Chapter Text
Songs live longer than kingdoms. - Atticus
River has been following the carriage since it left Powell. Concealed among the trees, she has trailed behind on foot for the last three days, watching closely for the right moment to enact her plan. If she makes her move too early, she risks being discovered but if she waits too long, she might miss her opportunity entirely. She won’t get another chance. It has to be perfect.
Within the carriage is a woman she has never met. Not even a woman. A young, terrified girl. And yet, she holds the key to exactly what River has been waiting years to get – a way in. Fortunately, only one guard escorts the girl into Gallifrey. There hadn’t been a need to send a whole troop of men to protect a country girl in a nice dress. She’s no one important. Not a princess or a courtier. She isn’t even an expensive harlot. Just a girl plucked from obscurity with a fate worse than death awaiting her. Her only purpose is to please the king. She is a gift – a token to commemorate the new allyship between Powell and Gallifrey.
And setting her free will be almost disappointingly easy.
When the carriage rolls to a stop just outside of Gallifrey, River tenses in anticipation. Her heart beats madly in her chest. She struggles to ignore it, crouching behind the fronds of a wild fern. While she watches, the guard helps the girl from the carriage and points in the direction of the trees. The girl parts from him with a stiff nod of thanks, stepping off the road and into the woods, walking right past River’s hiding place without even a glance. The guard doesn’t follow.
River smiles. Now.
Steps silent, she follows the girl into the trees. She slips the dagger from her boot and grips it between her fingers, her eyes locked on the young woman kneeling down at the stream. Pulling back the heavy scarlet veil concealing her face, she submerges her shaking hands and begins to splash her cheeks with the icy water. River creeps closer, but too lost in her own worries and the soft babble of the stream, the girl doesn’t notice her until it’s too late.
River presses the tip of her dagger into her back.
The girl stiffens, a frightened gasp caught in her throat.
“Shh.” River keeps her dagger poised at her back, just shy of cutting into the fabric of her dress. “I have no plans to kill you. Don’t make me change my mind.”
The girl nods silently, her voice high and panicked as she whispers, “What do you want?”
“Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“Now.” River drops the dagger and begins to remove her own clothes. “You’ll wear my things.”
Turning slowly to face her, the girl stares at her with wide brown eyes. “But if you take mine…” Her brow furrows and she shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”
River sighs, eyeing that innocently sweet face. A face that likely has never known true hardship until now. This girl hadn’t asked for any of this; she’d merely been unfortunate enough to be pretty. Just like River had done nothing but come into the world on the wrong day. Dropping her dagger at her feet and yanking off her boots, she asks, “Do you want to be sent to the palace as a plaything for the king?”
The girl goes pale, her eyes welling with tears. “No. My mum-”
“Then stop asking questions.” River drops both boots at the girl’s feet and eyes her expectantly. “Take off your clothes and put on mine. Quickly now before the guard comes to fetch you.”
For a few minutes, they stand shivering in the brisk winter air, shedding their clothes and exchanging them. The girl pulls River’s shirt over her head and ties her blonde hair into a knot while River slips on the red and gold dress – the official colors of Gallifrey, she realizes with a roll of her eyes. At last, they stand in one another’s clothes and stare at each other.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I have my reasons.” River picks up the final piece of the outfit – the heavy veil that will hide her changed appearance from the guard. “What’s your name?”
With trembling hands, the girl reaches out and helps River adjust the veil over her face. “Rose.”
“Enjoy your freedom, Rose.” River bends to pick up her dagger, concealing it up her sleeve. “And if you value your life, keep your mouth shut about this.”
“I will.” With a small, shaky smile, she says, “Thank you.”
River waits for the girl to turn and run, watching her disappear through the trees. When she’s out of sight, River squares her shoulders and turns on her heel, walking back in the direction of the carriage and the future it will carry her toward. The guard waits for her, leaning against one of the wheels with a bored expression on his face.
“Ready then?”
River nods demurely, keeping her head down.
He helps her into the carriage without another word, barely even sparing her a glance. She doubts he notices anything amiss but even if he does, he says nothing. The door shuts behind her and she’s alone in the carriage, listening in silence to the guard’s boots crunching on the ground and then clambering back onto the bench. With a snap of the reins, they lurch forward again. Within minutes, they cross the border into Gallifrey. River stares out the window with a smile curling her lips. The palace looms in the distance, casting its dark shadow over the land. Her heart beats a wild, giddy rhythm in her chest and the knife up her sleeve digs into her arm. Revenge has never been closer.
The palace is just how she had expected it would be. Beautifully ornate. Bleak. A dark stain against the white cliffs and endless expanse of ocean behind it. It’s nothing like the lovely, fairytale palace she had grown up in. This one seems exactly the sort of place a mass murderer like the king would live, high above his people like the untouchable god he perceives himself to be.
River drinks everything in as a servant leads her through the halls, trailing just behind so he doesn’t notice the way she glances left and right – cataloguing exits, hiding spots, and potential weaponry. As they navigate the corridors, their footsteps echoing, they pass room after opulent room; each of them richly carpeted and finely furnished. Chandeliers glitter overhead, their flickering candles casting shadows across the floors. Rich tapestries hang on the walls, depicting battle scenes and landscapes. Everything is in shades of red and gold. There is no mistaking this palace for one in any other kingdom.
Her hands tremble as she moves further and further into the depths of his lair but not from nerves. It’s a sharp thrill that sings through her veins. She curls her fingers into her skirts in an attempt to conceal the excitement welling up in her like the tide. Thankfully the veil hides her face; otherwise, she’s certain the smug grin would have given her away the moment she stepped through the front door.
She’s close. So very close.
The king is within her grasp now. All these years of watching him rule the land with an iron fist; watching him live his golden, pampered life after ransacking village after village in pursuit of one innocent child, and it’s almost over. She will make him pay for the horror he has inflicted on countless lives, including her own.
At last, the servant comes to a stop outside a heavy, ornate door and pushes it open. He steps aside to allow River to enter first and she sweeps past him, glancing swiftly around. This must be the king’s chambers, considering the size of the room. Really, less of a room and more of a suite. A huge, four poster bed draped in sheer red curtains dominates one wall; a long, dark mahogany table lined with chairs she surmises must be for dining privately in his quarters; a desk littered with papers; and through another doorway she sees a settee and comfortable chairs situated around a hearth.
Decorative weaponry hangs on the wall and River eyes the sword thoughtfully. It would be easy enough to reach up and grab. She can almost feel the heft of the weapon in her hand, curling her fingers around the hilt and aiming for the king’s throat. She wonders if the blade is sharp enough to lop his head cleanly off or if she’d have to strike more than once.
With a regretful sigh, she forces her eyes away from the weapons. It wouldn’t do to get carried away. The last thing she needs is to be so overcome with rage when she sees the king that she loses sight of the plan. Beheading him the moment she meets him would put quite the damper on her intentions of making him suffer. She has designs on the king of Gallifrey. He will not die quite yet.
The servant gestures to the bed with an anxious hand. “You can wait there, I suppose. He won’t be long.”
“Thank you,” River says, in a voice she makes sure quivers with fear. She moves to the bed and perches on the edge of the mattress. It’s blasphemously soft and her disgust grows.
The servant doesn’t move, fidgeting. He’d never bothered to introduce himself, apparently under the impression he won’t see much of her outside the king’s bedchambers anyway. That’s just fine by River. She likes it when people underestimate her. “I can’t stay but I can’t leave you unsupervised either. The guards would have my head if they found you wandering the palace on your own.”
With a glance around the room, he marches to a pile of laundry a maid hasn’t seen to yet and plucks out a leather belt. Hiding a smile, River ducks her head and pleads tearfully, “Please don’t. I promise I won’t try to escape.”
“I’m sorry but I can’t.” He approaches cautiously, like she might try to attack him. As though he isn’t doing exactly what she wants him to. The more helpless she looks when the king comes in, the better this will go. “Hold still.”
She lets him tie her hands to a bedpost with the leather belt, making sure to tremble a little while he works. Just for the hell of it, she whimpers a bit. “Please,” she begs. “Just let me go. My mother-”
Her mother is dead, thanks to the king.
All these years later and she can still smell the smoke in the air.
Shaking his head regretfully, he says, “I really can’t do that.” He steps back once the knot is tight enough, brushing nervous hands against the legs of his trousers. “He isn’t so bad, you know. Not like people say.”
Inwardly seething that anyone would try to defend such a monster, River turns her head and hunches her shoulders as she slumps against the bedpost – doing her best to convey a girl too overwrought and distressed to hold herself up a moment longer.
With a sigh, the servant says, “You’ll see what I mean.”
River doesn’t move, listening in silence as his footsteps retreat. When the door swings shut behind him, she straightens from her defeated slouch and flicks the suffocating veil from her head with a twitch of her bound fingers. Huffing a curl from her eyes, she scans the room intently. It’s rather cluttered for a man as militant as the king. Everything is just a little bit out of place, as though he can never be bothered to put anything back properly.
She’d expected far more weapons as well. Other than the decorative ones on the wall gathering dust, she sees nothing. Not even a sword tucked away in a corner. The bed is too far away from the desk to read any of the papers scattered over it but if she squints and tilts her head, she can read the titles of the books stuffed onto the shelves on the other wall. Rather than dry histories on the events of the war or the greatness of Gallifrey, she glimpses only medicinal texts on healing herbs, thick books on astronomy, and the occasional work of fiction.
Odd. And rather more erudite than she’d expected.
There isn’t any time to investigate further. The sound of a key in the lock sets her heart pounding. She whirls to stare at the door. Breath caught in her chest, she watches the knob turn. The door opens. A tall, slender man steps into the room. He wears his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and round-framed glasses on the end of his nose. In one hand, he cradles an open book in his palm. His brown hair droops boyishly into his eyes. He spots her instantly and stops in the doorway, utterly still as he blinks at her.
River stares back, speechless.
He’s young.
She takes in the dark eyes and wary frown.
Too young. Which means…
“Who the hell are you?” He asks, snapping the book shut. “And why are you tied to my bed?”
This man must be the prince. That servant – the incompetent, fidgeting buffoon – had taken her to the wrong bloody room. River wants to scream. Years and years of waiting for the opportune moment to strike and it’s all about to be destroyed before it’s begun because the palace servants need a damned map. It can’t end like this.
Alright, breathe. River inhales through her nose and forces herself to focus. She could slip her bindings easily enough and yank that sword she’d spotted earlier from the wall. Her previous, quick scan of her surroundings had shown her there were no other weapons at hand so it would be easy to take him down. She pictures herself running her blade through his intestines before he can even think to stop her. It would certainly be very satisfying to watch him bleed out all over his plush carpet. Almost as satisfying as killing the king would be. This man is his spawn. His slayer in the making. River has heard all about Prince Theta. On the battlefield, they’d called him the Oncoming Storm.
Eventually, he will die too. But not yet. The timing is all wrong.
Still silently cursing the servant who had brought her here, River lowers her eyes in a show of respect and murmurs, “I’m a gift for the king, Your Highness."
“You’re a what?” He sounds almost scandalized but she knows she can’t be the first pretty young thing brought unwillingly to his father’s bed. Through his teeth, he demands, “Who sent you?”
River keeps her eyes fastened on the luxurious comforter beneath her knees. “Powell.”
“Ah. Our new allies. How generous of them.” He scoffs, tossing his book onto a table as he mutters, “Bloody barbarians.”
Out of the corner of her eye, River watches him slide the glasses from his nose and tuck them into his shirt pocket. Without them, he looks even younger. Those cheekbones of his could cut glass. And that jawline? Carved by the gods. Pity she’ll have to kill him before this is all over. It’s a rather nice face if one ignores who it belongs to.
He crouches beside the bed, suddenly very close. He avoids her eyes, his jaw clenched. The scent of pine and old parchment clings to him. River watches his long fingers work gently at the knot tying her to his bedpost, as though trying not to hurt her. She barely manages to keep from rolling her eyes. Very careful not to touch her, he unwraps the belt from the bedpost and tosses it away like it burns. Rising back to his feet and stepping away from her, he mutters, “You’re free to go.”
Go?
River gapes at his retreating back. She can’t go. This is not the plan. This isn’t even her alternative plan if the first one failed. She has no contingencies in place for what to do if the king’s bloody son sets her free. Straightening her shoulders, she lifts her chin and says, “I’ve been sent to do a job.”
He laughs once, bitterly. “I just bet you were.” His hands wrap around the edges of his desk as he leans over it, studying something she cannot see from her place still perched on his bed. “I’m not taking you to be used by my father. I don’t care how much of an honor your people told you it would be. He isn’t here anyway. He’s visiting friends in the north.”
River bites her lip, mind working fast. So Rassilon isn’t even in the palace today. Trust Powell to bugger up even gift-giving. Fine. She can work with this. He’ll be much more enjoyable to seduce than Rassilon and so long as she can get him to marry her, she’ll still become queen.
Slowly slipping from the bed, she pads silently across the thick carpet. Her skirts whisper across the floors and the bracelets on her wrists jangle prettily as she moves. As she nears him, the prince stiffens but doesn’t turn around. “That’s all right,” she murmurs, smiling as she stands on her toes and fits her chin over his shoulder. He’s like stone against her, solid and unyielding. “Perhaps there’s something I can do for you instead, darling.”
She slides her hand around his narrow waist and slips it seductively up his chest. He breathes in sharply, recoiling from her like she carries the plague. As he flinches out of her grasp with a snarl, he snaps, “Get out.”
River stares at him, stunned. It isn’t often men rebuff her advances. Perhaps this will be tougher than she’d thought. Glaring at him, she says, “I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m meant to be here.”
He bristles, sinking into the chair at his desk and refusing to look at her. He picks up a map and smooths it out with his fingers, absently reaching for his glasses once more. “Find Clara. Tell her to give you a uniform.”
“Uniform?”
“A maid’s uniform,” he explains tersely, not looking up from his task. “Go and dust something.”
Feeling dismissed, River curls her hands into fists at her sides and gives him one last withering glare – not that he notices. Turning on her heel, she snatches up her veil from the bed on her way out and stalks from the room. Becoming a maid is absolutely not part of the plan. Filled suddenly with more hatred for him than she has ever felt for Rassilon, River decides the prince is definitely going to die first.