He returned to her room, his mind a whirlwind of questions and puzzlement. He would never ask her those questions. He didn’t have to. Xavier knew very well the state of the things. He was the one man who was able to see the entire truth behind matters, were they politics, everyday happenings or dealings of the heart.
He sat in to the corner to wait for her waking up. He’d have to talk with her. Tell her about his talk with her father. She’d be furious. She’d rant and rave, but if he played his cards right he could probably make her see that it was in everybody’s best interest if she let him go and took a droid in his place like Robert had been wishing.
He tried to keep his eyes averted, but his gaze drifted to the girl sleeping on the bed on it’s own volition. She was beautiful. Long, brown tresses framed her face and fell low over her back. Her eyes were closed, but he knew there was warmth and compassion in those brown orbs, sadness, joy and anger, passion…
She moved in her sleep, curling on her side under the blanket, bringing the arc of her waist and hip to his view. Her small fists drawn under her chin, legs slightly splayed and knees bent to keep her from falling on her stomach. Full body of a woman, but the creature housing it was a child still in so many ways. Sudden stab of anger and jealousy sliced through him. At the end of the week, during the first full moon of the month that innocence would be replaced with knowledge and responsibilities of a wife and secondary ruler of the United Kingdoms.
He tore his eyes from the pixie on the bed and drew his sword from the sheath, letting his gaze roam over the gleaming, slightly dented blade. The weapon had served him well. Through numerous skirmishes and years, leather of the handle worn smooth and darkened from sweat and blood, hardened and shining almost as if it was onyx instead of simple cow-skin strap wrapped around iron stud.
The sword was a necessary evil. He was skilled at using it, but he would have preferred his hands, and six bone appendages that lay dormant inside of his forearms. They were even sharper than the sword, but they were fragile. Too fragile to cut through metal armor. He had used them only once. The first night he had been guarding the sleeping baby. Sitting in the same corner as now, sword drawn and resting on his knees. A maid had come in and walked to the sleeping baby. A maid he had never seen before. But he had been in the castle only few days. He had been certain there had to be lots of people he hadn’t met yet.
He still didn’t know what had made him to stand up and discard his sword to the floor. What had made him sneak closer when the maid was leaning in to the crib and cooing to the baby that had obviously woken up. His one hand had reached past the maid and grasped a hand that had been holding a knife. His other hand had pressed against the woman’s lower back and claws had torn forth, puncturing flesh and soft organs.
He had turned the dying maid to the side fast to prevent the blood guzzling from her mouth to soil the crib and the baby, held the twitching woman and sheathed his claws when he had been sure that she was dead.
He sheathed the sword and put the scabbard to the side. Raised his right hand. Muscles and tendons twitched and jumped. Sound of tearing skin and flesh, and three ivory claws shot out from their housings from between his knuckles, gleaming wetly in the sun. The pain from their violent birth dulled soon, leaving his palms only feeling somehow swollen and stretched. His eyes narrowed, and his gaze locked to a small speckle of blood clinging to the sharp tip of the middle claw. Urge and longing to smell the scent of Robert’s blood instead of his own froze his mind, and he was still sitting there, staring at that already dried speckle of coppery blood when Marie woke up.
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