was not kidnapping the Princess.”

“Rather that I love Sherlock.”

“Well, more that you have any claim at all upon him. Prince Jamiarty doesn’t like to share. As for me, I want you to know that this isn’t personal at all. You seem like a worthy man. But one must be practical.”

“Of course. When I get free, I’ll do the same.”

Count Magnussen shook his head. He nodded to the albino, who scuttled out of the room. He quickly returned with a book, a quill, and an inkwell, and laid them on a small table John hadn’t noticed before. The Count opened the book, flipping past some pages.

“I study pain,” the Count said. “It’s a fascinating subject; we all experience it, but we don’t want to look directly at it. I’m writing what I expect will be the defining work on the subject.”

He walked over to the machine and slid a strap of leather between John’s teeth. “Bite down on that. It will keep your tongue whole.”

John did as he asked, his eyes fixed on the Count, who was now resting his hand on a lever. It was currently resting at 0, but the scale went up to 50. He closed his eyes. He didn’t need to see what was going to happen. He needed to focus on the techniques Murray had coached him in, how to shield your mind from pain no matter how terrible…Sherlock stood beside him…

“This being your first time, I’ll use the lowest setting.”

John heard the lever move, and heard the Machine start to respond with a great clanging and banging, but Sherlock was there…

And then he was gone, gone in a swirl of fiery haze as agony poured through his body. John’s eyes flew open, his body jerked in the chains…he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, he couldn’t stop himself from screaming, but screaming brought no relief…

It stopped at last.

The Count dipped his quill in the ink. “The principle’s quite simple, even if it took a lifetime to perfect. It’s rather like water suction, except it sucks life. I just sucked a year of your life away. We might experiment with different amounts—maybe go as high as ten at once—but I really don’t know what that would do to you. Now, how do you feel? Be honest, this is for posterity.”

In terror, and hopelessness, and helplessness, and agony so great he still couldn’t quite catch his breath, John sobbed.

Chapter 11: The Thieves’ Quarters

It had been two weeks now, and Sherlock was getting impatient.

He walked down the hall, and knocked on Jamiarty’s door.

“Come in.”

Sherlock poked his head in, and saw Jamiarty there with Moran. He nodded to both men. “Any word from John?”

Jamiarty shook his head sadly. “Too soon, angel. Perhaps tomorrow? It will take at least that long.”

Sherlock nodded again and left. There wasn’t much point in hanging about.

The moment Sherlock’s footsteps had faded, Jamiarty bent close to Moran. “He is what I’ve called you here to discuss. I’ve heard a reliable rumour that killers from Guilder aim to kill my beloved on our wedding night.”

“My spy network’s heard nothing of the sort, my Prince. Are you sure?”

“I have many sources,” Prince Jamiarty assured him. “Some you cannot know, for your own safety.”

His source, of course, was his own imagination. Well, his and Count Magnussen, to give credit where credit is due. It was the Count who suggested The Woman’s Crowd to kill Sherlock, but it was Prince Jamiarty’s plan. It was the greatest hunt of his life, and he was hunting for war, the greatest way to begin the greatest war.

He hadn’t wanted to get married; the bother of finding someone beautiful who would also be tolerable for an entire engagement was too much. But Sherlock had practically come gift-wrapped, and Jamiarty had enjoyed watching the journey from peasant to Princess. He even enjoyed the challenge of playing stupid for someone who might actually be clever enough to spot the lie. Only Sherlock hadn’t been, so far. Oh well. He wasn’t going to survive, no matter how clever he was.

The first attempt had failed, but you didn’t give up on a prize like war with Guilder because of a common pirate. Now Watson was in the Count’s clutches, and the kingdom had grown to adore Sherlock, to believe in their love story. The outrage and grief when Sherlock was strangled on their wedding night would be beautiful. It really had worked out for the best.

“I will do whatever it takes to protect the Princess,” Moran said.

Prince Jamiarty snapped out of it. “Good man. I knew I could depend on you. I want the Thieves’ Quarters emptied.”

“Emptied, your Highness? Before the wedding? I will need extra people.”

“Form a Brute Squad. Do what you must. I want my Princess safe!”

Three days before the wedding, the Thieves’ Quarters was nearly empty. Most of the thieves went quietly. They knew they’d be out of jail soon, there weren’t enough cells for all of them. That was the whole point of the Thieves’ Quarters.

There was one woman left. One woman sitting alone on the steps of the Thieves’ Alehouse. (Even criminals get to have easy access to alcohol).

She’d already injured half the Brute Squad.

“I am waiting for Ireni!” she screamed as the latest staggered away bleeding. “I will not be moved!”

“The Prince gave orders you bitch!” Another Brute launched at her, and her sword flashed. He howled, pressing a hand to his arm.

“Ireni gave orders too! We wait when a job goes bad, wait where we started!” The woman’s words were slurred. “I am waiting for Ireni…”

“You really are a meanie.”

That Brute came up behind her, picked her up as gently as if she were a doll. The woman struggled for only an instant before she appeared to recognize him.

“It’s you,” she whispered, looking up at the giant.

“True,” he replied.

The other Brute lunged at them, but the giant Brute knocked him down with one quick blow. Then he sat down with the woman in his lap, held like a baby.

“You don’t look so good, Molly.”

Maria waved away his concerns. “M’fine,” she slurred.

“You don’t smell so good either,” Grezzik said. “Don’t worry, Molly. I will take care of you.”

He took her inside the alehouse. “No more wine,” he told her sternly as he set her in a booth.

“Don’t want it,” Maria murmured, slumping over. “Hate it. It’s vile.”

“Then why do you drink it?” Grezzik asked. He was looking for food, and found some stew that tasted somewhat fresh. It had meat and vegetables in it, so he dished up a bowl.

“Thought you were dead,” Maria replied. “Thought you and Ireni might be dead. And we failed. And I had nowhere else to go, and nothing to do.”

Grezzik brought her the bowl, and held the spoon for her as she tried to eat. “I’m here now,” he said. He took a deep breath. “Ireni is dead.”

Maria slumped forward, and Grezzik grabbed her. “Molly!”

It took a few moments to coax her out of her swoon, but when she was more alert Molly seemed calm. “That’s a shock,” she managed. “How?”

“I found her body. I believe it was poison; there were no wounds. There were two cups, but the man in black and the Princess were gone.”

Molly bowed her head. “I suppose she died doing what she loved.”

“True.” Grezzik pulled Molly’s matted hair away from her face and tried to run his fingers through it, but the knots were too thick. “But it will be alright, Molly. We are together again, and everything will be fine.”

“We will find a way, without wine.”

“See, you’re making rhymes again!” Grezzik said proudly. Then he remembered his second piece of news. “The six-fingered man is Count Magnussen. He lives in the castle with Humperdinck.”

Molly fell sideways that time, and several minutes of calling her name accomplished nothing.

Grezzik sighed. “I suppose you need less wine in you before you hear news like that.”

He left Maria covered by his Brute’s cloak and went hunting for buckets. He filled one with icy cold water, and heated a kettle near to boiling to fill the other. Then, as gently as he could, Grezzik began dunking Molly’s head, first in one bucket, then another, making sure he gave her two seconds in between to breathe.

Eventually Molly wriggled away, her hair dripping. “That’s ENOUGH!” She shouted. Her eyes were clearer now, and there was a fire in them Grezzik hadn’t seen in quite a while. “Where is he? Where is Count Magnussen, Grezzik?!”

“In the castle with the Prince,” Grezzik repeated. “They are friends.”

Molly swore. “All this time…How is the castle guarded?”

“Because of the wedding, the guards have been doubled. I believe there are thirty.”

“How many could you handle?”

“Some of them are on the Brute Squad, so…perhaps ten? Twelve, if they were slow.”

Mplly took a second to work that out. “So twenty for me. Even at my best, I couldn’t fight that many, and certainly not on five weeks of wine!” She sank into a chair. “I need Ireni’s planning. I have no gift for strategy.”

“But Ireni is dead.”

“Yes,” Molly murmured. “You’re right. I need her better. I need the man in black.”

“What?”

“He beat me with steel, he beat you with strength, yes?” Maria began to pace. “He must have out-thought Ireni! Anyone who can do that can plan my castle onslaught with no problem!”

“But he’s been taken back to his ship,” Grezzik said. “He sails with the Dread Pirate Roberts. Messengers have been dispatched to find him, because the Princess loves him.”

Molly stopped dead in her tracks. “The Princess loves him? How do you know?”

“I’m not supposed to,” Grezzik said guiltily. “But Moran mentioned it one night. He thought the Prince is being very kind to give him a chance to be happy with another and still put in all this effort, especially when there’s so much concern about Guilder. Since they kidnapped the Princess; that’s why we were clearing out the Quarters.”

Molly shook her head. “There are a few things wrong with that, my friend. In the first, it is inconceivable that a man that talented would be anything other than Roberts himself. So that must be a lie. And he went to great effort for the Princess; he would be here by now if he could. Therefore he cannot. And Grezzik—Guilder didn’t kidnap the Princess. We did.”

“That’s right.” Grezzik frowned. “And wouldn’t Prince Jamiarty know that?”

“Yes, the noble Prince Jamiarty, who has always wanted war,” Molly replied. “The noble man who is now searching for the beloved of his own intended…no, Grezzik, I think the man in black is in trouble.”

“You are right, and with the wedding tonight…”

“We have no time to waste!” Molly grabbed her sword again, and almost looked like her old self. “We must find him!”

“But Molly, we don’t know where he is!”

“Don’t bother me with trifles. After twenty years I have a name and a way to him. There will be blood tonight!”

Chapter 12: Ultimate Suffering

Sherlock met Prince Jamiarty with Moran in his office once more.

Moran bowed. “I was telling your fiancée that the Thieves’ Quarter is empty. Your safety is ensured, my Princess.”

Prince Jamiarty beamed as he moved to take Sherlock’s hands. “And our wedding will go ahead as planned! Tonight we marry, and tomorrow we depart for our honeymoon. All the ships in our Armada will follow us out of the Channel, and we will have a glorious time, my darling.”

“Every ship but your four fastest,” Sherlock corrected.

Prince Jamiarty blinked.

And Sherlock understood. He saw, for the first time ever, two masks shift. He caught a glimpse of something truly terrifying; a man with beating heart without a soul, without conscience, without mercy.

And yet he was unafraid.

“Well, naturally not those four, darling,” Prince Jamiarty said. “Moran, will you excuse us?”

Moran left, and before he did Sherlock had moved across the room. There were daggers on the Prince’s desk.

Jamiarty laughed. “Come now, Sherlock, don’t be predictable. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Best to be prepared,” Sherlock retorted. “You never sent the ships. Don’t lie to me anymore.”

“Alright, I won’t.”

And with that statement, the coldness came into his eyes. Sherlock had only ever caught flashes and dismissed them. After all, wasn’t his own heart far colder?

But no, because a heart that was broken and bleeding hot blood couldn’t be as cold as that.

“You’re clever,” Sherlock breathed. “Really, really clever.”

“At last, he gets it!” Jamiarty clapped his hands. “Yes, of course I’m clever. It’s been fun playing stupid, but time for the charade to end.”

“Yes, indeed. John will come for me and take me away from you.”

“You’re a stupid boy.”

“Yes, I am stupid. For not seeing that you’re clever. Clever and a coward.”

“I would not say such things if I were you.” The grin was gone from Jamiarty’s face, replaced by an unsettling stillness.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, stepping forward, away from the knives. “You can’t hurt me. John and I are bound by love, and you can’t break that with a thousand swords. It’s the two of us against the rest of the world, and always will be. And when I say you are a coward, it’s because you are the slimiest weakling ever to crawl the earth, no matter how often you hunt!”

Prince Jamiarty grabbed him, yanked him into his arms and ran down the hall to Sherlock’s room. “That was a mistake, darling,” he spat as he threw Sherlock bodily into his room. He rushed out of the castle.

When Jamiarty got to the room with John and the Count, he ignored the Count’s surprised shout and went straight to John. He looked weaker, drained—he’d lost fifteen years of his life already.

“He really loves you,” Jamiarty whispered to John. “And you truly love him, and you could have been really, truly happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, no matter what the stories say. And so I think no man will suffer more than you now.”

He wrenched the Machine’s dial in one swift movement.

“Not to fifty!” the Count shouted, but it was too late.

John had already began to scream.

Everyone in the capital heard that scream, from Sherlock in his room who shuddered and wondered at the source, to the nearly-deaf King, to the youngest baby who wailed right back…

But only one person knew what it was.

“Grezzik!” Maria shouted. “That is the Man in Black!”

“How do you know?”

“It is the sound of Ultimate Suffering,” Maria answered, running in the direction of the sound. “My heart made that sound when Count Magnussen slew my father. Princess Sherlock marries tonight, who else has cause for that noise?”

A crowd was gathering as people discussed the noise.

“Grezzik,” Maria said desperately, because the scream was starting to fade, “please, help!”

“EVERYBODY MOVE!” Grezzik yelled.

The crowd parted, stunned into silence, and Maria sprinted in the direction of the noise.

Stam the albino shuddered as he picked up his wheelbarrow. He had to dispose of Watson’s body, but his ears were still ringing with the man’s cry. “Damn shame,” he muttered, feeling guilty all over again as the words came out easily, soothed by the man’s recommendation of tea and honey.

They were ringing so badly he didn’t hear the giant until he was right in front of him and there was a blade at his throat.

The blade was held by a scarred woman with fire in her eyes. “Where is the Man in Black?”

“Who?” It was a fair question.

“The prisoner of the Count and Prince.”

Stam hesitated. He didn’t want to give the wrong answer, but this wasn’t the kind of woman you lied to. “He’s dead.”

“You lie.”

“I am not. Are you his friend?”

“I hoped to be. Show me.” The fire was starting to fade in the woman’s eyes. “Was it the Count?”

“The Count began it,” Stam said as he opened the secret door, the path that skipped all of the poor creatures kept for Jamiarty��s amusement. “But the Prince finished it.”

The giant put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Molly…”

“No, Grezzik! I have yet to earn that name back.” She brushed past Stam, storming down the stairs.

Hopelessly confused, Stam followed her down, the giant behind him.

When they reached the Pit of Despair, the woman was already there, her head pressed to Watson’s chest. She stood up when the giant entered. “Grezzik?” There was terrible hope in her eyes, the kind that might break you even if it is fulfilled.

Grezzik obediently bent his own head to Watson’s chest. He listened for a long time, long enough that Stam hoped he’d been mistaken, maybe the shock and pain had sent Watson into a waking sleep, but the giant stood and shook his head.

“He’s dead.”

“It just isn’t fair,” the woman whispered.

Of course, life isn’t fair. Everyone in that room knew it, down to the bones that had given them frames for their trouble and the hearts that had broken more than once. Even stories aren’t fair.

Chapter 13: Miracle Worker

But life goes on in spite of that.

“Grezzik, how does the Brute Squad pay?”

“Well. Maria, what does this have to do with anything?”

“How much do you have with you.”

“Sixty silver pieces. Maria…what do we need money for?”

“I hope that’s enough to buy a miracle. Come, bring the body.”

“Are you going to Miracle Max?”

Maria started. The albino—Stam—was watching them both.

Maria answered. “I’m hoping he will help.”

“Then I’m coming with you. I have money too, and I want to help this man.”

“You were his jailer.”

“I tried to free him. But he refused. He wants to save his Princess, and I want to see that happen. I have a wheelbarrow, we can use that.”

Grezzik picked up John’s body in one hand, grabbing hold of Maria with the other.

“Right. Well…I know where Max is.”

“Really? Show us. I’m not comfortable leaving you here anyways.” Maria glared at Stam. “I do not trust you.”

“I don’t know why you would. But I’m done with this land. I’ve only stayed because of my cousin, but if he’s thrown his lot in with a man like Jamiarty…I cannot stand here and see that happen.”

“Good man,” Maria said shortly. “Now come, we’ve no time to waste.”

A short while later, they were at a cottage. Maria pounded on the door.

“Go away!” the voice through the door sounded thoroughly out of sorts. Maria didn’t care, and continued to pound.

A small window in the door opened, and an old man’s face peeked out. “Beat it, alright? Or I’m calling the Brute Squad.”

“I’m on the Brute Squad,” Grezzik said, stepping into view.

“You are the Brute Squad,” the old man corrected. “Look, what do you want?”

“Miracle Max?” Stam grinned at him. “We need your help.”

“Mikey?” The irritation in the old man’s face vanished. “Look at you! What are you hanging around with types like these for? And why has it been a dog’s age or two since you’ve been by?”

“Seb got promoted, and Jamiarty—”

Max spat.

“Sorry. But Seb asked that I just stay close to the palace.”

Max snorted. “You do too much for that cousin of yours.”

“He’s the only family I have left, Max.”

“Well I have a witch for a wife, but you don’t see me belching up frogs!”

“Sir,” Maria interrupted. “I apologize, but we’re in a rush.”

“What’s the matter?”

“He’s dead.”

“I’m good with dead. Bring him in.”

Grezzik laid the man in black on the miracle man’s table. Miracle Max poked his chest a few times, and bent his head and listened.

“I’ve seen worse. You got money?”

“We have eighty silver pieces between us,” Stam—Mikey?—said hopefully.

“Pft. I’ve never worked for so little in my life, not even for friends. Except once, and that was a noble cause.”

“This is noble, sir,” Maria replied. “His wife is a cripple, and their twelve children will starve without him…”

“You’re a rotten liar.”

“I need his help to avenge my father!”

“I liked your other story better. Why don’t we just ask him—what’s his name, anyways?”

“John,” Mikey replied. “But how can you ask him? He’s dead.”

“He’s only mostly dead. There’s sort-of dead, mostly dead, and all dead. With all dead, there’s only one thing you can do.”

“Which is what?”

“Go through their pockets and look for loose change,” Miracle Max snorted. He picked up a bellows. “One of you open his mouth.”

Grezzik obeyed, and Miracle Max inserted the bellows into John’s mouth and began to pump air into his chest. Maria watched, spellbound, as the man’s chest began to rise.

After a few pumps, Miracle Max took it out. “Hey, HELLO IN THERE! What’s so important? What you got worth living for?”

He pressed down on John’s chest.

To Maria’s shock, the dead man’s voice spoke. “Truuuuuu loooooovvvvv.”

“True love!” she cried. “There is no nobler cause than that.”

“Of course there isn’t,” Miracle Max stumbled over his words. “True love is the best thing there is, except for MLTs. You know, mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwiches? But that’s not what he said! He said ‘to blave’, which means to bluff! So you were probably playing games, and he cheated—”

“Liar! Liar! Liar!”

A woman had appeared out of nowhere, golden hair turning gray and clutching a frying pan.

“Get back, witch!”

“I’m not a witch, I’m your wife!” The woman was shaking with indignation. “True love, he said true love, Max!”

“This doesn’t concern you, Martha!”

“You’re afraid!” Martha accused him. “Ever since Prince Jamiarty fired you—”

“Why did you say that name?! You promised me you would never say that name!”

“What, Jamiarty?” Martha said slyly.

“Yes!”

“Jamiarty, Jamiarty, Jamiarty!” Martha cried, beginning to chase Miracle Max around the room, who had his hands over his ears. “Jamiarty, and he’s the reason you’re letting true love die!”

“John is Princess Sherlock’s true love!” Maria cut in.

“Wait.” Miracle Max stopped. “I make him better, Jamiarty suffers?”

“The greatest of humiliations.”

“Woohoo!” Miracle Max rushed to a shelf and crammed on a hat that looked as old as he was. “That’s what I call a noble cause!”

He lifted John’s hand, and his face went gray.

“What’s the matter?” Grezzik asked.

Miracle Max didn’t answer. He turned John’s hand palm up. There was a birthmark on his wrist, a small, nearly-perfect circle.

Martha gasped. “It can’t be…”

“What is it?” Maria asked.

Martha’s eyes filled with tears. “We had one daughter, and she married and had a son. When her child was two, the three of them moved, and a few years later we heard that they’d…that they were all killed.”

“What was her husband’s name?”

“Hamish. Hamish Watson.”

“That’s his last name!” Grezzik blurted. “That’s what Moran called him.”

Miracle Max traced the birthmark. “Put your money away. I don’t charge for family.”

*********

The next few hours passed in a blur, as Maria, Grezzik and Stam (he didn’t like being called Mikey) helped to gather ingredients. Stam snuck to the castle at one point to look at the festivities and gather information. He came back in time to see Miracle Max and Martha applying a coat of chocolate to the pill.

“That’s a Miracle Pill?”

“The chocolate makes it go down easier,” Martha said distractedly. She was holding John’s hand as she brushed the pill, covering it carefully. “What’s the news from the castle?”

“There are sixty men at the gate,” Stam said with a grimace.

“You are not dragging my grandson into this mess!” Miracle Max snapped. “I’m not bringing him back to lose him again!”

“He won’t be fighting,” Maria promised. “We’re going to avoid engaging as much as possible. We just need to steal the Princess and I need to kill the Count, then we’re gone.”

“And get past sixty men, the Prince and all the rest of his guards in the process,” Miracle Max retorted. “That doesn’t sound safe, and he’s not going to be at full strength, you realize.”

“I’ll protect him.”

They all looked at Stam.

“I’m telling you, Seb might be loyal to the Prince, but the guards are loyal to him. They’re scared of him, too. They’ll leave me alone, and if they don’t…” Stam drew a wicked looking knife from his belt. “I trained with Seb. I’ll defend John until he can fight himself.”

Miracle Max sighed. He took the pill and gave it to Maria. “I want him back in one piece.”

“I think you two should pack up and be ready to leave,” Stam said.

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t imagine any of us want to stay in Florin, right? I have a boat, we can leave that way.”

“How come you haven’t left already, if you are so ready?” Grezzik asked.

“Family’s important. And I had a good job. Besides, I had no real reason to go other than hating the Prince, and that’s most of this country. I was just waiting for an excuse.”

“If you’re offering a way out, we’ll take it,” Martha said. “I’ve always wanted to see London.”

“That’s where the Princess’ brother lives, right? Won’t the Prince expect us to go there?”

“We have to go somewhere. And London’s just a start.”

“The wedding starts at sunset,” Grezzik said suddenly.

Everyone looked out the window. The sun was starting to dip, giving the leaves a golden edge.

“Time to go,” Miracle Max said. He watched as Grezzik picked up John, and looked at Stam. “Is your boat down at the old dock?”

“Yes. It has plenty of room.”

“We’ll be there by nightfall. We don’t have much to bring.”

Stam gave the old man a hug. “Wait until the moon is high in the sky. We’ll be there by then.”

Miracle Max brushed him off. “Take care of John. Give him the pill in half an hour, for full potency.”

The four left the cottage.

“See you soon!”

“Don’t let John go in swimming!” Martha called. “Have fun storming the castle!”

Maria saluted them with her sword, and they disappeared into the forest.

“Think it’ll work?” Miracle Max asked Martha.

“It’ll take a miracle,” Martha said. “Lucky they have one.”

Chapter 14: Storming and Mawwiage

“You don’t seem very interested, darling.”

“Should I be?” Sherlock turned his head.

Sally was packing his clothes for him for the honeymoon. She would hold up a garment and Sherlock would either nod or shake his head. They’d been at it for hours.

So pointless.

“Brides generally are when they pack for their honeymoon.”

“I’m not getting married tonight, so there will be no honeymoon. John will save me.”

Prince Jamiarty nodded. “Of course. It’s nearly time to get dressed.”

“Very well.” Only another hour. “Leave me.”

As a matter of fact, it was forty-five minutes, but Sherlock didn’t know that.

Grezzik set John down gently just beside the castle wall. Molly was calmer now, and that scared him. “Shouldn’t we wait longer?”

Molly shook her head. ��We don’t have much more time. The wedding will start in forty five (thirty) minutes by the clock. He needs to be awake.”

Grezzik sat the unconscious man upright and opened his mouth. Stam was pacing nervously, glancing at John every couple of seconds.

Molly put the miracle pill between John’s lips. Then she frowned. “We’ll have to force feed him. Hold him steady.”

Grezzik watched as his friend stroked John’s throat, watched the pill go down. His skin was crawling; this man was dead. He believed in Molly, but he’d felt death before. He’d carried both of his parents to their final resting places, felt the same cold stillness. What if they had only been mostly dead? But no, he’d sat with them for days, and Miracle Max had explained when he sent Grezzik out for frog dust that time would kill even those who were merely sort-of dead.

Even still, he nearly jumped out of his skin when John opened his eyes, looked rapidly at both of them, and began to shout.

“I beat you both apart, I’ll take you both together!”

Molly clamped a hand over his mouth. “It’s alright, you’re safe.”

“Who are you? Are we enemies? Why can’t I move? Where’s Sherlock?”

“We are not enemies,” Grezzik said. That seemed like the most important question. Best to do them in order. “My name is Grezzik, and this is—this is Maria. And Stam.”

John’s eyes flickered towards the albino. “So that’s your name.”

“Yes.”

John smiled, though it was crooked. “Should have taken you up on your offer, I suppose. But I thought…there was a moment when I knew I was dying.”

“You did die. That is why you can’t move. We had Miracle Max make a pill to bring you back.”

“He is your grandfather,” Grezzik added.

John went pale.

“Grezzik!” Maria scolded.

“Sorry!” Grezzik exclaimed.

“It’s alright,” John said. “I just…wow. I thought they were long dead. And I couldn’t remember…it doesn’t matter now. Why am I here?”

“We want to help you, so you will help us. We want to storm the castle so I can kill Count Magnussen, the six-fingered man. And we want to steal the Princess, because we fear that the Prince means to kill him.”

“Over my damn dead body,” John exploded. Then…. “oh, right. How much time do we have?”

“Less than forty-five minutes,” Grezzik said. (30 minutes, really).

“Well that doesn’t leave much time for dilly-dally.” John tapped his fingers against his chest.

“You just moved your fingers!” Grezzik said proudly.

“I’ve always been quick to heal. What are our assets?”

“My steel, Grezzik’s strength, your brains, and Stam’s knowledge of the guards.”

“That’s it? Impossible. If I had a week to plan maybe, but this can’t happen in less than an hour.” John shook his head. “Sherlock’s in there with that monster…”

“You just shook your head,” Grezzik pointed out. “That doesn’t make you happy?”

“My brains, his steel, your strength and some insider knowledge against sixty men and a castle full of guards…and you think a head shake will make me happy?!” John groaned. “You should have left me dead.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Molly snapped. “We’ll figure this out.”

John glared at her, but his eyes shifted to just behind Stam. “What is that?”

“A…wheelbarrow?” Stam replied.

“Does it work?”

“Yes.”

“Why wasn’t that listed among our assets?!” John snapped. “That will do. And…well. I don’t know where we’d get a holocaust cloak.”

Grezzik brightened. “I have one!” He pulled it off his back.

“Where did you get that?” Molly asked.

“Miracle Max said I could keep it, since it fit so nice. I needed it for the frog dust.”

John pondered for a second. “Alright. Here, help me up. Did anyone grab my sword?”

“The Count broke it,” Stam volunteered, pulling John up and wincing when he stumbled.

“You can’t lift a sword,” Grezzik pointed out, scooping John up.

“Yes, but not everyone knows that,” John said. He was being patient, Grezzik could tell.

“We’ll find you one in the Brutes’ headquarters.”

“We still have some questions to answer,” Molly said. “Once we’re inside, how do I find the Count? And how do you find the Princess? And once that’s done, how do we get out and to Stam’s boat?”

“Hey,” Grezzik said gently. “Go easy on him. He’s had a rough day.”

“Right,” Molly said. “Sorry.”

“S’alright.”

They made their way carefully down the path to the Brutes’ headquarters.

“Mol—Maria?” Grezzik whispered.

“Yes?”

“I hope we win.”

Prince Jamiarty was just setting aside his wedding gloves to write one last report when Moran arrived and knelt.

“Rise and report.”

“The Thieves’ Quarters is empty, and there are sixty men at the gate.”

“And you are sure that’s enough?”

“I will be with them. And there is only one gate key.” Sebastian Moran dug a chain out from under his shirt, revealing a tiny key on the end.

“I have every faith in you, Seb,” Prince Jamiarty said warmly. He’d always liked Seb, the best and most faithful of his hounds. Sure, Magnussen was fun, but he had complete and utter trust in Moran. “It’s a shame you’ll miss the wedding.”

Moran swallowed. “Yes. I will miss it.” He held out a scroll. “This is my resignation. Good fortune to you, my Prince.”

“What?! What are you talking about?!”

“I’ve uncovered no plot from Guilder. You’ve discovered information that I have not, and I am meant to be your security; this realm’s security. I have failed you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jamiarty said. He had to make a decision, and make it fast. “You can’t resign. I will need you when I’ve conquered Guilder.”

“Sir?”

“There is no Guilderian plot, stupid. I’m going to kill the Princess, and make it look like it was them. The country will be furious, and we’ll be at war. When I take over, you can help me run Guilder.”

Moran blinked twice. “Thank you, sir.” He straightened. “I will do what I can to help.”

“You’re welcome. And you’ll do fine. Now get to the gate. By the way, if your cousin wants to come to the wedding, he can join in.”

“I’d tell him so, but I can’t find him,” Seb frowned.

“Really? Odd. Oh well.” Jamiarty rose. “I need to go. We’re getting this wedding over with as quickly as possible.”

The wedding started twenty whole minutes early, but Sherlock didn’t mind. John could just as easily be early, and he would be looking his best. He’d designed the wedding costume back when he was committed to the marriage, and it was lovely. Diamond blue and shining, it draped his body well, and contrasted beautifully with the pearl-encrusted tiara.

Prince Jamiarty looked well enough, but Sherlock didn’t really care as they walked through the small chapel. An old bishop stood at the altar, and after they’d both knelt and he blessed them, he began to speak.

“Mawwiage is what bwings us togethuh, today. Mawwiage, that dweam within a dweam.”

Sherlock barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

Outside, the panic was beginning to set in among the guards.

The tall figure rolling menacingly towards them was bad enough. Then he began to speak.

“I am the Dread Pirate Roberts! There will be no survival, no survivors!”

Alarming, certainly. But it wasn’t until the figure burst into flames and continued to roll towards them, that everyone began to shout.

“So tweasure your wuv, forewer and ewer…”

Sherlock heard the shouting, made dim by the thick chapel walls. He glanced at Jamiarty. “Here’s John now.”

Jamiarty glanced at the Count, who left the chapel with four other warriors, Anderson among them. “Please, Bishop, can’t we skip to the end?” Then he took Sherlock’s hand and kissed it. “I must wed my beloved. Since his own is dead.”

Grezzik grinned as he leapt from the wheelbarrow and ran at the soldiers, who scattered screaming. Molly and Stam leapt out, ready to fight, but there was no one. Grezzik tossed off the flaming cloak and helped John up, supporting the man as they approached the gate. Moran was yelling at his men to stand firm, but even he gulped as they approached.

“Give us the gate key,” John ordered.

“I have no gate key.”

“Grezzik, tear his arms off,” Molly said.

“Oh, you mean this gate key?” Moran held it out, hand shaking. Then he spotted Stam. “You, cousin?”

“The Prince you serve is evil, cousin,” Stam replied. “I’ve stood by for too long.”

“I know he is,” Moran said. “I don’t care.”

“I do.”

“Your funeral.” Moran stepped aside.

“He’s not dead,” Sherlock whispered.

“I killed him myself. You can see the body later if you like.”

“Then why is there fear behind your eyes?” Sherlock challenged him.

“I do,” Jamiarty said hurriedly.

“I’m not there yet,” the bishop said.

“You’re mostly there. I do take Sherlock for my husband and my Queen.”

“And do you, Sherlock…”

“Man and husband, say man and husband!” Jamiarty snarled.

“Man and husband,” the bishop finished.

There was a deathly silence in the chapel. The shouting had stopped outside, and no one clapped. No one said a word.

“Escort the Princess to the honeymoon chamber,” Jamiarty told his parents before dashing out of the room.

“He didn’t come,” Sherlock whispered.

As the four of them made their way through the halls, Maria heard footsteps. “They’re coming,” she warned. “Give John his sword.”

Then a group of soldiers, lead by a man with a blue cloak and six fingers on his right hand, rounded the corner.

Maria had never forgotten his face. She’d forgotten so much in the work and the hunt and the wine…how her childhood home looked, the names of her teachers, the way it felt to be happy…but she’d always remembered his face.

The Count didn’t recognize her. “Kill the giant and the woman, leave the other two for questioning.” He glanced at Stam. “You’re really going to throw away everything for this?”

Stam drew his dagger, but Maria crossed in front of him. She drew her sword, the one made for the man in front of her. The guards were on her, but four quick slices and they were down.

She held her sword up and smiled.

“Hello. My name is Maria Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

The Count drew his own sword.

Then he fled.

Chapter 15: Revenge

Maria was so shocked by the Count’s flight she took a second to react. Then she was gone, after him like lightning, dashing down the palace hallways. She could always see a flash of blue as she approached each corner, she had him…

She rounded the next corner in time to see a door slam.

Maria threw herself against it, but the door was bolted, and nothing she did could break it down.

“Grezzik!” she screamed in anguish. “Grezzik, HE’S GETTING AWAY!”

The giant called to her, “I can’t leave them!”

“GREZZIK, PLEASE!”

Then Grezzik was there, and with one mighty blow he knocked it down.

“Thank you,” Maria panted, and she ran again, down a flight of stairs…

But she’d been delayed several seconds. Several seconds, just long enough for the Count to grab a sharp, three sided dagger and be ready.

When she got down the stairs, Maria caught the dagger in her stomach.

She fell to her knees, slumping against the wall, pain throbbing through her body. This type of wound could be fatal. Would be fatal.

“I’m sorry, Father,” Maria whispered. “I tried.”

The Count stared at her curiously. “Are you…are you that little Spanish bitch I taught a lesson to all those years ago?”

He approached her, and Maria tried to raise her sword, but she fell back again with a cry of pain.

The Count didn’t strike her. A cruel smile was twisting his lips.

“Have you been hunting me down ever since? And now you’ve failed, after twenty years? That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard of. How marvelous.”

Maria leaned her head against the wall, the cool stone wall for one moment. One last moment, before one last try.

Her left hand was already at her wound, and she drove it deeper, holding it together as best she could, and she pushed against the wall, helping her rise.

“Oh, you’re not still trying to win, are you? Maybe I’ll let you.”

Maria got to her feet, every breath a blast of fire in her lungs, but she was up, and she raised her sword.

The Count lunged forward with his sword, but Maria deflected it into her shoulder, which hurt, but it wasn’t serious. Then he struck again, but that blow went just above her collarbone, barely a nick…

“Hello,” Maria whispered. “My name is Maria Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.”

The Count lunged again, but this time Maria parried, sent back a blow of her own. She stepped away from the wall, and attacked. It was weak, but the Count had to deflect, and he took a step back to do so.

“Hello, my name is Maria Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.”

The Count was back against the table now, but he spun away, but Maria knew that move, had studied that move since she was thirteen, and she attacked again, and this time the Count got a hit on his right hand.

“Hello, my name is Maria Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die!” And now her voice was stronger, and the pain was meaningless, and she was standing tall.

“Stop saying that!”

And Maria attacked, attacked using the same moves she’d used on the Cliffs, but the Count wasn’t the Man in Black, and he backed up desperately.

“Hello! My name is Molly Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die!”

She had him against the table again, her sword at his throat, his sword on the ground.

“Offer me money.”

She slashed her blade against the left side of his face.

“Of course.” The Count was white now, pale as a ghost.

“Power too, promise me that!” A strike to his right cheek, now his face was covered in flowing blood.

“All that I have and more. Please…”

“Offer me everything I ask for!”

“Anything you want.”

Maria took a deep breath, then snarled with all her grief and fury, “I want my father back you son of a bitch!”

The Count screamed and fell dead at her feet, dead of fear.

Maria knelt, to check that he was truly gone. Her head was swimming now, and the pain was coming back, but he was dead and gone and her wound was not fatal after all.

“My name is Molly Montoya,” she whispered to the corpse, “you killed my father, and now you are dead. Rot in hell.”

And Molly left the room.

Chapter 16: To The Pain

Sherlock didn’t speak as the King and Queen escorted him to the honeymoon suite.

“A very strange wedding,” the Queen murmured. She patted Sherlock’s hand. “It’s good to have you in the family though, my son.”

Sherlock didn’t flinch, he was too cold to do that. He just bowed his head.

The King patted his shoulder when he reached the door. “Jamiarty will be along soon,” he promised.

Sherlock kissed his cheek.

“What was that for?”

“You’ve always been so kind, and I won’t be seeing you again, since I’m killing myself.”

The Queen had already left, and the King was very deaf, so it was safe.

“Won’t that be nice!” the King said. “You must show it to me when you return.”

He patted Sherlock’s shoulder again and left.

Sherlock entered the suite. It was a lovely room, supposedly, but Sherlock hardly saw it. Sally was there, her eyes huge.

“Leave, Sally. Find Anderson and go. Your services won’t be necessary.”

Sally looked at him. “But—”

“Go!”

Sally fled.

Sherlock sat at the desk and opened the box of knives he’d ordered for Jamiarty. A wedding present, for a husband who loved to hunt. There was a dagger that would kill anything in ten seconds…a nearly painless death.

He’d avoided suicide before, he wouldn’t do it again.

Sherlock raised the blade, rested the point against his aching heart. He closed his eyes…

“Sherlock, dear, I know you think the body’s transport, but you do need your heart to live.”

Sherlock whirled.

John lay on the bed. The curtains had hidden him from Sherlock’s first cursory glance around the room. He looked exhausted, his body limp.

He was beautiful.

Sherlock launched himself at the bed, the knife clattering to the floor. “John!”

He landed on top of John, and kissed every inch of his face. “Oh, my dear, you’re here!”

John returned a few of his kisses, but he didn’t move his hands.

“Why won’t you hold me, John?”

“Gently, please, love.”

Sherlock heard the catch in John’s voice. He took John’s face in his hands, saw the pain, the strange hollowness in his eyes. “What did he do to you?”

“Sher, there’s not time for that right now. I’ve been healed, I just need time, alright? It is good to see you.”

“I’m so sorry. He tricked me. He’s cleverer than me.”

“No one’s as clever as my Sherlock.” John raised a hand to Sherlock’s face.

Then Sherlock remembered. “Oh no, I…John, can you forgive me?”

“What have you done?”

“I got married. I didn’t want to, they made me, and it happened so fast—”

“And it never happened.”

“What?”

“Stam spoke to a guard on our way here. Apparently you never said I do, so if you never said it, it never happened.”

Relief filled Sherlock, and he laid his head on John’s chest. Then he sat up again. “Who the hell is Stam?”

“He helped Maria and Grezzik get me here. He’s—oh, there he is. You haven’t hurt him, have you your Highness?”

Sherlock whirled. Jamiarty stood in the doorway, a knife against an albino’s throat.

“Of course not, can’t waste a good blade on that kind of filth.”

John shifted Sherlock off of him. “Let him go, Jamiarty.”

The prince did, shoving the pale man to the ground. He tossed the knife on the table and drew his sword. “To the death.”

“No. To the pain.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“Of course you wouldn’t understand that.” John had a sword at his side, and he tilted the blade. “I’ll explain, and I’ll use small words so that your small mind may understand.”

“That’s the first time anyone’s dared insult me.”

“To your face, pig. To the pain means that the first thing you’ll lose will be your feet at the ankles, then your hands at the wrists. Next your tongue, which will be a relief to everyone.”

“I killed you too quickly last time, and I won’t be making that mistake again.”

“I’m not finished! I will take your left eye and then your right.”

“And then my ears, of course!”

“Wrong!” And John’s voice was terrible, his eyes blazing. “You keep your ears, so that you can hear every scream, every wail, every word of hatred and disgust that greets your appearance. You will hear the cries of pity and of condemnation, of horror and disbelief, and they will echo forever in your perfect ears.”

“I think you’re bluffing.” Jamiarty had faltered though; he’d taken a half-step back.

“It’s possible, you warthog-faced buffoon. I could be lying here because I lack the strength to stand.”

John slid to the edge of the bed, sword at the ready as he rose to his feet. “Or maybe I don’t, after all. Drop. Your. Sword.”

Prince Jamiarty’s sword fell from his hand.

“Sit down, your Highness, and please allow your ex-fiancé and my friend Stam to tie you up.”

Sherlock rushed to the chair and grabbed hold of some scarves. “Your name is Stam?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. If you’re a friend of John’s you’re a friend of mine.”

“I’m glad you two are together again,” Stam replied. He yanked the scarves tight, trapping Jamiarty’s ankles against the rough edges of the chair. “It wasn’t right, you being apart.”

“I know. It’s not happening again.”

“No it’s bloody not,” John agreed. “I’ve left you, and you sent me away. We’ve already had those moments, and we can stay together now.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Why don’t you two just elope already then?” Jamiarty snarled.

“Nonsense. We’ll get married, and have a lovely cake and you can’t have any.” John turned pale, and he put a hand around the bedpost.

“John?”

“It’s alright, love. Is he secure?”

“He should be.”

“Good, we can leave.”

That was a new voice. Sherlock looked up and saw one of his abductors, her face drawn with pain and stomach covered with blood. “You’re Maria, right?”

“Molly.” Pained as she was, Molly smiled. “It’s good to see you safe, Princess.”

John grinned. “You got him, then?” “I did. Where is Grezzik?”

“He’s not with you?”

“No.”

“Then where’s he gone?” John started to tremble, and he clutched at the post. “Molly, you need help, the blood…”

“John?” Sherlock was at his side in an instant. “John, what’s wrong?”

“He has no strength,” Molly explained. “His healing will take longer.”

“I knew he was bluffing!” Jamiarty exclaimed.

“Shut your face,” Stam snapped.

Jamiarty’s eyes went cold as he stared at the albino. “Your cousin must be disappointed.”

“He is. He’s disowned me. Punishing him will only make you suffer his loss.”

Jamiarty looked away. “I’d never hurt Seb. Not unless he asked me for it.”

“Good.”

“Molly!”

Another new voice. Molly dashed to the window, and Sherlock followed, his arm around John’s waist to support him.

“Molly, there you are!” the giant stood in the courtyard, with five white horses standing around him. “I was looking for you and I couldn’t find you, but I found these lovely horses and I thought they could help us escape. I thought there were five of them and five of us, once we found the Princess. Hello, Princess.”

“Hello!” Sherlock waved. “That was clever!”

Grezzik blushed. “It happens every once in a while. Jump down, and I’ll catch you.”

So they did, one by one. But once they were on the ground, Sherlock didn’t want to let go of John. “I’ll ride with you. We can take an extra horse.” Then Sherlock looked around.

“Sally, is that you?”

Sally peeked out from behind the courtyard post. “You’re leaving too?”

“Who is that, Sherlock?”

“She was going to be my Carrier.”

John’s lips tightened.

“Is Anderson with you?” Sherlock asked.

Sally dragged Anderson out. “Can we come with you?”

“Sure. You two can ride on this horse.”

Once everyone was seated, they started to ride. John had removed his over shirt to make a bandage for Molly’s wound, and his bare arms were almost glowing in the moonlight. Sherlock traced the scars on them; some old, and some so recent they broke his heart.

“We’re alright, love.” John turned his head, and kissed Sherlock. “We’re alright.”

Sherlock kissed him back, not caring where the horse was going, where they were. They were together, and they were free.

Chapter 17: Sound and Silence

It should have only been an hour ride, but the effort to avoid leaving a trail took an extra hour, and allowing Molly and John occasional breaks took another. But they were still well within their deadline when they got to Stam’s boat.

John helped Sherlock down from his horse. His legs were wobbling madly and the world was a bit shakier than usual, but he was lucid and his heart was pumping normally, though it skipped a beat when he saw two elderly people leaving the boat.

“Is that them?” he whispered to Molly.

But then the man lit a torch, and it shone on two faces that were familiar in a dreamy way; a childhood memory blurred with time.

“John?” the woman—Nana, it was Nana—whispered.

Sherlock helped him over, and John fell into Nana and Grampy’s arms. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “You’re alive, you’re here…”

“Says my grandson, who was mostly dead earlier today.” Grampy was shaking almost as bad as John.

John turned just in time to see Sherlock collapsing into Grezzik’s arms. “Sherlock!”

“Mostly dead?” Sherlock was trembling. “John…”

“I’m here, love. Thanks to Grampy, I suppose.”

Grampy patted his shoulder. “We can reminisce later. But I need to have a look at that cut, young missy, and we should get out to sea before the tide goes out, or it’ll be too stressful for the other young lady.”

John looked at Sally, whose eyes were wide with fear. “Do you not like boats, Sally?”

“Pregnant stomachs don’t like them,” Grampy corrected him. “Come on, everyone on.”

John watched as Sherlock straightened and considered Sally. “I should have noticed. Yours, I presume, Anderson?”

“Of course!” Sally snapped. “I was hoping you…I’m only a few weeks along…”

“I would have protected you.”

“Glad you don’t have to.” And with that, Sally walked onto the boat, hand in hand with Anderson.

Stam shrugged at John. “They’re a strange lot, aren’t they?”

“Not a bad one,” John replied. His legs folded under him, and Grezzik lifted him up.

“All of you need to lie down,” Grezzik scolded. And he wouldn’t hear of anything else. He laid Sherlock and John together on one bench, and sat with Molly on the other as Grampy and Nana treated her wounds. Anderson and Stam got the ship moving, and they were off.

“How far is it to London?” John asked. He was suddenly quite tired.

“A few hours’ sail,” Sherlock answered. He was lying with John in his arms, his bridal gown shimmering in the darkness. “We’ll still be ahead of our enemies.”

“They’ll know we’ll head there first.”

“I’m not afraid. Are you?”

“Never. I’m with you.” And John closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, it was because Sherlock was pulling at his arm. “John, wake up, we’re here!”

John sat up. They were approaching the London docks, and the whole city was ablaze in the sunrise. It was larger than Marseille, larger than the capital, and John felt very small. He was used to the open sea, a ship where all were loyal to him…

But Sherlock was here. That was all that mattered.

There was someone waiting for them at the dock, someone John had honestly never expected to see again.

“Hello,” Mycroft called. He didn’t look at all surprised to see them. “Good heavens, there’s a lot of you. You’ve made friends, little brother.”

“Mycroft? You’ve…come down to the docks?” Sherlock sounded stunned. “That’s leg work!”

“It seemed considerate to tell you the situation as quickly as possible.” Mycroft’s face wavered. “Besides, little brother, it’s been three years, and I feared for you.” He spotted John. “Hello, John. You’ll be staying with Sherlock now, I hope?” There was no hope in his voice at all; it was pure, icy threat.

“We never meant to be apart in the first place.” John took Sherlock’s hand. “And we shan’t be again.”

“Delightful.” Mycroft stepped back as Grampy threw down the gangplank. “And Anderson, it’s good to see you. I’m delighted your mission was a success.”

“Anderson?!”

“Thank you, sir.” Anderson had removed his guard uniform, and was wearing a simple white shirt and breeches. “I’ve brought all the intel you requested.”

Sherlock, Stam and Sally were all staring at Anderson.

“Anderson’s from London,” Mycroft explained. “I needed someone inside the palace, and he volunteered. He wasn’t…well, he wasn’t meant to father a child, but his advice has been most helpful.”

Anderson blushed. “It happened on off-duty hours, sir.”

“Not to worry. Come, let’s get to the palace. I don’t believe I’ve met everyone…”

John let Sherlock make the introductions. He helped his grandparents down from the boat and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

Mycroft’s carriage was deep black, and the driver wore a mask. She tied the white horses to the back, and the whites stood patiently and let her do it.

“Why all the secrecy, brother?” Sherlock asked once everyone was inside.

“No particular reason other than custom. That’s what the Duke of London has always done.”

“So what’s been going on in London, Mycroft? And why did you need a spy?”

“Because I didn’t trust Prince Jamiarty,” Mycroft answered. “And I knew something was going to happen. I’ve been busy, these last two years, making contacts among other nations. I even let myself get conquered.”

“Conquered?” John asked, alarmed.

“Oh, Guilder was happy to do it. Princess Janine hates Jamiarty as much as he hates her, and she graciously agreed to conquer London and keep it secret. I then staged a heroic rebellion, we overthrew our usurpers, and our peace treaty made London its own country, with Princess Janine staying on as advisor. Guilder and London are still good friends, of course, and France, Archenland and Sanctaphrax have joined our cause as well. Fascinating people.”

“And what is our cause?”

“To stop Prince Jamiarty, of course. Whether that’s by war or other more diplomatic means, he cannot be allowed to continue this way.”

“And you think Guilder will help?”

“After they’ve been told that Prince Jamiarty was going to murder Princess Sherlock, and they would be framed for the crime? Absolutely,” Anderson answered.

Mycroft went still. “What?”

“I’m alright, brother. Besides, I never would have let him kill me.”

“Good.” Mycroft’s tone was brusque. “It will take a couple of weeks to ensure our readiness.”

“Long enough for both of us to heal,” Molly said, gesturing between herself and John.

“Not without my clearance,” Grampy snapped.

A few moments later they arrived at the castle. Everyone else got off, but John held Sherlock back. “You know, that rest invigorated me.”

“Oh yes?”

“Enough to hold you properly.”

“As you wish.” And Sherlock flung himself into John’s arms.

Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five that have been rated the most passionate, the most pure, and the most pure. Well, this one, in the back of a carriage at sunrise between a pirate and a Princess, left them all far behind.

The End

#sherlock fanfiction #sherlock au #johnlock #princess bride #crossover #princess bride/sherlock crossover #westley john #buttercup sherlock #humperdinck moriarty #inigo molly #fezzik greg #acme146 fanfiction #crossposted from AO3

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