Chapter Text

Sol Empire, Northern reaches. Forty miles out from Kingdom Valley. Year 1197 Fasti Leonis.

Sanctuary lived up to its name.

The temple was ancient, nestled deep in the forests on the edge of the Sol Empire. Here, they were safe; protected, by some law or another, from outside interference or assault. He knew the very basics, though getting himself to sit still and listen during lessons was always an exercise in frustration.

Besides, safe though it might be, Sanctuary wasn't where he would stay. Not for much longer now. He had somewhere else to be: somewhere called Blumenheim.

It was an old word; centuries old, perhaps even thousands of years, from one of the myriad languages the humans had spoken when this world was purely their dominion. It meant 'Home of Flowers', or something similar; maybe that was where the House of Rose had gained their name. It was certainly a name older than their species as it existed today.

I need to get there. His powers were manifesting. He would soon take a new name, the way the old traditions went – he knew, from his blossoming talents, that speed was to be his gift. Speed beyond anything anyone had ever seen. Even now, he got faster by the day. His gift-name would come from that.

“I still can't call it wise,” remarked Miles, from over the patchwork glasses that hung half off his young face. The fox didn't actually need his vision correcting; these were, he said, simply a very powerful pair of lenses that he could use to see things more closely and in greater detail.

“Why's that, because you didn't think of it?” came the bitter rejoinder. Miles stopped what he was tinkering with, laying down the rare-earth sample and giving his friend an exasperated look.

“I've brains, in bulk. I say it without ego. That's not the same as having wisdom,” he counselled the older boy firmly. “But you know House Erin was attacked for a reason. People don't just decide to spend the weekend wiping out an established noble dynasty. Someone wanted the land that comprised your family's duchy; they knew it'd be distributed among existing nobles. Those provisions already existed in law, as contingencies for the destruction of traitorous factions.” Of course Miles had read the history texts for the early empire. “So they ensure those contingencies came about.”

“Well then what about you?” scoffed the blue youth, gesturing to his shorter companion, who gave him a hands-on-hips raised eyebrow right back. “Recite the whole of the law, Miles – those who manifest a gift are given a noble title, and become landed gentry. So what happens when you go public with yours? You think the same won't happen to you?”

“Why do you talk like I've no issue with what they did to you?” hissed the fox, stepping closer, his twin tails bottle-brushed as they lashed behind him in agitation. “I'm trying to lay out the facts of it all. I loathe that it happened. I'm really...really happy that you're here,” he added as his eyes began to gleam wetly, “that I've a friend, to have grown up with. But it sickens me, that what was done to you was done. You did nothing to deserve it, none of you did. And I know that you despise Sanctuary, sometimes. But that doesn't stop it being a damn fool idea to crow your powers like a rooster the moment you're of age! They still lurk out there, and they destroyed your family at the peak of its might! They wouldn't hesitate to eliminate one youth! They claimed everyone else's life!”

“No.” His initial reaction, temper rising along with Miles', had dampened at the quaver in the young fox's voice partway through. Now, he kept his tone level. If this was going to come out between them, now was as good a time as any. “Not everyone.” He held up a sheet from the newspaper, stolen from the temple's kitchens a few days ago. Some root vegetables had come wrapped in it, and it was already old. Miles took it from his hand, noting the age of the yellowed paper – the events of this report were perhaps on the order of years in the past – and skimmed it aloud.

“House Rose welcomes new heir by marriage,” he murmured, eyes flickering down the text far faster than he could speak. “Eldest son...lost Duchy of Erin...wait, your cousin? He lived?”

“Correction,” scowled the hedgehog. “He lived and he didn't come to find me.” Now there were embers in his voice, that might one day be fanned into a flame if he met his cousin face-to-face.

“So...what do you intend?” whispered Miles, handing the paper scrap back to him. “If you get out of here. What do you mean to do about it?”

“I shall march right up to him and tell him my gift-name,” replied the older boy firmly. “He'll know my face. I don't want him to think I'm the boy he abandoned. I'll be a man instead, and I'll stand right in front of him and his new wife, and I shall say, Hello, Shadow. My name's Sonic now. And you're a coward.”

There was a long pause.

“My congratulations on your inevitable impressive scars,” the fox noted mildly, turning back to his work.

Chapter Text

Four years earlier: FL 1193. Rose Manor, Blumenheim Barony.

Blumenheim was, generally speaking, a place of peace and at least mild prosperity. It was certainly true that the only daughter of its lord and lady, Baron and Baroness Rose, was known as something of a social powder-keg; it was nevertheless widely believed that if the heavens gave a place a fixed amount of chaos or misfortune within a set interval, the young lady was the most predictable and harmless outlet for Blumenheim's monthly ration of borderline-acceptable mayhem.

Miss Amy Rose – as she insisted, rather than her longer-form name – was one of what many older nobles disdainfully referred to as this new generation, who maintained an unstintingly generous flow of contempt toward the customary, long-standing aristocratic norms and pastimes. She, and a number of friends whose parents considered her something of an Influence, had treated these social mores as superannuated restraints upon their behaviour – rather than, as their antecedents would prefer, a structure with which to build themselves a more conventional network of friends, acquaintances, and eventual husbands.

Knowing herself to be perceived thus, Amy had determined to involve herself in the matters of running her home as thoroughly as she could. While her father's kindness and gentle silliness had combined with her mother's fortitude and best-foot-forward attitude in her, she was aware that the world's jaded eyes saw much more of the former, with the latter expressed as the more volatile adventurousness she occasionally displayed. Amy had long ago resolved to allow those onlookers to underestimate her as much as they liked, in order to deliver a thoroughly nasty surprise if they should attempt to take advantage when she eventually became Baroness Rose.

Today, though, there seemed to be an anomaly in the running of things. A stir of panic, or urgency, pulled at the movements of the household staff; her queries were met with a firm beg pardon, Miss Amy when her parents were not nearby to hear the familiar diminutive Amy preferred even from the servants. The idea that there should be a commotion to which she was not invited, in her own home no less, felt as if it bordered on outright insult.

From what she could gather, the crux of the matter seemed to be that her father had gone for a ride in the early afternoon, and had found...something. Someone? There were hints at it – a he instead of an it here and there, overheard between servants discussing the latest news from the yard. Whatever it was, it had taken the riding party until early evening to safely bring this object – or entity – back to Rose Manor. It must be in a state of some disrepair, she concluded.

Amy was on the verge of bursting into the stables and demanding enlightenment on the day's events, if she were honest with herself. The only restraint upon her was the idea that this may be some injured animal, which fit all the facts and would further require that she provide no unwelcome anarchy in its vicinity. Loath as she was to even give the appearance of remaining quiet and demure, or even – she suppressed a shudder – obedient, Amy nevertheless staunchly objected to the idea of bringing suffering where it was not deserved. She would not be the instrument that further wounded this poor creature, if creature indeed it turned out to be.

The conundrum had only tightened its grip upon her in the ten minutes since she had taken up haunting the hallway that led to the stables' doorway. The stablemaster himself, a large and genial bear named Cuthbert, was a man she could rely on to display friendship, courtesy and understanding toward a young lady with a pressing need to conceal herself in a hayloft from some marauding tutor or wrathful aunt; on this occasion, though, he had been obliged to refuse her pleas for information with a rumbled all in good time, Miss Amy while her father's raised voice made concerned sounds behind him.

Finally, though, footsteps approached the stable door. Finally, it was thrown open – forcing Amy to abandon her perch on the bench with which it collided – as a troupe of stablehands carried something on a stretcher toward the kitchen stairway. Amy's mind, sharpened to a razor's edge by the afternoon's deductive efforts, noted that the stairs to the kitchen were a less direct route into the house but had much shallower steps, to allow trays of food to be brought to the stables without spilling or jostling. Whatever they had beneath that blanket must be in delicate condition indeed, she reasoned, as she craned her neck to get a glimpse.

A hand flopped free from beneath the stretcher, and Amy stifled a brief scream at what seemed like the presence of a corpse. Ungloved, in defiance of social convention; the charcoal-black fur was split by a livid scarlet streak that began in the middle finger and continued up the back of the hand, appearing to taper toward the elbow.

No, Amy, you fool, she chided herself. They wouldn't rush so urgently if this person were beyond saving. She started after them, before her father stepped out of the door and intercepted her quite by accident.

“Ah, Amy,” he greeted her, heeling the door closed behind him and catching both of her hands in his own. “Lovely day for it, what?”

“Father,” she began, keeping her voice level with what she considered a remarkable amount of self-control, “I have dangled on the end of a thread since all of this began. I have been left a veritable Sword of Hamocles with this paucity of gossip concerning whatever – whoever – you encountered this afternoon. So help me, I will have answers, or that sword's edge shall fall upon your teatime and you shall never know peace until midsummer!”

Baron Aidan Rose was in many ways something of a fool; certainly he allowed himself to be seen thus. Faced with his daughter's frustration, with the clear sense of betrayal she felt from being kept so out of the news circulation in her own home, his resolve vanished with a speed normally reserved for a stick of butter dropped into a house fire.

“Ah, well, you know, what,” he began, almost evasively; knowing he merely used such warbling to marshal his thoughts, Amy permitted it without shaking him by the shoulders and bade her frantic mood settle a moment longer. “The fact of the matter is, my darling, we've rescued someone.”

“Rescued?” Amy's eyes lit up, but her father wasn't finished.

“Yes, rescued, dash it,” he sighed in exasperation. “Bally cheek of him, really, to arrive today. We were expecting him much earlier than this.” He took Amy's hands again, squeezing them gently. “Ten years earlier, in fact. Where to begin – ah – I was taking a constitutional with a few of my gentlemen, as one does,” he began, tilting his head back to let the memory flow out a little better. “Lovely skies this time of year, when the sun gets low early. Beautiful sort of melancholy to the starkness of the trees against it, don't you know, the sort of sunset one feels belongs in a masterpiece by one of those Old Master fellows. Blighters who lick their paintbrushes and slip an inch or two further round the bend with each production, you know the sort.”

“Yes, Father,” cajoled Amy, conscious of a sort of tingling desperation flooding her limbs with the call to action. “But then you found...?”

“Yes, absolutely – then we found this sort of huddled mound by the side of the road. Thought it was some unfortunate creature of the forest, until we saw the hand still trying to claw at the ground. As if he'd been pulling himself along, of late. Well, I thought, a bit thick, what? To pass by on a horse, while some poor blaggard has only his belly and a layer of snow to travel upon. Not the Rose way, you know. Wouldn't stand. So we sent young Raine back at his speediest, to call for blankets and stir up the doctor and so on, and bring up a few reliable stablehands who would know a few things about hauling an injured creature about their own weight. Took us until nightfall to get the poor boy here, though of course that's only about four o'clock at this neck of the year,” he added mournfully.

“It's a young man, then?” asked Amy, with nothing but curiosity in her tone. She was aware that she felt nothing but curiosity; there was still something oddly performative about noting the fact, as if her father might look askance at any more intense scrutiny of this new revelation from his daughter.

“More than a young man, my dear,” supplied the Baron, squeezing her hands again. “It's Shadow.”

The moment it took for the name to register felt like the longest and silliest few seconds of her life. It hit her like a thunderclap: Shadow, who had been the heir of House Erin before its destruction in fire and blood and unexplained magical forces. Shadow, born dark-furred and named for it, a firmly distant cousin of hers and the man to whom she would one day have held allegiance, when they had both come into their positions as Duke and Baroness respectively. Shadow, who had been by all reports killed along with House Erin – and their sworn protectors, the other hedgehog branch family called House Horizon – that blood-soaked night a decade before.

Amy had been only thirteen at the time, but she'd still known her newly-adult cousin on sight from a childhood of brief but amicable meetings. “Father, I saw a red streak on that person. Shadow never had anything like that,” she pointed out, in what might have been a protest. She would not be fooled by the passage of years into thinking that scarlet lash along his arm, that shriekingly angry sanguinary shade, had been there when he was newly of age and preparing to take up parts of his eventual role as Duke.

“No, dash it, and that's what concerns me,” muttered her father. “But it's him, my dear, I'll swear to it. I knew that boy when he was in short trousers and still getting muddy with the other young blots, and his little blue cousin what-was-his-name toddling after them. I knew him when he was fourteen, and first tried to grow that frightful little moustache.”

“Moustache?” Amy would have been barely eight, then, and she'd remembered no such thing. If it was as bad as her father intimated, perhaps she had blocked it from her memory as defensive measure.

“Oh, yes. Awful little pencil-moustache, all thin and bristly. Nothing a batch of weed-killer wouldn't set right, I told him, and even then he had the sense to know a gold nugget of advice when it was proffered. Got rid of the blasted thing the next day. But my point is, my dear – it's him. I knew him then, I know him now. He's come to us, late though it is, injured and weak and heaven only knows what else though he might be. He's with us, and dash it all, he needs us.”

“And we shall not fail him,” agreed Amy. Certainly partly agreement, she amended; the statement might also be called a mixture of ultimatum, instruction, appeal, and veiled threat.

“Absolutely not.” Her father was much of the same mind. “Your mother has been notified, she'll no doubt have some advice of her own about treating a wounded man and all that. If you intend to speak to him at some point,” he added, with a look that told her the if was entirely superfluous and neither of them was to be fooled by it, “I'd advise you to canvas her for opinions on how to behave. One never knows what one might inflict by accident, through unknowing neglect or misguided kindness. We're moving him to the best guest bedroom; it's to be his for as long as he wishes it. Once he's shown signs of coherency, we may know more about his own plans.”

“Coherency?” Shadow was delirious in some way? Her father squeezed her hands once more.

“Awful privations he's been through, my dear. Simply dreadful. I didn't use the words layer of snow lightly, the indomitable lunatic was quite literally attempting to drag himself along the road in it. Gaia alone knows how far he's come, or where he's been. Or what he's been through.”

Amy followed her father upstairs as he began to lead her toward the kitchen. “I do rather think,” he added over his shoulder, “that we shan't like the answers one bit.”

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Sanctuary.

The gift-name had been accepted, and noted in the temple's annals. Given that it was the closest they had to a legal guardianship, Mother Longclaw's acknowledgement of his name was equivalent to a legal change, and Sonic Erin had never felt better. Or swifter.

Miles' patience had almost worn thin with him this morning, when Mother Longclaw's meeting with him had ended in acceptance and written confirmation, followed by her respectful address of him by his new name. He'd been so excited that a mere hour later, his legs had eaten up distance more voraciously than ever before; his thoroughly brightened, invigorated mood had led to some new expression of his gift. Tiny blue lightnings had danced in his wake and set his quills to glowing like starlight for a few moments after he ceased his repeated bolting across the clearing that comprised the temple grounds.

He had gone straight to Miles, with an appeal for a device that could assist in charting his development somehow. To measure his speed moment by moment, or record the nature of his new and crackling accompaniment. Miles had thrown up his hands after the twenty-first minute of excited pleading, and had announced that he could only promise to make an attempt. Sonic had embraced him as a brother, overjoyed, and taken himself outside to begin making laps of the clearing instead – to count how many he could perform before he grew tired.

One of the temple attendants, a weasel lady with a gentle and sisterly bearing, met him at the door. She held a bucket and a pair of thick work gloves.

“Sonic,” she greeted him, and he felt the mutual spread of a warm glow in his chest and a broad smile across his face. To be acknowledged thus, unquestioned and respected with his own chosen name, a moniker describing himself so completely and essentially...it was liberating in ways he hadn't anticipated. He knew that it would be a long time before he tired of the experience.

“Sister Nali,” he returned the greeting, fighting down a pang of shame that it had taken a moment to remember her name while basking in the glow of his own. “Those are lovely gloves.” He may as well make light of it. He knew the look she wore, from old experience.

“I'm glad you think so, young man,” she grinned playfully, “as they are to be yours for the afternoon. Or, perhaps...some lesser time than that. Mother Longclaw has placed your name among the annals of Sanctuary Temple,” she added, almost as an aside. “You are now officially and legally Sonic Erin, and will be newly introduced thus at dinner tonight. It's quite some time since we had a new gift-name rise here. She did suggest to me that you may be feeling...exuberant, and asked me to bring these to you in hopes that you might put your energy to use. She left some time at my disposal, too.”

“To...what end, Sister?” the hedgehog asked, taking the gloves and bucket from her.

“Why, to watch you, of course,” beamed the nun. “Not out of any suspicion that you may shirk your task,” she added hastily at the exasperated look Sonic showed her, “but as encouragement. You see, it normally takes two people a whole afternoon to go through the temple's gardens, and pull up weeds. And only weeds, and only while staying on the paths,” she added pointedly, “so as not to disturb the plants we wish to keep. It would therefore take one person two afternoons, which would seem to amount to some twelve hours. So let us see,” she gestured, “how swiftly the job is done by the speediest young man ever to cross our doorstep. I shall measure the time, Sonic. Begin when you will, and we may yet measure how your gift blossoms.”

Sonic shot her a confident grin, slipping the gloves on and picking up the bucket. “Oh, well,” he began, in an outrageous and blatant show of faux reluctance. “If it's to be a challenge...”

“Brother Whipton may have wagered his share of tomorrow evening's chores against you completing it in less than two,” she replied nonchalantly, examining the fabric of her glove as if checking it for flaws. “My own response was to match it in support of your abilities, of course. But we agreed that it must be thoroughly and carefully done, as though two really had been at the task. And not trodden on the vegetable or flower patches,” she reminded him. “What do you think of your chances?”

“I think you should have raised his wager, Sister, and ensured yourself as a lady of leisure for the next week's evening work altogether,” he shot back, carefully stretching his legs and securing the work gloves over his normal wear. “I'll begin now. Watch the hours!”

With a bucket in hand, joy in his heart, and lightning at his heels, Sonic set to work.

=======>>>>=======

This palace grows colder by the day.

Her heels clicked loudly on the marble floors, echoing in the wide, high-ceilinged hallway as she strode toward the council chamber. Her breathing stayed level, despite her determined gait; a lifetime's ceaseless training in the behaviours, skills, and habits appropriate to Imperial royalty had ensured her fitness in all things. The Imperial capital, the city of Leon, held plenty of opportunities for a young lady to keep herself in shape; she had availed herself of these many times in her youth, before the gleaming pillars of her responsibilities had caged her in.

Likewise, her ingrained, long-practiced poise kept her tail from lashing as she approached the towering, solid bronze double doors of the Imperial Council. Her ears pricked up at the sound of raised voices from within; evidently some acrimonious dispute had allowed heated blood to snatch the reins of discussion from cooler heads, yet again.

Business as usual, then. She suppressed a sigh, her gait never faltering as she glanced up at the human – a rarity, these days – standing guard before the doors. Commander Abraham Tower certainly lived up to his name; humans were shockingly tall and rangy creatures compared to most people, and few these days found themselves in a human's company often enough for the shock of their peculiar near-hairlessness and uncommonly lean, narrow facial structure to wear into familiarity.

Tower was, however, unquestionably loyal. Not to the crown; his oaths, he had once pointed out to her during a tense private disagreement, held him loyal only to the Empire itself. The humans' own history had a parallel for the role, one that had failed in practice but remained a strong ideal to try to live up to. The word, he had explained, was praetor – a guardian of a nation who would, if necessary, be on hand to defend the people against their own ruler. Or, judging by the rueful looks he occasionally gave her from guard positions like this one, their own incessantly squabbling nobles.

“Commander,” she greeted him, keeping her contralto voice level. While the effort was so routine it was essentially subconscious these days, it was nevertheless an artifice, and Abraham was man of expertise with regard to falsehoods. He nodded, perhaps sympathetically, and turned to open the door and announce her.

“Her Imperial Highness, Princess Blaze Felis!” he bellowed, as if to make the point and cut through the bickering. It worked, as always; the representative of House Avis lowered her fist, and House Canis' patriarch released his upraised death-grip upon his quill. There was a general sense of stepping back from some precipice, as if a group of students had found themselves in mid-scuffle when their tutor entered the room.

“Am I to assume that we are not gathered to entertain a serious discussion today?” she asked frostily, allowing her gaze to rake over each and every member of the Council as if she had taken her claws to them. A few moments' silent glaring seemed to get her point across with sufficient severity; whatever they had argued about today evidently had little enough importance that a single rebuke had silenced them on the matter.

Twenty minutes later, Princess Blaze found herself in the singularly uncommon position of wishing she had encountered a sufficiently debilitating tension-headache to preclude her attendance at this meeting.

“Your Highness, the representative,” came a sneer from Vincenzo Lapin, “from House Squamis is quite correct. There is the matter of succession to consider, before this Council can sensibly and in good faith approve of any coronation. We must know, for a certainty, that there will be an heir to the throne.”

Yes, you must. Blaze's eyes narrowed, infinitesimally. Whatever you can dangle out of my reach, until I agree to wed one of your sons. No wonder you were at one another's throats when Commander Tower announced me. The jostling among them must be intense indeed, if this was their plan; the absolute best one could expect of any one of the Council, in the sweetest of moods, was that they held some vague respect for their fellow dukes and duchesses. Some failed to meet even this benchmark of maturity. And it falls to me to herd these infantile martinets.

“Thus, and so,” she began, steepling her fingers. “To ensure I understand: The various members of the Imperial Council are collectively withholding their approval for me to undergo my coronation, and take my place as Empress.” There were a couple of nervous, sidelong glances among the assembled dukes and duchesses. “This approval will be granted once I am wed.”

“Correct, Your Highness,” oiled Fabian Canis, the curls of his longer-furred ears gleaming with scented products. In an irreverent moment, the question crossed Blaze's mind of whether, if she cut the red setter in two, the word written through the middle of him would be Vain or Smarmy. Thrusting the hypothetical aside, she returned her focus to the knotty problem before her. The tradition they cited was not law; an Emperor or Empress could certainly ascend the throne without being married first. The true barrier was that, without majority approval from these nobles, her accession was most certainly not legally possible.

Not for the first time, Princess Blaze encountered the claustrophobic feeling of having been tied and bound by legalistic excuse-making by her nobles, designed to push her into one concession or another. Herman Coleo, a ladybug with a history of such political manoeuvrings, had so far kept his silence; this, to Blaze's mind, was a hint that this situation was either to his benefit or of his own design. But then, which of them drew no benefit from such an impasse? If they were to force her to marry one of their fatheaded offspring before they allowed her to reach the fullness of her authority, then by default one of them must stand to gain from the outcome...except one.

It was this one who came smoothly to her feet, in an elegant motion that was all grace and allure – every motion seeming calculated to put her full figure to best advantage. In a sultry but carrying voice, the bat made the suggestion that the Council should adjourn for the day, to allow Her Highness to contemplate the facet of her royal duties that had reared its head today. Perhaps, she reasoned, given some time to herself, the Princess might find there was a potential suitor who came to mind.

Blaze was not at all surprised when, some thirty minutes after retiring from the Council chambers, a series of visitors were announced. What followed were repeated verbal fencing sessions, whereby each of the Council who had come to see her attempted – with varying degrees of subtlety – to recommend that she marry some damned fool or another from among their own families. Some of them even had a particular specimen of butter-brained offspring in mind. It was only when the others had left, presumably to continue their juvenile internecine scuffling in a more private setting, that her last visitor came calling.

Duchess Rouge Chiros, who had married Duke Reginald Chiros nearly a decade before, had been widowed some eighteen months after her wedding. Childless, viewed by many of her peers as having failed in her dynastic duties, she had nevertheless risen to the task of managing Chiros Duchy with a finesse and aplomb that few to none had expected from her. There had been whispers about Reginald's death, rumours of some sort of foul play; investigations into this had found nothing more concrete than speculation. Two factors had mired the inquiries; first, Duke Chiros had been a known drunk, incompetent and apathetic about his duties, and with a reputation for lechery. Second, and corollary to the first, the people of Chiros Duchy had responded to his passing with something approximating a collective sigh of relief. His widow's subsequent rallying and rejuvenation of the territory's fortunes had gained the near-unanimous and unwavering loyalty of what were now her people.

More germanely, Duchess Chiros had no children. She had no skin in this game; she stood to gain nothing should Blaze take a husband. Therefore, if not, she also stood to lose nothing. It was this factor, and this factor alone, that convinced the nigh-exhausted princess to grant her an audience. Even alone like this, the bat's every motion was a display; every step was a show, every stance a subtle flourish. It was clear that the lady's allure was as well-practiced as Blaze's own reserve; just as clear, from her achievements, were the duchess' competence and capability. They both had their masks to wear.

“Your Highness,” greeted the bat, curtseying to her. Blaze inclined her head to perhaps twenty degrees, as befitted a semi-formal greeting from royalty to nobility.

“Duchess,” she replied, as the young page closed the door behind her visitor – who winced theatrically, flapping a wrist in dismissal.

“Please, Your Highness, I must beg once again that you dispense with my title when we two are alone,” she pleaded, with an impish smile. “My fondest wish is that we should call one another friend, as well as colleagues in the steering of the ship of state.”

“And is there a course you wish to chart, Rouge?” asked Blaze pointedly, acceding to the bat's request for the sake of hurrying things along. She was rewarded with a raised, nearly impertinent eyebrow.

“Perhaps more accurate to say that I may have a course in mind that could safely skirt certain islands and shoals that a future Empress might wish to avoid,” she suggested, leaning forward conspiratorially. Blaze mirrored the motion, caught up in the duchess' conversational theatrics despite herself.

“I believe I follow you,” she urged, softly. “Tell me all.” And perhaps, she added inwardly, if your idea frees me from being chained in matrimony to some chinless, entitled scion to watch my influence eroded by his parents, we may yet become good friends.

Some twenty minutes later, an accord was struck. Hands were clasped. Her saviour departed with a satisfied smile.

Blaze reclined in her seat, feeling the giddy rush of hope. It could work.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor.

The dinner-gong that evening was almost unheeded, at first.

Baron Aidan Rose had had a moment's worry, as any father might, when his adventurous daughter – to use a tactful description, for a young lady whose influence upon the world around her might be considered equivalent to a poorly-sealed keg of blasting powder – had discovered that their rescuee was a young man. Certainly, it might be said that he had valid reason for at least an instant's concern; before House Erin had fallen, their charcoal-coloured heir had been widely considered a charming, erudite young gent with a bright future in diplomatic or ambassadorial work, when not managing his duchy. Negotiations for a suitable politically-advantageous marriage had been actively underway, when the attack had come. There could be no doubt that Shadow Erin had been a catch, in the political, aesthetic and personal senses of the term.

The unexplained changes to his physique, brought to light in a hasty examination for injuries upon the stable floorboards, might change that assessment. As well as the new streaks of angry red through his quills, brighter than blood and more shocking than actively frightening, there was also the matter of his teeth. The doctor had confirmed the anomaly, once Shadow's barely-living form had been carefully slid into the largest and most comfortable guest bed Rose Manor possessed, and an examination under proper lighting had been conducted.

“My lord, there are too many,” began the good doctor, gesturing to the face of the unconscious hedgehog. “Their shape is strange, also. Observe – we ourselves have a number of shapes among the teeth in our mouths? Yes, and so. But this man has only two kinds. At the rear he shares the molars, thus – but as you see, he has no front teeth as we would know them-” Aidan had hushed the worthy physician then, for his consternation had caused his voice to rise of its own accord. It was true: Shadow's front teeth were all similar to the corner-teeth of any other mouth, conical and piercing. Of the chisel-shaped incisors present in another, there was no sign. The boy – the man, he reminded himself, consciously imposing the decade of intervening time upon his thoughts – had become visually reminiscent of some carnivorous creature masquerading as a hedgehog. Occasionally he shifted in his sleep, experiencing some discomfort in whatever dream had captured him; or perhaps one of the minor injuries across his body had sent a pang through him that slumber could not keep from his countenance.

His face itself was haggard, decided the Baron. That was a good word for it; heavy bags hung beneath his eyes, his brow was furrowed into a permanent half-scowl, but his cheeks were hollow and the flesh beneath his fur held a pale cast that caused the doctor to tut with concern upon examination. Below that, the damage only grew more severe.

Shadow was thin. Recklessly thin, frighteningly thin, emaciated. Baron Aidan Rose had seen some sorry sights in his trek through life so far, especially during times of dearth; the territory of Blumenheim had some arable land, but could not sustain its own population without trade. He rather prided himself on the decisions he had made during what some still called the Famine Fall, a bitter autumn of short food supplies a quarter-century prior; his magnificent wife, Baroness Amaranthine, had exercised an experienced soldier's practicality and ensured that Rose Manor's cellars stocked more long-lasting supplies, and its fields grew hardier crop varieties, than the more luxuriant foodstuffs prioritised by some nobility in their home farmlands. But it was Aidan's drive to be of assistance to his people that had caused him to tour the stores and libraries of the capital, returning in triumph with what grains his carriage could support, by weight – and bearing like scripture a collection of carefully transcribed recipes for ensuring many could be fed on little.

That had been shortly before Amy was born, of course. This was now. And in the years since that frightful paucity had darkened their lands, Aidan had never seen a man so lacking in sustenance as to have his ribs so plainly visible. If the mood had seemed able to support levity, he might have suggested that the doctor fetch him a couple of xylophone sticks, for music had always been a pleasant accompaniment to his meditations. Alas, this was far too sombre an occasion; the doctor himself, it suddenly struck Aidan, appeared to be treating this as a bedside vigil for a man with no hope of recovery.

With this discovery lying cold and shocking upon his thoughts, like a freshly-dropped piece of uncooked fish upon a kitchen floor – dash it, when was dinner? Their visitor's condition was about to bring a sympathetic growl from his own stomach – he took a deep breath and slid on a little more authority. Baron Rose turned to the morose sawbones and addressed him rather more firmly.

“Well, then. It appears we have a new task ahead of us, as a household – and your good self, as a practitioner. We shall nurse this man until he can show us how tall he now stands, until he can sit down to dinner, and until he can ride and fight as well as he did when last I saw him. Do we understand one another?”

“...My lord, he is-”

“I hope I'm making myself clear,” interrupted Aidan. “I do occasionally make an ass of myself, I know. However, I think my faults lie elsewhere, and not with my diction. To be certain, I will rephrase the future to you, doctor. We will make this man well. He has survived this far, dragged himself through heaven-knows-what, and we are the closest thing he now has to family. He is safe here. In Rose Manor, there is no threat to Shadow Erin, and you shall be at the forefront of ensuring that this remain so. I hope that-” He broke off as the door opened, and his page stuck a youthful head through the gap.

“Beg pardon, sir,” began Raine, “Ladyship says you're to come down to dinner before she gets her bugle down from over the mantel.” The young fox wasn't given to exaggeration, but experience had taught him to cut away the fat of a jovial wifely threat and deliver a lean gist to his employer, ideally in a manner that wouldn't redden his dark blue fur to repeat aloud.

Incredible, really, the mist-grey hedgehog mused as he followed the page downstairs. The things a chap can gloss over when he's worried about the safety of another chap. He was hardly one to miss a meal; lean as his frame was, he nevertheless remained a pious devotee of the knife and fork. Rose Manor employed an absolutely sterling head cook whose skill at slinging hash bordered on the mythic. These days, both Aidan and his daughter tended to treat the dinner-gong as about equal to a starter's pistol. In her youth, Amy had received a lifelong ban from the village's junior hurdles race; the parson, who had been appointed gatekeeper of the entrants' list, had witnessed her clearing a hedge in a single bound on her way to the dining-room. He had summarily judged that any young lady capable of such vaulting was either receiving supernatural help, or was talented enough to render the race a formality. Indeed, her family need only hold up a plateful of mashed potatoes at the finish line, and the girl might leap over her opponents into the bargain.

And yet, even against this beginner-gourmet backdrop, upon arrival at the dining table he could see plainly that Amy's own thoughts were not upon her food. Much like himself, she had a streak of what's-it-called within her, he mused. The feeling that the wellbeing of another was as important as one's own, and that the lack of the former should affect one's appreciation of the latter.

“What ho, what ho,” he greeted the ladies of his life, somewhat mutedly. Amaranthine, at the end of the table opposite his own customary seat, gave him a radiant smile. Crimson-red to her husband's washed-stone grey, she remained a fit and robust lady even into her middle forties thanks to an early career in the soldiery and a continuing passion for practice with the Rose family's ancestral weapon – a slim-bladed, gently curved cavalry sabre, named simply Thorn. Her cerulean gaze flicked between her husband and her daughter, and she laid down her fork to gaze at them both in sympathy.

“Well, this is a sorry sight,” she lamented. “I must admit that I've yet to see this gentleman you've dredged out of a snowbank, Aidan dear, but if his condition is as dismal as your expression...”she left the sentence hanging, with a hook on the end of it. Amy and Aidan both leaped for the bait, and their responses collided in mid-air.

“Do go on, Father,” Amy corrected herself, hesitantly picking up her fork and beginning to rearrange her baked fish and steamed vegetables into yet another configuration upon her plate.

“Well, dash it, I mean to say that the doctor seemed perfectly confident in his survival,” explained Adrian, making brief eye contact with his wife. She was not fooled for an instant, and raised a sceptical eyebrow. Veering away from the white lie, he arranged himself upon more familiar and altogether more truthful ground. “I must say he's skin and bone, my dear. Whatever the army taught you about nutrition, it might be worth colluding with our medicine man to find something to feed him. I seem to remember something from when the chandler's boy got that dreadful fever...”

Amy's gaze moved from one parent to the other as if she were watching a tennis match. Aidan was at least pleased to see her taking an interest in her food, now that others were discussing the issue that plagued her thoughts.

Amaranthine nodded. “I recall it. We made a nice thick nourishing stew, and gave it to him a little at a time; the body knows to swallow, you see, if there's not too much in the mouth at once. He's that hurt?”

“That malnourished, my dear. The doctor believes starvation and exposure are more responsible for his remaining unconscious. His actual injuries are healing up remarkably well, under the circumstances.” Aidan picked up his fork. “He seems to dream, too. Mutters the rummiest things to himself, tosses and turns on occasion. Mercifully, he isn't violent about such things. I should hate to restrain a fellow for his own safety. Doesn't quite go with the guest bed, what?”

Amaranthine thought about this, and nodded after a moment. “I'll speak to Cook, to get a nice hunter's pot going. Something they can keep heated, restock as needed while Shadow needs it. If he's been that hungry, it might be unsafe to let him near solid food too soon; his body may reject it rather firmly.”

“As you say, dear,” nodded Aidan. “I shall speak to Mr Thrace directly, and ask him to arrange regular feeding.”

“That's all right,” announced Amy, in between mouthfuls. Evidently the first actual bite of food had kicked the momentum of her appetite into motion. “I'll do it.”

“As you say, darling,” her father echoed himself, tolerantly.

=======>>>>=======

Whatever Amy had expected to encounter on her first evening of feeding and watching over a sick man, this did not measure up.

The gentleman – hastily dressed in a loose shirt and breeches by the doctor, before a young lady could enter while maintaining propriety – had remained asleep, and had even snored gently once or twice, in defiance of all romance-novel orthodoxy. He had stirred, once or twice, and at one moment in the middle of feeding him, he had mentioned something involving a fast mango, whatever that was. But worse than the dreams he suffered, to her, was his unearthly appearance.

Amy's decade-old memories of Shadow Erin, hazy with time and youthful disinterest though they were, most certainly did not include what lay before her. Not the streaks in his fur and quills, near to glowing hot-iron red against his coal-black coat. Not the eerie changes to his teeth, when some brief clack of her spoon against them had parted his lips long enough to give her a look at the pointed row of fangs beyond. The drawn appearance of his face only emphasised these things, to her shock-scalded senses. He looked frightening, both with the changes and with her first exposure to how gaunt and threadbare it was possible for a person to appear. He looked alien somehow, the pallor of his skin making his fur look thinner than it really was – making him look like something other than a hedgehog.

He looked tired.

That, more than anything, started a pang of grieved sympathy in her heart. Whatever he had been through, she felt stricken at the realisation that her first thought had been the discomfort his appearance placed upon herself. This was someone who had experienced what was, by all appearances, a decade of personal and sustained Hell on earth. Her revulsion at the sight of him now nauseated her in itself. To think that she'd been so self-centred!

This would not stand, she decided as her eyes welled. She forced her trembling hand up to touch his brow, to gently smooth the deep lines of his troubled frown as a tear of guilt spilled down her cheek and landed on his upper arm, where he lay beneath her.

The combination seemed to achieve something. His breath slowed and deepened in waking, brow moving beneath her hand, and his eyes opened – the hazel gaze she vaguely recalled was gone, and these burgundy-red irises spent a moment staring at the ceiling and then blearily focusing upon her. His mouth worked as he looked upon her frozen, astonished face, as if trying to speak. After a moment, he swallowed hard – with a wince of pain at the motion, and managed to croak out a syllable or two. She leaned closer, her horror and amazement utterly disintegrating in the sudden urgency to understand him.

“Angel,” he whispered, slowly and with difficulty. His voice was gone, a hissing sound like stone grating over stone – his throat was too dry. Amy wanted to find him water, but dared not take her gaze from his as his lips moved again. “Co...f..m'?” he managed, and she leaned over him further still.

A heroic effort let him grate out his words, at last, and a tiny, faint smile curved his cracked lips as she returned to her upright position and stared at him in appalled dismay. His eyes slid closed, and her own burned wetly, and she fled.

Outside the bedroom, with her back against the closed door, she pressed both hands over her mouth to stifle the sob that spilled from her. Her legs felt weakened; she gave in to the feeling and let herself slide down to sit on the floor, panting shakily at the ache where his words had seared into her mind.

Have you come for me too? Is it over?

He'd thought she was an angel. He'd looked on her and thought she had come to take him to join his family. He'd looked so relieved, so heartbreakingly grateful to think his life was ending.

Amy broke, and wept.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Solar Square, City of Leon

Not every gift was spectacular in nature.

Not every boon granted to a person's soul by Mighty Chaos was in the way of controlling flames, or striking lightnings from their fingertips. However, every gift had the potential to change the world for the better, as per scripture and divine demonstration. There were those whose gifts lay in weather-sight, or in sensing the presence of water; there were those whose gifts let them sit in a tilled field for a day, and ensure that the crops grown therein would be healthy and bountiful.

While the manifestation of a gift meant that a person's bloodline would be granted noble title, this was not always accepted. Some of these gifted forfeited a life of estates and titles to become travelling priests, wandering the land and doing good where they may – poorer or more remote communities, or isolated farmsteads, always welcomed such visitors and showed them respect and hospitality. Many a famine had been prevented by a passing gifted of a charitable or pious bent, who had ensured a bumper crop or diverted a devastating storm from ruining a harvest.

Some of these gifted, too, were employed by the Crown. Imperial service did not preclude a claim to nobility, under the law, but it did ensure that a practitioner's needs were generously taken care of in return for their loyalty and dedication. Civil service ensured that the palace's own bureaucracy could pinpoint and neutralise potential problems with the help of such operatives.

The day of Princess Blaze's announcement had been chosen with advice from one such agent of the Empire, whose gift was to foretell the weather with uncanny accuracy. She had declared with certainty that the full warmth and brightness of early summer would fill the day with golden light, without a cloud in sight until evening. With this prediction in mind, the announcement had been sent out: a royal decree would be given by Her Highness, and relayed to the corners of the Sol Empire.

This day. This hour. Blaze's gown, a draped masterpiece of resplendent indigo, felt simultaneously light and heavy upon her as she paced slowly back and forth. Her nerves felt frayed, and the worn-thin ends seemed to gnaw at her whole being; Duchess Rouge's plan was a simple masterstroke of chaos, a calculated piece of audacity that would serve to open Pandora's box fully in the faces of those on the Council who planned to shove their chosen suitors upon her. It was a risky one, for it placed Blaze herself in a position that would commit her to marrying, one way or another. She may still end up with some fool or lunatic set on eroding her authority, or even her autonomy. But it did reduce the likelihood of such an outcome from near-certainty to outside chance, and such a shift in her potential fortunes seemed worth the trouble.

She would marry, for it was her duty to the Empire to do so. And she would enact this plan and trust Gaia, and plead to Chaos too, that her marriage might not be ruinous to her. A quick glance at the notes pinned to the wall of the room confirmed once again the articles of law in which she would set her feet, to push back against the tide of her nobles' arrogance and greed – and then the trumpets sounded from outside the tent, and Princess Blaze Felis raised her head. Her eyes glinted as she drew a deep breath to conquer herself, and with her entire being in an iron grip she turned and strode through the tent flap.

Every step was queenly. Every motion was elegance and poise personified, as she stepped clear of the tent's fabric, she ensured every eye was upon her by raising her hands and releasing a burst of power that rose in a sheet of divinely-granted and thoroughly theatrical flame, fully twenty feet above her head. The chattering voices of the gathered multitude in Solar Square rose in a gasp, and then fell silent as the gaze of near half the city together was drawn to their Princess.

She stared the silence down; it howled noiselessly to be filled, her people's expectations being voracious indeed. But she would deal with it when she was ready and not before. She drew one more deep, slow breath, chin up, shoulders back. Her words, when they came, were thrown firmly from her diaphragm to ensure all would hear, and know. Especially those fools who schemed to corner me.

“My people!” she began, to keep herself firmly where she belonged in their thoughts. Among them, and leading them, rather than above them and issuing commands. Such her father had always taught was the true meaning of leadership. She would not let him down, now. “My folk, my Empire, hear now the words of the Imperial Princess! Today,” she gestured to the sky, and to those who watched from higher buildings around the Square, “is a glorious day. A beautiful and clear day, for the news I bring you. Today, our Empire gains a new foothold into its future. Today I put an end to the worries of those who feared for the royal succession – for today I announce my intent to wed.”

Her voice had shifted from a cry of declaration to a measured, projected tone of command. Now, more than ever, she must maintain control; sounding too demure or passive might begin rumours of weakness or passivity, which would then need to be effectively dispelled. Sounding too vindictive would give the game away, true, but it might also sow rumours of its own – leading people to believe there were cracks in the relationship between the Duchies and the Crown. Such cracks did not yet exist, but the assembled dukes and duchesses, waiting with wedges ready to insert in such a fracture, would doubtless find the excuse to create one if they thought the public might possibly side with them.

Those same proud leaders of their people now watched her from directly beneath the stage on which she stood – the stone dais built into Solar Square to turn it into a dedicated and traditional pulpit from which a monarch could make proclamations. Every one of these upturned ducal faces showed contentment and triumph in some measure or flavour; she allowed them to bask in the feeling while it lasted. She was, after all, a merciful ruler. After a moment's silence, she let them have it.

“As thanks to Chaos, who grants our gifts, and Gaia, who grants us life: I hereby invoke the Right of Divine Beneficence,” she continued, mustering a truly heroic volume of willpower to keep her gaze up. She knew – she knew – that all but one of those smug faces beneath her were falling, some smiles staying in place while the rest of the expression sagged around them like a flan left out in the rain. Denying herself the sight of this ducal dismay felt like the hardest self-discipline she had inflicted upon herself in many a year, but she knew that to give away her satisfaction would make it clear she was onto them. She was not yet willing to give up the most effective weapon in her political arsenal: being underestimated.

“To this end,” she continued, “The word will be spread to each part of our Empire that this Summer Start festival shall also be a gathering of the gifted, from all the noble families blessed by Chaos. Each and every noble family, of all ranks and standings, shall be invited to send a representative with a gift, and from these – the best and brightest of the Sol Empire – I shall choose my consort. My dukes and duchesses have agreed that when your Princess is wed, she is to be crowned; by midsummer next year, you shall have an Empress once more!” She threw her hands out, in celebration – and this time, her smile was real.

The roar of approbation from Solar Square's packed thousands was like a tidal wave, and bounced off the buildings around her to pour back on itself; the news was good indeed, and only after the cheering had become a self-sustaining flood of support from the assembled horde of her folk did she permit her gaze to drop, and examine the arrayed and thoroughly stymied Council members at her feet. Each one of them was clapping, naturally; their smiles were, generally, fixed and chagrined if not downright nauseated. The one exception was the white fruitbat at the far left of their seating arrangement, who alone among the half-dozen wore a grin that reached her eyes. Their gazes locked, and Rouge's eyes widened in playful, almost flirtatious acknowledgement for a moment; Blaze's own smile widened as she raised her eyes once more, to take in her people's joy at the news she brought.

A thorough success, it seemed to her.

=======>>>>=======

Her Divine Majesty had certainly had less interesting days.

In the span of one morning, news from her agents in the Sol Empire had set her diplomatic corps' upper echelons fluttering like drunken flickies; the princess of this particular surface-walker nation had announced that she would wed within the year, and that all with a Chaos-gift and a noble title might consider themselves a potential suitor. The predictions concerning this kingdom's fortunes and potential strategies on the world stage had been thrown into immediate dispute, and only after some hours had likely future paths been coherently laid out. What had become immediately clear was that the news would galvanise the Sol Empire's people, and that this would likely lead to an upturn in their productivity – meaning a more stable and prosperous economy.

“The thing to do, then, would be to capitalise on their rejuvenated sense of optimism?” she had suggested to trusted advisors in council, to see if she had read the situation right. She trusted them to inform her if she was mistaken, and to help her understand the circumstances more completely; such honesty was the greatest gift a ruler could desire.

In this case, the response had been a confident and unanimous affirmative. “We believe,” began one of her advisors, a deep-magenta matriarch with a gold-and-topaz circlet, “that the most efficient and effective way to turn this situation to our good is to be sincere; no move in the great game between nations is ever fully altruistic or transparent, but in this case it should serve us well to simply congratulate these ground-treaders and indicate our willingness to deepen relations. Their princess, soon now to be Empress, is no fool; there have been whisperings among their palace staff that this declaration might have been a tactical one. There were pressures upon Her Highness Blaze,” she gestured to a stone token on the scrying-altar before them, bearing a bas-relief of a young feline woman's face, “to marry before she can ascend the Imperial throne proper. No doubt these pressures were intended to advance the cause of one ducal family or another by providing her a consort. Today's announcement heads that off quite neatly, by their laws.”

Her Divine Majesty pondered this for a moment, resting her chin in her hand. Her long quills brushed her back, amber-orange against the shimmering white of her gown. “Then she will no doubt see any attempt at covert action or manipulation as an act of hostility,” she noted. “And thus we shall make none. I shall appoint an ambassador, as you suggest; he shall be down among them in a number of weeks. Notify our agents to prepare for his arrival, and to take no steps of their own. We are to approach as friends, and ideally remain so.”

“Yes, Majesty,” came the response, and four of her advisors moved away. Grasping pendants around their necks, they began to speak in slow, enunciated whispers; the Divine Empress knew that the agents wearing the counterparts would see the mouths of the pendants' sculpted faces begin to move, enabling a skilled lip-reader to receive the message as it was sent. She nodded in satisfaction, and left them to their work.

It was early evening by the time her chosen ambassador arrived; his eyes were still bright from the exertion of travelling from the other side of their island home. He kept a respectful silence as he was announced, only dropping to one knee and placing a fist on the ground before him in supplication.

“You served my father, as a boy,” she began simply, “and I know that the reward you asked in return was a humble one. Your service and devotion are without question, and likewise your moral centre. It is for these reasons – reasons of character, as well as your gift – that I must call upon you now. Will you serve again?”

The chosen man raised his head, deep purple eyes meeting her own blues as his crimson dreads shifted around his shoulders, that massive gloved fist leaving the ground as he returned to his full height.

“I stand at your disposal, Empress,” rumbled her father's most loyal pathfinder.

Tikal smiled.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor.

Amaranthine Rose was considered first and foremost to be a lady of strength, virtue, and duty. Her military service, eventful though it had been thanks to a number of border skirmishes with Spagonia, had left no blemishes upon her; she was extraordinarily skilled in matters of war, though her preference was more for the front lines than for a logistics office. Amara, as her beloved husband called her, had few qualms shedding blood to protect what she loved.

This was why, when she found her daughter leaning against the door of the guest bedroom and sobbing her heart out, Baroness Amaranthine experienced a rush of blood to the fists in a manner that hadn't troubled her since she had mustered out of the army. Her hand slipped to her waist, but paused after the first grope for a sword that she knew was on its display rack over the mantel, along with her bugle. Her second instinct was to hurry to her daughter's side, pulling her into an embrace and running a motherly hand over her quills.

Amy's response was to throw her arms around her mother, crying all the harder, and Amaranthine grew only more desirous of answers. “Amy, my darling,” she whispered, “What happened? Did he hurt you?”

Her daughter shook an emphatic head against her shoulder, fingers gripping at her clothing for a moment before gritting her teeth and taking a deep, steadying breath. It was something she had learned from her own mother, a way to briefly master herself in times of deep or grievous emotional turmoil; it at least let her explain.

“He woke, for a moment.” Amara's eyes flickered toward the door, but she held her peace, to hear her daughter out. “He looked at me...he didn't know me, Mother,” she added, “but he thought – great God, he thought I was an angel. He could barely speak, but he asked if – if I were here to take him to join his family,” her voice twisted into a squeak as her throat tried to close around the sob that came with the words. “He sounded – so happy to see me – he's so ready to die,” and the tears fell afresh, their gazes meeting at the import of the realisation. “What's happened to him, Mother? Ten years of – of what? To make him welcome death?”

The crimson-quilled baroness glanced at the door again, and shook her head. “I don't know, my darling,” she whispered softly – a quaver in her own words, brought close to tears by her daughter's horror and grief. “Even if he wakes, he might wish not to tell us.”

“When,” corrected Amy firmly, despite her weeping. Amara looked down at her daughter, briefly surprised, but saw looking back at her that same steel core she had seen in mirrors so many times before. When circumstances grew difficult or tumultuous, a lady of House Rose would stand her ground for those who had her protection. Every time.

“When,” she agreed, nodding her concession. “When he wakes, Shadow may prefer not to speak of it. Some soldiers treat war the same way.” Amaranthine hoped not, in this case. The men who allowed that horror and rage and sorrow to stay inside them tended to slowly self-destruct over the course of a decade or two, as the unspoken atrocities committed by war upon their minds began to eat them hollow.

“Would there be something we could do, to induce him to be forthcoming?” Amy asked her, and Amaranthine understood then and there: her daughter knew what she was thinking, had heard some of her stories about it. She desired no such fate for Shadow. Despite herself, the older woman shook her head.

“Only to earn, and deserve, his trust,” she replied simply. “There can be no forcing these things. Either he will speak of it, or he will not. For now, we have more immediate concerns: he woke, and he addressed you?” Amy nodded, mutely. “Then he will wake again. When he does, our responsibility is to treat him with respect and care, and help him to understand where and when he is.”

She felt her daughter's hand clench into a fist against her back, and smiled to herself over Amy's head. That steel core. Would that every Rose woman could have it. If you are ever blessed with a child, Amy, teach them this courage.

They would always need it.

=======>>>>=======

A week passed, without any great incident or to-do. Shadow's eyes opened once or twice more; with each moment awake he seemed a little more lucid, though it may have been that the steady diet of soups and broths had allowed his throat to heal and moisten. Communication was always easier, reflected Amy, when one party's speech didn't sound like a rockslide. This was largely speculation on her part, though, as his second and third waking periods had not occurred in her presence.

It was halfway through the second week of Shadow's recuperation that she came in one morning to find the dark hedgehog looking around, awake and apparently calm. She froze in the doorway, but she had hardly attempted to be stealthy with her entry and his gaze had fixed upon her the instant she had come into view.

“Good morning,” she began softly, after what felt like a mere seven or eight years of mutual staring. Some of this was due to her discomfort at being pinned in such a seemingly predatory stare – those teeth came back to her mind's eye at the thought – but rather more of it was due to the hot bowl of stew she held, which seemed to grow only more volcanic in temperature as she stood there.

Eventually, pain spurred her to action. She stepped inside, heeled the door closed, and abandoned any pretence at poise to hurry over to his bedside and set down the meal. With a hiss of torment she withdrew her hands from the sides of the bowl, shaking the heat off them and lowering herself into the chair placed by his bedside. He had not yet spoken, merely lying where he had been placed.

“Forgive my hurry,” she winced, wringing at her tingling hands, knowing they were reddened beneath her gloves. “That bowl is exceedingly hot; it often takes an hour or more to feed it to you in your sleep.”

Shadow regarded her for another long moment, and then blinked once. “My angel?” he began softly, as if in wonderment. His voice was softer than she felt it had any right to be, low and languid and almost a purr when he lowered it like this. “I...forgive me. There was something like a dream, I believe, except that I saw you.”

“You did not dream, sir,” she replied quietly, semi-formally. “I was taking my turn at caring for you when you – you seemed to wake, briefly. We were all gladdened to know you had opened your eyes at all.” She said nothing of what he'd said; it didn't seem the time.

“You seemed the most wondrous thing I ever beheld,” he whispered, his gaze gliding away to stare at the ceiling for a moment or two. “At the time, I can see why I believed you dispatched by Heaven.” Amy's eyes narrowed, just a fraction, and what came next she could never have stopped with a whole year's worth of self-restraint.

“At the time?” she asked, pertinently. Shadow's eyes slid back to her, levelly, his face remaining deadpan.

“At the time,” he agreed. “But at the time, you were not wearing that shade of yellow.”

Amy's eyes widened and her hand shot up, to touch the buttercup hair ornament holding her quills back from her face. It had been a gift from a dear friend, a young lemur lady who lived in a neighbouring territory. It was quite precious to her; her temper began to rise, despite herself, at the disparagement.

“And an angel of Heaven would not be seen wearing this shade, sir?” she asked, haughtily. “But then, a scion of House Erin might be considered less boorish than to insult the dress sense of his saviour, without first making inquiries about where he might be.” That, certainly, struck home; Shadow averted his gaze again, but downward this time. That was shame, she knew, and he ought to feel it.

“You are correct, of course,” he began, abashed. “I must apologise most humbly and sincerely. I beg your forgiveness, my lady, and enlightenment as to my present circumstances.”

That seemed...rather an abrupt change of pace from him. The Shadow Erin she recalled from her youth would have continued gently needling, while ensuring he crossed no further lines into real offence.

“...You are forgiven,” she told him archly, after a moment. It was seldom that a baron's daughter had the chance to so rebuke the son of a duke. “for your impertinence. You are in Blumenheim, Shadow. At Rose Manor, and safe. My father found you, in the snow, and you were brought here more than a week ago.”

“Your father?” He gazed at her, a frown of concentration creasing his brow as if trying to piece something together. She let him suffer for a moment, still faintly incensed at his prior rudeness , but relented when he remained silent.

“My father,” she confirmed. “Baron Aidan Rose. Husband to a distant aunt of yourself, Baroness Amaranthine Rose. I am their only daughter.” She clasped her fingers in her lap, leaning forward slightly. “Do you know me, Shadow?”

Another brief, busy pause as he fought through whatever cobwebs ensnared him in the labyrinth of memory. His eyes narrowed, and then widened.

“Ammeline?” he breathed softly, and Amy's mouth immediately did something very unpleasant-looking on a lady of her breeding. She despised her long-form name, and only even permitted the staff to call her by it when her parents were present; in every instance where she had her say, she was Amy. She was quick to remind him of this – and was filled with equal parts relief and dread, when she saw something in his eyes that she had last seen as a very young girl, visiting for a banquet and watching him – then aged perhaps sixteen – sport with his cousin Silver. She knew that look. Shadow Erin had found something with which to tease her.

“Ammeline Rose,” he whispered, completely straight-faced, as he fought to sit up. He was not yet strong enough to manage it, and compromised by supporting himself on his elbows. “I had thought never to see you again.”

“A prediction that may yet come true, if you continue to address me with that name,” she replied pointedly, looking at his arms – and reddening a little at the intimacy of seeing his ungloved hands. “Do you...think you can sit up?”

“Perhaps, given some time,” he replied gamely, looking down at himself and making another valiant but thoroughly pitiable attempt at levering himself upright. Pity overtook Amy's irritation, and she placed a hand between the two spines at his upper back to help him position himself. The brief, intense and completely sincere flash of gratitude in his glance at her was enough to silence her doubts, until the black hedgehog obliged her temper once more by opening his mouth and doing it again.

“Thank you, Ammeline,” he murmured, and her patience gave way. She stood, brushing down her skirt with as businesslike an aspect as she could throw together on such short notice.

“That's the third time, Shadow Erin,” she informed him primly. “As you are now upright and seem to have no difficulty coordinating yourself, I shall leave you to eat your own breakfast. Like an oaf who cannot appreciate a lady's company,” she added, turning and making for the door with her nose in the air.

“Wait! Wait,” he begged her, sincerely, “Please. Wait. I must beg to ask one more thing of you.”

She paused in the open threshold, her hand upon the door as she looked back at him over her shoulder.

“For pity's sake,” he pleaded, “abandon that shade of buttercup yellow. A light sage green would pleasingly bring out your quills and your eyes both, without such a deafening clash-”

She heard no more, for she had flounced from the room.

=======>>>>=======

“What ho, what ho, what ho,” greeted her father, as she descended the stairs. “Finished feeding him rather early, dear heart. Is something the matter?”

“He is awake,” Amy told him succinctly, “and he is a cad.”

The baron's reaction was rather understandable, given the circumstances. “He – what – I – do you mean to say he-” he glanced up the stairs, “-He didn't try anything uncivilised with you, did he?”

“He was thoroughly disparaging of my buttercup yellow hair ornament,” she explained, knowing that this would tell all. The blow to her pride demanded that she make the amplitude of the insult understood.

“Oh. Well, can't blame him there,” reasoned her father, and if she had been holding a tin tray she would have struck him with it. “But he's awake? We must fetch the doctor. How is his condition?”

Amy pulled in a deep breath through her nose, schooling herself to patience. “He can't sit up by himself,” she advised, “though he retains the position well enough, once he's been assisted to it. Rather like a very young baby. He attempted to rise once, and swooned. Though he was still capable of sarcasm,” she added, contemplatively. “So it was more of a swine than a swoon, I suppose.”

“Well, dash it, we can't have a fellow sit up in bed and swine all over his nurse,” smiled her father excitedly. “If you'll go and let your mother know, dearest, I'll go and locate that magical disappearing physician we've got, if the blighter hasn't mysteriously vanished off to Chun-nan for their new-year dragon-chasing party...” He had already turned and was ambling off, talking cheerfully to himself as Amy turned and hurried in the other direction, back up the stairs to her mother's study.

This winter was going to be a thoroughly interesting one.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Sanctuary Temple.

“Too long,” announced Miles, holding up a thumb and squinting along the length of his arm.

Sonic threw up his hands in frustration, venting his feelings with an exasperated sound akin to steam being vented from a walrus. He hopped lightly off the windowsill, turning to readjust the curtain and conceal any creases that may have betrayed his presence.

“Aren't there any curtains in this temple the right size?” he lamented, glancing back at Miles. The fox gave a brusque shake of his head, taking refuge in arithmetic.

“There are no windows in this temple the right size, Sonic,” he explained, though he felt a mire of futility in explaining to Sonic why the latest woolly-thinking scheme would yield little or no success. Lately, such explanations seemed to take up more and more of his time, as Sonic grew more and more determined to find a way to leave the temple grounds without being detected. The old axiom had proven true once again: youth and enthusiasm were finding themselves repeatedly and humiliatingly trounced by old age and treachery, as Mother Longclaw's long lifetime of experience at curbing the impulses of the gifted and irrepressible had fenced Sonic into the temple grounds as thoroughly as if he wore a magical tether.

Sonic's response to this development had been to enlist Miles, by means of ceaseless and maddening pleas, for assistance. The hedgehog's initial offer had been to take over Miles' chores for up to a month afterward, but this had fallen apart when it had been pointed out that he could hardly sweep a temple floor from three hundred miles away. After the fox had given in and promised what aid he could, it had soon become apparent that this was not, in fact, all that much aid.

After the fifth attempt to cross the temple's boundaries simply by appearing to be on the other side of the building and then ducking out of sight in hopes his speed would be theatrically underestimated, and the fifth time that a temple attendant – usually Sister Nali – had appeared in his path with some new chore with which to occupy him...it had become clear that speed alone would not serve him here. Not yet.

Mother Longclaw bade him patience, patience. Sonic had stormed into the bedroom he shared with Miles, more than once, to throw himself onto his bed and complain loudly of her stifling demands that he still himself – that he strangle his gift to no gain. Miles had pointed out this was likely motivated by caution; she had given lessons more than once on hubris, and its price for the unwary.

Sonic's (uncharacteristically incisive) reflection upon those lessons had been that hubris was a word used solely and specifically for those ventures and ambitions which had already failed; that its definition was self-fulfilling, as those which did not fail were labelled foresighted or far-reaching in their success.

My friend is a fool when it suits him, Miles had realised, and intelligent and insightful when those traits in their turn can bring him closer to his goal.

Sonic had therefore remained undeterred by the mythology with which Mother Longclaw had bombarded him, and when his growing speed failed him he was driven only to attempt stealth instead.

“The curtains,” he had announced to Miles one morning. “One will do nicely as a cloak, and I can steal away a few steps at a time if I cover it with grasses...” this had brought them to their current task: touring the windows of their home in search of a curtain short enough to leave Sonic's freedom of movement unimpeded. Given the chances that Mother Longclaw had deliberately ensured tall windows on Sanctuary Temple's walls, thus necessitating such long drapes to begin with, Miles found himself increasingly suspicious that Sonic was engaging in these escape attempts more for his own entertainment than with any genuine intent to succeed.

“Have you considered geography?” he asked his blue friend, as they began to move to another wing of the temple's second floor. “To assume that you do succeed, and leave Sanctuary – you know your destination's name. But which direction is it, from here?”

“...Southward,” replied the hedgehog, with an audible effort at certainty and confidence. Miles tilted his head, faintly disappointed in the answer but intrigued as to whether Sonic had a plan to overcome this ignorance.

“How far? Or would this be a matter of seeking out civilisation, and then asking directions from there?” He was obliged to raise his pace to a dog-trot to keep up with Sonic, whose agitation seemed to express itself in bursts of motion these days. The hedgehog had grown so fond of pushing his limits, encouraging his gift to grow, that he seldom missed an opportunity to move quickly.

“I will ask directions,” announced Sonic haughtily, “as a civilised gentleman would. Pardon me, sir and/or madam, might I ask which road would take me to Blumenheim? I mean to meet with family there, but I seem to have lost my way. Why thank you, and have a very good morning.”

“Ah, yes, young man. It is exactly Somewhere South of here – and will you be travelling a-lawn?” Miles caught up enough to lean out in front of the hedgehog, to get into his field of view. “Or would this be after you discard your grass-covered window drape disguise?”

“Miles, are these questions in earnest?” Sonic asked him abruptly, pausing to look his friend in the eye. “They feel as if they possess an air of implicit criticism.” Miles averted his gaze, a little shamefully. He'd never been fond of gainsaying Sonic, but he could hardly conceal his doubts about these escape schemes.

“I feel...perhaps the question should be whether the escape attempts are in earnest,” he began, carefully. “This seems a tad...desperate.”

“Desperation is the order of the hour,” replied Sonic promptly. “My age-”

“Your age is not yet nineteen,” supplied Miles, himself only half a year younger. “Not for two weeks. Have you considered speaking to Mother Longclaw on this?”

“I already know what she'll say,” came an insistent protest. “Counselling me to wait a week won't cease the turmoil in me, Miles, it'd be foolish to pretend otherwise.”

“What I mean to say is, there may be something that can be done to prepare. Supplies to gather for your journey. If you were to make a favourable impression, you might be given a cloak,” he urged softly. “I say this not to stymie your decision-making, Sonic, but to beg you to consider that you live among people who favour you. Not enemies. You have no need to steal away in the night, or escape from under their watchful eye, if they are aiding you in the matter.”

The roll of Sonic's eyes was impossible to miss. “I know. I know it, and...and I feel as if this journey must be mine,” he blurted, sagging where he stood. “This is the beginning of my life as a man. By common law I stand as a man already.”

“And by noble law you must be nineteen, yes, we both know it,” replied Miles, almost dismissively. “Yet there are men here, brothers of the temple, who were not children when they came to devote themselves. There is no pride in refusing to ask for advice, Sonic. Especially in those cases where the gift of experience is theirs, and emphatically not your own. This is what advice is for. Moments like these.”

“My pride needles at me for it,” confessed the hedgehog. “To ask another how to be myself.”

“Then whomever you ask, let that not be your question,” the younger boy encouraged him, with a gentle punch to his upper arm. “Ask only how to travel light and secure. How to know which mushrooms are safe, perhaps. How to avoid bandits on the road. Ignore the who of your present circumstances, and focus on the how and the what, and your pride need not feel trodden upon.”

“I agree,” noted the owl behind them, mildly. The two youths glanced at her, then back to each other before the delayed shock pressed them both to the walls of the corridor.

“Mother Longclaw-”

“-has always been on your side, Sonic,” interrupted the owl, gently and firmly, placing a wing on the youth's shoulder. “Your happiness has always been my second priority, in all of my dealings with you. It can only be superseded by your safety and wellbeing.”

“Yes, Mother Longclaw,” Sonic replied, in an almost sing-song tone that spoke of long repetition. She looked at him for a moment, eyes narrowed.

“You should perhaps be informed,” she informed him, “that Her Highness the Imperial Princess has invoked the Right of Divine Beneficence.” The words had Sonic staring blankly at her, and so she elaborated. “Regarding the pressure upon her to marry, so that she may take the Imperial crown.”

Sonic's silence continued, and his teacher gave a sigh. “Sonic, these things are important facets of the laws of the Empire in which we live. Come,” she added, turning to gesture toward her study, “I shall explain. And you shall listen, for it has some bearing on how you are to go to Blumenheim.”

“You knew of my-” Sonic started as if he had been poked with a carpenter's awl.

“Sonic, I have spent the last decade acting in loco parentis for you. Of course I understand you that far.”

“Please don't be harsh on yourself, Mother Longclaw. You were hardly insane about it,” the hedgehog reassured her, with utter sincerity. The owl gave him a long look, and Miles could see in her face that she was choosing to let the matter go. She ushered him off to her study, turning her head all the way around to give Miles a knowing wink. The fox rolled his eyes affectionately, and turned to be about his business. His friend was in good hands.

=======>>>>=======

“Great Gaia,” muttered Rouge, “they hound me even to your chambers, Your Highness.” She turned from the door, to behold the princess seated before her. The marble table between them had become an unofficial and unspoken meeting point for the duo; when they convened there, they discussed strategy.

“Please, Rouge, you know better than that,” smiled the cat, with an air of fond exasperation to her tone. “Are we not friends? Behind closed doors, I am Blaze.” The older woman broke into a broad smile, and took a seat across from her.

Since the declaration of Blaze's Invocation, the Council had rapidly settled their wrathful gazes upon the one woman they were convinced had something to do with it, simply by dint of having nothing to gain from their own schemes. They were in fact correct, but Rouge felt entirely justified in calling this mere coincidence; the Princess, for her part, had responded to their subtle angling for information by steering the conversation immediately into the logistics of the upcoming festival – and when they had grown direct in their inquiries, she had enjoyed dealing a sharp glance and a reminder that their princess was in fact capable of selecting a course of action for herself.

She longed, ached, to call them what they were. To detail to them how transparent they were, how little she was fooled. Every obsequious remark, every greasy smile and flagrant flattery, set a part of her begging to upend the High Council chamber's meeting table upon them. It was, of course, simply politics that they should attempt to manipulate her. She didn't like it, but she understood the game. The insult came with how overt they were with it. They saw her as a child, perhaps, or a fool; it didn't matter which, at its core. They refused to bother, refused to make any effort, toward real subtlety or subterfuge.

Without the Imperial throne beneath her, her power base was as yet too unstable to address these concerns directly. She must regrettably play along with their farcical attempts at government by puppetry, for some months longer yet.

“What we need,” she murmured to Rouge after some long minutes spent discussing more private logistics, “is a way to break the deadlock. The Council know of every noble family in our Empire; they have access to all the same books of heraldry and public record that we do, as well as their own agents in those families' staffs.”

“Do you think so?” asked the bat, glancing up from the report she was reading.

“I would. I do, though I only receive reports concerning potential trouble spots or treachery, things like that. So long as their duties are seen to, their people are cared for, and no one does anything particularly heinous, I am minded to allow them to do as they please. But in their position, if I had their goals, I should have much more comprehensive reporting. Every potential scandal, every foible.” She narrowed her eyes at the papers before her. “Everything that could be used to blackmail or extort a favour, for silence or concealment. Every crack that could take a wedge. They will have all of these, Rouge, and they will use what they can. There is no noble family in this Empire, free of the risk of manipulation.”

“Then you seek something to break their control?” mused Rouge, turning a few leaves in the file before her as if these would provide her with such an answer.

“Or some outside factor. Oh, and on that subject,” Blaze added, ears perking up, “I have received word from the Echidnas that they wish to send a new ambassador to us.”

“Well, that is a surprise,” remarked the older woman, lifting her cheek off her palm. “I had thought them perfectly happy with their isolation.”

“Perhaps they hope to make some inroads on the new age of prosperity the populace seem convinced my coronation will bring,” sighed the princess, rolling her eyes. “Though...I am hardly in a position to refuse a rebuilding of bridges with a potential ally. The Echidnas have little cause to dislike us; let us not hand them any.”

“No disagreement here,” smiled her older friend, shifting in her seat and turning over another leaf in the endless list of noble sons who had petitioned for Her Highness' hand. “I hear they are a...direct people. Perhaps we could use a little of that ourselves.”

“Perhaps.” Blaze glanced at the window. There had to be a solution, somewhere.

Someone.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor.

The days had passed swiftly, after Shadow's true awakening.

The return to the fullness of his mental acuity had led to some frankly embarrassing encounters with the Rose family physician, a duck by the name of Herman Bauer. The doctor's initial reactions to him said that the man had noticed certain differences in Shadow's physiology, which seemed only fair. Trained eyes would naturally see such things. It had taken more than one full, coherent, entirely reasonable conversation to make it clear that he remained an ordinary hedgehog in mind, if not quite in body.

Shadow also considered the changes upon himself to be quite limited in their social impact. His naturally reserved nature and rather deadpan sense of humour – most of the time – meant that his fangs would be concealed by his quite ordinary lips. The glow of his eyes was likewise more subtle than it might sound, to mention the fact of it aloud; only in darkened environments would it be noticeable. The rest of the changes wrought upon him should not be visible to the eye; certainly not in a social situation. Doctor Bauer had only noticed them himself, Shadow had pointed out, in the course of a full medical examination.

The second set of awkward conversations facing Shadow were with the lord and lady of the house. Baron and Baroness Rose had been effusive in their welcome, to be sure; indeed, it seemed to the dark hedgehog that they found greater joy in his survival than Shadow himself had, at first. He suspected it would be quite some time before his continued existence ceased to stir regret within him. His first mistake had been to let that slip before Baroness Amaranthine, who had enfolded him – as a distant aunt would – in a warm and reassuring embrace at the disclosure. With her husband's hand resting companionably on his shoulder, the duo had spent the following ten minutes detailing to Shadow precisely how welcome he was here, while the rescuee had valiantly attempted not to crumble under the gentle pressure of the first truly friendly contact he had experienced in the last ten years.

Begging them not to importune him as to the nature of his captivity, Shadow had expected some details to be demanded, but Lady Amaranthine had firmly set out her expectations for this matter: that Shadow should speak only to those he felt he could trust with such things, and only when he felt as if he should – and when it would not hurt him overmuch to do so. He had reluctantly agreed to these terms; the baroness was, after all, an experienced war leader. She had an understanding of how certain horrors, once experienced, might poison the mind if not eventually taken out and aired in some safer set of circumstances.

With his welcome at Rose Manor in no doubt, even if he felt rather embarrassingly unworthy of how complete and unconditional it had been, he had also been set a task by the couple: to grow well again, and regain his full strength and stamina. To become a man capable of living a life, once more. This was easier said than done, not least due to the difference between their perception of full strength and his own. However, he hardly had it in him to refuse them, when their only request was that he stay with them and regain his physical prowess.

Ammeline, however, was another story.

=======>>>>=======

Amy was once again a beleaguered garrison unto herself, encroached upon in her own home.

It didn't seem fair. There weren't even any aunts visiting her, this time; instead, they were saddled with a distant cousin of hers who delighted in gently teasing her whenever given the chance. Following their first lucid conversation, she had met with him two or three times more; on each occasion, he had been unfailingly polite even while taking flint and tinder to the kindling of her pride. She did serve that pride by standing up to him, defending her dignity against such assaults; the lack of malice in his wine-red eyes, coupled with the warm smiles he gave her when she arrived in his chambers, reassured her that this was a friendly contest of wits rather than the bald-faced insult it might have been from any other person. Nevertheless, their encounters unfailingly ended with her leaving with her nose in the air and a reprimand lingering in her wake for his boorishness; the low, smoky laughter following her to the door might have had a lesser girl blushing.

But she was Amy Rose, the heiress of Blumenheim, the blunter of conversational spears, and She Against Whom No Arrogance Could Stand. Of her social circle, limited as it was to those young ladies whose parents saw no harm in letting them be silly alongside her now and again, she was widely considered the most lethal to any display of pomp – a siege engine, to bring down the towers of conventional social vanity. She would not be set to blushing at a man's laughter, attractive or not. She certainly wouldn't be fooled by any of what she might carefully call aesthetic concerns about the darker hedgehog, when his personality was so dedicated to maddening her.

She was aware that there were, perhaps, some exotic points of attraction about his current appearance; his teeth aside, there was something fascinating in the way his eyes shone. His height, certainly, was impressive; she was quite certain he had not been so intimidatingly tall when she had seen him before his disappearance. The scarlet streaks in his quills, too, seemed to give off a glow similar to his eyes; she had made these discoveries one morning early in their reacquaintance, when moving through his room to open his curtains. She had glanced at the bed upon entering the dimmed room, and seen the faint, lambent red of his gaze and his streaks. It had been a strangely compelling moment; something in her heart had stilled at the recognition of what she was seeing, but then he had opened his fool mouth and greeted her with Good morning, Ammeline, have you come to deliver some sunshine? - which had naturally prompted her to begin another round of verbal jousting. Which he had won. Again. The pig.

All of the problems arising from this, however, paled in comparison to what she discovered this morning.

“What do you mean, his wardrobe?” she demanded, somewhat unfairly – leaving her father blinking in bemusement after his report that the tailor was here to measure Shadow for clothing.

“Well, naturally, my dear,” the older hedgehog told her, with some surprise. “After all, the man's recovery progresses apace. He can stand well enough, now. Dash it, we can't have the fellow wander the place in a spare set of underclothes for a man who comes up to his shoulder.” Amy fought down the blush at the thought, and focused intently on the idea of annoyance at this development.

Great Gaia, he was going to be insufferable when he was able to drift around the house and bother her.

“Still, I worry,” continued her father, gently belabouring a hard-boiled egg like a master jeweller at a conveniently-flawed uncut gem. “I brought him a mirror, for ensuring his quills were as he wished them; I don't think the poor blighter was quite ready to see himself. He must have spent more than half an hour looking into it.”

“Mr Erin is a glutton for punishment,” retorted Amy primly. After all, Shadow was hardly a Lord any more; having been declared legally dead following the fall of his House, he was out of the succession, and there was no one else to take it up. House Erin was officially no more. “We must expect this sort of thing from time to time.”

“But, I mean to say, my dear, what?” replied the baron, compassionate as ever. “A fellow looking into a mirror for thirty minutes on end? It rather makes one feel as if he had more in mind than adjusting to his appearance. Perhaps an element of soul-searching was in the offing, too.”

Amy marmaladed a slice of toast with something of a flourish, glancing over at her father – her mother's voice rose from the garden, as the older lady led a number of the gardening staff in their morning stretches. “That man's soul is hardly of a size that would require a full thirty minutes to search through in its entirety, Father,” she informed him, frostily.

Baron Rose caught his daughter's eye, and smiled fondly. “Ah, well. As long as you're having fun, my dear,” he told her genially, giving a soft chuckle at the flush of irritation that came to her cheeks.

=======>>>>=======

Shadow stared at himself in the mirror, surrounded by the strangely calming bustle of the seamstress preparing her things. The petite otter was a pale amber-gold colour, with a pixie-cut head of paler fur; she moved surely and meticulously, which was at least pleasing to the hedgehog's sense of precision. Truthfully, he was clinging to what sensory phenomena he could find; he felt almost as if he lingered outside of his own body, witnessing himself face up to what he had become. The mirror looked dully furious with him, and he couldn't blame it.

He was a full head taller, perhaps a little more, than when he had last seen himself reflected from head to foot like this. His body had filled out some to match it; proportionally, he had changed less than he'd feared. Nevertheless, compared to his own memory of himself, he appeared gangly, almost spindly. His eyes, too, had changed; before, they had been a warm hazel colour that flashed gold when the sunlight hit them properly. He had been proud of them, considering them one of his best features. Now, two deep red coals smouldered in his gaze – a forbidding glare even when he kept the rest of his face as carefully blank as his youth's diplomatic lessons had taught him.

The angry red streaks in his quills spoke for themselves. They were certainly new, and he'd almost wept to see them the first time he'd dared to use a hand-mirror. The seamstress was certainly a good choice, and he made a mental note to thank Amaranthine again for her thoughtfulness; this woman made no comment at those features which were clearly not a part of a normal, living body. Aidan had foresightedly and plausibly mentioned that Shadow had 'suffered quite a vicious personal misfortune following a magical accident overseas', and left it at that. It would suffice, as a story.

“Let's not stand on formality,” he advised the otter, keeping his expression wry and his tone self-depreciative. “It would only make this more uncomfortable. I'm afraid I shall need some advice regarding my personal colouring; I wasn't quite so...red the last time I chose a wardrobe.”

The seamstress smiled, and nodded. “Certainly,” she replied, her voice smooth and faintly accented. “I shall take your shape first, and as I go, we may discuss what colours might suit. If you'd just raise your arms for me, to either side? - Thank you. This is to be a full wardrobe, I'm told?”

“It is,” replied Shadow, as she took a piece of knotted string from the pocket of her vest and began to do various arcane things with it along the length of one arm.

“Then we have many options. This may take a span of time, but it will be worth it.” She moved behind him, to begin working along his shoulders – stepping onto a stool after a moment, to check their broadness from above his upper dorsal spines as well as below.

“I would prefer to keep my lines tapered where possible,” he noted, as she moved to the other arm, and caught the edge of her nod in the mirror before him.

“That would emphasise your height,” she agreed, “and give an appearance of severity. Self-control. Especially if we go with a deep, rich red, and perhaps a dark charcoal...”

He let her speak, resuming his glare into his own reflected eyes.

I don't recognise you yet, Shadow Erin. But I will find myself, in you.

=======>>>>=======

“How do you feel, old chap?” Her father's voice drifted down the stairs, as the heavy oak door to the guest room closed behind them.

“Better than I have in weeks, Aidan,” came a second voice – and Amy sat up. She'd known a parcel had arrived from the tailors this morning, and it made sense after the measurements Miss Drift had taken some nine days ago; she hadn't realised that the clothing for Shadow was quite ready yet.

She knew that sound: newly made shoes, their soles still gleaming, upon the staircase. Amy set aside her book and rose from the plush chair she'd occupied all morning, exiting the sitting room just in time to risk a major collision with Mr Thrace – an older fox gentleman and her father's head butler. He'd been carrying a silver tray, mercifully empty, and whirled it quickly upward to avoid laying her low with a blow to the forehead from it.

“Oh! I do apologise, Miss Amy,” he whispered, holding the object to his chest and checking her over swiftly. “Are you hurt?”

“Not in the slightest, Mr Thrace,” she smiled at him, resting a hand upon his forearm. “You were very quick with it. I'm sorry to rush out into the corridor so.”

“Not at all, Miss,” came the reply, with a broad, relieved smile. “I was hurrying much too quickly.”

Amy glanced back at the main corner, where those footsteps grew ever closer. “Now that you mention the word. Do excuse me,” she chimed at the butler, before making the best compromise she could between dignity and haste. A quick sashay along the hall brought her to the foot of the main stairs, upon which her father and Shadow Erin were descending.

It was a casual, slow walk, a tactful concession to the fact that Shadow had not walked on his own feet for any real distance for nearly two weeks now. The older hedgehog was separate from him, but remained close enough that if Shadow's legs were to betray him, he would be caught before he could fall.

The black hedgehog's outfit was as perfectly tailored as it could be. Aside from his gleaming, black leather shoes, the hedgehog was clad in burgundy; the trousers, jacket and waistcoat of the suit all cut from the same cloth, with an intricate embroidery on the inner coat in an even darker wine-red shade. The shirt beneath was clean and white, high-collared like the closely-fitted jacket, and bound with a smooth, unruffled cravat in a shade of pink so muted it was almost grey. At his throat, a glittering pyrope garnet matched his eyes almost perfectly, set in a white-gold brooch atop the cravat. The only variance from this scheme was a splash of colour at his breast pocket, where the corner of a handkerchief protruded in...

...in buttercup yellow.

“Good morning, Ammeline,” greeted Shadow, all congeniality as he reached the foot of the stairs. “I've regained my feet at last; thank you so much for all of your help while I was so embarrassingly indisposed. Do you like my new suit?” he added, looking for all the world like he meant it. Their eyes met, and she knew that he could tell she had noticed.

Amy threw up her hands with a loud, frustrated exclamation of outrage, and stormed outside.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Sanctuary Temple

Nineteen. Nineteen. Nineteen.

Today was the day. His coming-of-age. His nineteenth birthday, his first day as not just an adult – but an adult who could claim his name, could be acknowledged as heir.

An adult who could, perhaps one day, bring House Erin back.

His exultation was impossible to miss. Sonic had spent the morning a bundle of nervous activity; in each room he entered, he was everywhere at once. Every window, every piece of furniture, every object must be interacted with in some way, it seemed. His hands flickered across every piece of paper, reading what he could, apologising and cheerfully vanishing if his wrist were smacked by a scribe or archivist.

The source of his mood was known, of course, to all. There were fewer who understood that his excessive attention to Sanctuary's inhabitants and furnishings had a purpose. Sister Nali understood him well enough, he presumed, to have made certain connections. Mother Longclaw, likewise; her wisdom and insight had moved beyond assurance and into the realm of the axiomatic. The sun rose in the East, hot food grew cold if left uneaten, and Mother Longclaw knew what her charges were thinking. Miles Prower was his closest and greatest friend, and there was nothing in Sonic's heart which did not shed some glow of his mood onto the fox's in turn.

When his eyes met the younger boy's, though, his whirling, frenzied hyperactivity came to a halt. Even now, his speed was growing; he could cross the temple's clearing half a dozen ways, in as long as it took Sister Nali to recite the words Sonic Erin shall become the fastest hedgehog in the world, and let none gainsay it. They had tested this, repeatedly.

“Sonic,” greeted his friend. Miles' voice was decidedly without any quaver of sorrow, or apprehension, or anything but the solid confidence of a young man whose faith in his friend is unshakable. Sonic's posture sagged visibly, to hear it; he could see the effort it cost the fox to achieve that tone.

“Miles,” began Sonic, horribly and embarrassingly aware of the guilt in his own voice. “I...want to say I'm sorry that I'm leaving.” He moved closer, crossing the room they had shared for ten years.

“But you can't,” finished Miles, with a gentle smile. His eyes were a little glassy, perhaps. Sonic held his peace about them. “You are too good and honest a man to hide your joy at your freedom, Sonic Erin. You always will be, I hope. Your friends, and what family you find or create – they deserve to see happiness in you. You always choose to share it wherever you may.” The fox laid down the coil of copper he held, and the piece of tubed glass he had carefully shaped for whatever arcane creation he now planned, and came to his feet before the taller youth. “And when I claim my title, I'll come and find the greatest friend I could ever have hoped for.”

“Miles, I-” Sonic got no further as his best friend threw both arms around him. His own hands came up behind Miles, and they embraced as brothers.

“I'll come and find you,” repeated the fox, pulling away and locking gazes with Sonic. “Have a care until then. You can't outrun an arrow yet, and certainly not one you have no idea is coming. Learn subtlety. From your cousin if you have to, when you find him.”

Sonic chanced a smile, hoping it didn't wobble too much as he regarded his grieved, exhilarated bosom friend. “Never fear, Miles. I shan't be going as far as I believed I might, at first. And Brother Whipton has been helping me to learn to defend myself, in ways that our fitness work and the Noble Art lessons didn't touch upon.”

“My dear Sonic,” began Miles, faux-scandalised, “have you been educated in Ungentlemanly Combat?”

“My dear Miles, I may have indeed,” he replied, with a smile so smooth it nearly slipped sideways off his face. “But I have also had...some meetings with Mother Longclaw. I won't be travelling to Blumenheim, when I go.”

“To Leon, then?” Sonic's smile finally slid off his features, so notably that it almost made a splatting sound when it reached the floor. Miles gave an insouciant grin of his own. “Sonic, I heard her say it: Divine Beneficence. That means that most noble families shall be sending representatives. House Rose is only a barony, and they haven't a son to send along, but it would be bad form not to send someone, and they have a married daughter and a son-in-law who can show the colours without taking the Lord and Lady of the place away from their duties.” The fox shrugged, theatrically, rolling his eyes a little for emphasis. “Really, my friend, it rapidly became obvious.”

Sonic's head dipped, self-conscious at how swiftly Miles had deduced what he had needed to be told at some length. “One day, little brother, I hope I might run as swift as you think,” he murmured, ruefully. “I shall miss that. Your keen mind and your friendship have been the greatest asset I've possessed.”

“And your eternal cheer and your friendship, mine,” replied the fox, sadly. “Now go. Speak to Mother Longclaw before you leave; she has gifts for you, and one of them is a creation of mine. But we will meet again, after today. Let the freshest memory we each have of our best friend be a smile, and be gone before we break into tears,” he advised the hedgehog, with a gentle clap of one hand to Sonic's upper arm.

Sonic stiffened, and then turned his back. This way, neither would see the other weep, he decided, as he drew in a breath. “When I am famous and well-known,” he forced out, keeping his voice as steady as he may, “and people ask me how I came to be such a superb man, I will tell them, I had the greatest friend there ever was.”

“When they ask you, I shall be there to agree with you about how magnificent I am,” choked out Miles behind him, but he could hear the smile in the fox's voice. “Now go. Go, before you lose heart for it.”

Sonic went.

=======>>>>=======

The arrival of a foreign ambassador was a matter which, it was universally agreed, carried certain protocols. There was a call for respect, for gravitas, for formality, to these events.

The definitions of those words, however, were far from universal. In the Sol Empire, diplomatic protocol called for an armed guard, a pair of carriages for the visiting diplomat and their staff, thoroughly formalised and uncomfortable clothing, and a lengthy speech from each side's most senior participant in the proceedings.

Princess Blaze Felis was having to rapidly realign certain reflexes and expectations, in the face of what was coming into her courtyard. Beside her, Commander Tower tensed up at the sight of the hulking crimson figure leading the group; inscrutable indigo eyes sized each of them up as he approached, and Blaze found herself briefly at something of a loss to have a stranger make eye contact with her so...casually.

Behind him came four other echidnas, their fur various warm hues from deep reddish-orange to almost fuchsia; intricately-designed jewellery decorated some of their dreads, beads and rings and cuffs in dull metals – and on one of the older echidnas, stone. Some curious impulse made her wonder how stone could be worked so delicately, to create a hair ornament that could cling to their quills thus; this was neither the time nor the place to ask, however, and she drew her attention back to their leader.

He wore...gold, and quite a lot of it. The echidna society, she had been told as a girl, valued gold purely for ostentation; they were described as rather more practical about these things than others tended to be. It was saved for ceremonial purposes, and everyday clothing or jewellery was usually made of something more hard-wearing. The ornamentation of his dreads was gold – which must be heavy, she noted – and so was the headdress he wore, a segmented hairband of some sort with a single large green gemstone set into its centre. A heavy chain of gold squares was draped over him like a shoulder sash, each of the squares inset with what appeared to be a mosaic image of some kind; beneath it he wore a heavy draped cloth over one shoulder, which covered most of his torso. A similar heavy cloth was wound around his lower body, leaving his legs in relative freedom to move, and sturdy travel boots completed what appeared to be a far more utilitarian approach to formal wear than the Empire traditionally took. The realisation that they were each carrying a tightly-bound pack on their back, doubtless containing travel supplies, only reinforced the impression that these were highly capable people, and that they had arrived here on foot from wherever they had landed from their drifting home.

Of special note, too, was the fact that he appeared to wear nothing else beneath these heavy, patterned drapes; it certainly meant that his physical prowess was amply demonstrated, with roughly a third of his upper body bared to the elements. His retinue were similarly garbed, thankfully with visible bindings on the two female members of his staff; Blaze reflected that there was only so much sartorial upheaval the Palace could put up with in one day.

The echidna came to a halt when Commander Tower raised an imposing hand; he glanced at the human, and then brought both of his own rather larger hands up. One curled into a fist, and before the Commander could react he had slammed it into his other palm with an audible, meaty impact that showed off the spike-like decorations on his gloves.

“I recognise you, guardian,” he noted to Tower, in a strong, chopped accent that shortened some vowels almost to the guttural. “I contain my strength before you and vow peace. I am an envoy from Her Divine Majesty Tikal, and my service-oath name, in your tongue, is Knuckles.”

“Upa,” said his shoulder.

There was a brief pause. “None of my people will break this oath, or they shall answer to me before they answer to you,” the echidna elaborated. The assurance made little difference to the Imperial onlookers; not one of them had looked away from the shoulder that had spoken, where something appeared to be moving under the drape.

After another awkward moment of silence, Blaze raised her right hand to gesture Tower back. She at least retained enough knowledge of the Echidna Empire to know that one bound to royal service was to be addressed by their oath-name, until their duty was carried out – until they were released from it by their ruler. “I beg your forgiveness, ambassador Knuckles,” she began softly, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “It appears that our understanding of one another's traditions may yet be lacking. I hope that we may speak without formality or ritual, so that the spirit of our words can be plainly known.”

It was something of a gamble, but he had just promised there would be no violence from him. At the echidna's slow, careful nod, she continued. “I am Imperial Princess Blaze Felis, and I accept your oath of peace on behalf of your party. Commander Tower will direct two soldiers to guide your people to the rooms we have prepared for you, if you are willing; I invite you to join us inside, to meet with my Council and myself.”

Knuckles nodded again, and appeared to remember to speak; presumably he was a taciturn sort by nature. The fact of his brief lapse gave her some hope; if she was not dealing with a trained diplomat, it might be a sign that Empress Tikal had chosen him for personal qualities rather than experience at lying.

“We humbly and gratefully accept your hospitality,” he intoned carefully, audibly measuring each word of the sentence before he spoke it. “My companions all speak your words, to some degree; they will follow where your guards lead them.” He turned his head briefly, looking back at the others of his party; all of them nodded more or less in unison, a slow incline of the head, before one of them came forward to add his travel pack to her own. He gave her a nod of gratitude, as Commander Tower motioned two soldiers forward and murmured orders; within half a minute, the footsteps of the retinue had faded into the palace corridors behind them.

“Follow and be welcome, Ambassador,” smiled Princess Blaze.

=======>>>>=======

A number of startled gasps had risen from the dukes and duchesses lining the throneroom, when the Princess and the Echidna Ambassador had been announced; less at the announcement, and more at the hulking crimson visitor who walked up to the foot of the throne dais after Blaze had taken her seat upon it.

Closest on her left sat Duke Lapin, whose face was all consternation at the sight of the echidna who dared to stand on his feet before Her Highness – or possibly, Blaze thought ruefully, before Duke Lapin. To her right, the Council member she trusted the most these days stared in undisguised shock of her own. Duchess Chiros seemed to be having trouble taking her eyes off the visitor.

“Ambassador,” began Blaze, in a disruption of protocol that drew a number of ducal stares, “I ask that you introduce yourself once more, that my Council may know you.”

The echidna dropped to one knee, then, placing one massive fist against the floor in a gesture that seemed more practiced than most of what he had done before her so far.

“As long as I serve my Empress, I am to be called Knuckles,” he announced, solemnly and with sonorous clarity. “I am her envoy here in the Sol Empire, and I am grateful to have been received with peace and grace.”

Blaze smiled. So, not quite so callow as he might have seemed, she thought to herself. By thanking her for the reception she had already shown him, he made it clear that any who objected now would already be going against her given word. Indeed, Duke Squamis seemed to be reclining a little further in his seat than he had a moment ago; presumably the rattlesnake had had such an objection on the tips of his tongue.

“Stand, then, honoured guest,” she bade him. “And, if you would, introduce also the creature you carry with you.” Knuckles looked somewhat chagrined as he rose to his feet again, bringing up one powerful arm to lift one layer of cloth drape off his shoulder. Duchess Chiros gave a tiny, muffled gasp at what he revealed beneath.

“Why, what a darling little thing,” she cooed softly, as if hesitant to speak aloud. Blaze thought it likely; the creature seemed half asleep, having curled up beneath the outer layer of the ambassador's clothing. It was shaped somewhat like a person; the size of a very small child or a baby, deep blue, with protrusions at the back of its head like the quills of a hedgehog or porcupine. It blinked sleepily at the sudden exposure to light, burbled something to itself, and drew itself willingly into Knuckles' hand when he reached to pick it up.

“This is a chao,” he explained, holding the adorable thing up before them. “They are revered among my people; protected by the great god Chaos, and a symbol of His trust and blessing. Those in positions of responsibility, or whose roles require integrity and strength of character, are charged with the care of a chao. Only those who are accepted by the chao of its own will are granted the trust of the Empress with such tasks.”

“Then it is welcome here,” smiled Blaze, “and any needs it has will be seen to. If you speak to those who attend your chambers, Ambassador, they will gladly accommodate your companion.”

“Does it have a name?” asked Rouge, somewhat out of turn – the others of the Council glanced sidelong at her for the interruption, but Blaze was of a mind to allow it. The question had occurred to her as well.

“Its name is Vivid,” replied Knuckles, placing the creature back on his shoulder, where it promptly curled back up. He slipped his outermost mantle back over the chao, and resumed his respectful but alert posture.

“Ambassador, I would ask to speak with you tomorrow,” began Blaze, “regarding what we may expect from one another. Certainly, I believe my own people may benefit from some greater understanding of Echidna culture and protocol, as our greeting to you has shamefully proven. I shall call upon you shortly before noon. Until then, please, rest from your long journey...and, if you are agreeable, I shall send the palace tailor to your suites three hours from now,” she added, to give the diplomats time to rest and bathe from their travels. “Temperatures in the Sol Empire are likely much colder than in your own lands, at this time of year. I would have you clad in warmer clothing, more suitable for our climate as well as our society. I will not have it said that your needs were neglected by the Imperial Crown.”

“I thank you for your consideration, Imperial Princess,” replied Knuckles, bowing his head again, “and place myself at your disposal.” She inclined her head to dismiss him, and he strode confidently out to where Commander Tower awaited him outside the door.

“Well!” Rouge Chiros stage-whispered after he was gone, fanning her face with a hand.

“The cut of his clothes,” came Herman Coleo's voice, thick with contempt. “Practically naked, thundering in here and waving little creatures about-”

“I dare say it's an appealing little thing,” replied Fabian Canis, resting his cheek in his palm, “but hardly likely to sway us toward whatever concession they hope to gain from this...show of strength.”

“Oh, really, Fabian,” scoffed Rouge. “The man came here with – did I hear four other people, and a little sweet baby creature, and you call it a show of strength?” Her voice dropped coyly. “Or is it the man himself that strikes you as intimidating?”

“We can certainly see how he strikes you, Duchess Chiros,” sneered Vincenzo Lapin, and Blaze's eyes narrowed.

“I will not have my Council bickering like spiteful children over the appearance of a new face in our court,” she announced, to make herself fully clear. “The ambassador is welcome. He has sworn to Commander Tower that he will cause no harm, and nor will his retinue. If any of you object to his presence on the grounds that you suspect he lies, or that you find him personally frightening or otherwise objectionable,” she continued, raising her voice above the protests, “then I advise you to refresh yourselves on the meaning of the term diplomacy! Now, this Council is adjourned. Duchess Chiros, I will ask you to direct the tailor in how to clothe our guests. Kindly be present in their suite at the appointed time.”

“I shall, Your Highness,” nodded Rouge, glowering fire at Duke Lapin.

That rabbit, thought Blaze, is going to suffer for that, one day.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Blumenheim, bordering the Great Turquoise

The late afternoon sunshine had warmed the air, on these flatlands. Winter's End was fast approaching; what snow remained was a sad substitute for the flawless, pearlescent white that had covered these plains and meadows for two months now. The majority of the worn, tired blue-green grass was now clear, only hollows with some shelter from the sunshine retaining spots of dirty white here and there across the ground.

It stretched to the horizon, and though breezes blew across it firmly enough to visibly ripple the grass here and there, the air remained no more than pleasantly cool. Flickies chased one another here and there, early returnees fancying their chances at starting Spring a little early; behind Shadow, the sounds of the maids talking and laughing around their picnic added a pleasant background noise to the conversation going on around him. Altogether, it was a wonderful day to be free and above ground.

“Shadow, dear, you must try one of these baked-fish rolls,” Amaranthine's voice enthused, to his left. “And you need to rebuild your strength, come along...” he turned a little, his eyes still trained on the vista before him; it felt difficult to tear his gaze away. After all those months, years, in darkness...even a simple early-spring day became its own paradise of liberation.

“I must apologise,” he managed, after a moment. “Open sky is...still a novelty.” He caught sight of Ammeline staring at him from the corner of his eye – was that concern on those bright, warm features? And yet he couldn't laugh at her for it, in this instance.

It stirred, in the back of his mind. Behind his heart. In his fingertips. He heard it snarl, somewhere deep. He bade it be silent.

“Time to get used to these things again, young man,” announced Amaranthine, firmly and jovially. “You are free, and safe, and it is lunchtime.”

“The latter being the more pertinent of the three,” added her husband, taking a sandwich for himself. “Nothing like fresh air for stoking the flames of the appetite, what? Come on, Shadow, old bean, the Baroness shall stick me on some revolting diet if I get to eat all of these...” Shadow relented, taking a sandwich and experimenting with a mouthful of it. A few moments later, hunger reawakened by the prospect of solid food, he was applying himself vigorously to the unfortunate lunch. A month and a half of soup and heartening stew could revive a man from the brink of starvation, to be sure, but food that one could chew was a long-forgotten dream.

“Much better,” smiled Amaranthine. “Aidan, dear, might I have one of those spicy meat pasties?”

“Oh, the Squamis Revenges? Certainly,” beamed the Baron, rummaging briefly in the hamper next to him.

“The – I beg your pardon?” asked Shadow, turning a bewildered eye to the older hedgehog. Amy sighed and fished one out for herself, and held it out to show him.

“Quite unforgiving in their contents, so likely not safe for you to eat just yet,” warned the Baroness, and he nodded a grateful acknowledgement even as he investigated it.

“That heated scent?” noted Amy. “A substance that only mammalian folk can taste. It makes food taste very spicy indeed. Quite the trap for the unwary. They were invented by a chef of House Squamis, and used as a subtle reproach against an...unsubtle scion of House Canis at a midsummer ball some years ago. Everyone was served one, but those from Houses Squamis, Avis and Coleo were completely unaffected. The punishment fell on Canis and Chiros alone. It was quite the counterstroke.”

“Now they're considered something of a sought-after dish among those who can actually taste the heat,” supplied her mother. “Canis ended up adopting them as a regular dish, and treated it like they were laughing the whole thing off. Rather brazen, really, but given the alternative was escalation...”

“Filled with a coward rage that burns but does not dare to blaze, what?” quoted Aidan cheerfully. “Still, dashed good as far as the actual servings go.”

“Hardly a matter of daring, dear,” reproved the Baroness. “Though you're right, it certainly does all I would require of food...”

Shadow considered himself persuaded. Unfortunately, he was also of a mind with the Baroness regarding the stability of his digestion; should he attempt something so challenging at this point in his recovery – when his stomach was still only getting its feet beneath it, as it were – then he could expect to spend another day or two sickened into immobility. And he would be damned, he decided, before he allowed impatience to cripple him so. The mere thought set his inner self to rocking, like a jelly in a high wind.

All right. The point is made, he thought, in the general direction of his stomach. Food was very much a going concern again. He took another sandwich and began to take a thoughtful vengeance upon it when Amy spoke up.

“It really is growing warmer,” she mused. “Winter's End really is around the corner.”

“Only a week or so now,” agreed her mother. “We shall be airing the ballroom; it could use some redecoration. Shadow, you have an eye for colour” - Amy did something unladylike into her pasty - “would you mind lending a critical eye to the proceedings, for springtime ball purposes?”

“At your disposal, Lady Rose,” replied the streaked hedgehog, with a glance at the recovering Amy on the other side of her mother. “Ammeline, would you like some water?” He handed over the flask at her nod, allowing her mother to pour her a swift cup with a playful gentlemanly of you, Mr Erin so that Amy was obliged to thank him once her voice was back under control.

Another conundrum, now that hunger was receiving a thorough seeing-to, began to bother Shadow with slightly greater prominence. As Amy got up to move to the carriage and clear her throat a little more comprehensively, with her mother in tow, he observed her leaving with an eye that he'd rarely exercised before.

The fact of the matter, he decided, was relatively simple. To begin with, in his weakened state – something of a stupor, that dazed condition of his first awakening – his perceptions had been hazy, certainly. But furthermore, his inhibitions had been lowered. His initial impression of Ammeline Rose as an angel from heaven had been cast at least partly from desperate, exhausted hope of relief from the broken-glass agony of still being alive. But there was also the undeniable fact that she was probably the prettiest girl he'd ever seen, and that his dented consciousness had let the fact slip of how he had seen her. The tricky part was that this hadn't changed. She still looked divine to him, even now.

Things hadn't always been that way, of course. Before the day he was taken, Ammeline had existed mostly in his peripheral vision as a gawky, spirited child. Pleasant enough to talk to, on the rare occasions they'd spoken at all, but the more immediate requirements upon his time – including the marriage his parents had been arranging, alongside his other ducal-heir duties and studies – had ensured that the pink girl remained on the edge of his awareness. He'd certainly never felt attraction.

Now, with a further decade of growth behind both Ammeline and himself, he found himself thoroughly captivated by her. She was a distant enough relative – some fifth or sixth cousin, from what he could recall, a distant enough branch of the family that they apparently hadn't been considered worth attacking – that it would certainly be acceptable as a match. She went beyond attractive, if he were honest with himself. Her temperament – well, if he hadn't botched relations beyond repair by now, it would likely take some real work to do so. He wasn't inclined to ruin things like that. But did he dare to hope? His physical state was one thing, but his emotional circumstances had him firmly parked in a place where a weaker man might begin to write poetry.

Worse, her father was starting to fire off knowing looks over the top of his lunch. Shadow met his gaze, and Baron Rose began to lay on with more businesslike chewing until his mouthful was down.

“I say, Shadow,” he began, somewhat diffidently. “Now that we've a moment to ourselves, I wonder if I might discuss a quiet matter or two.”

“You have my ear, my lord,” replied Shadow, sitting up and focusing.

“Well now, well now. Ah-ha. I've, um, it's come to my attention that the situation with which we currently contend is that of a young man and a young lady under the same roof, and certain interactions, shall we say, might be expected. Or perhaps, as it were, they might not. If you see what I mean.” Shadow tilted his head in understanding, but Aidan wasn't finished. “My wife the Baroness, as you may have detected, seems to be gently encouraging these interactions in her own way – oh, dash it all, I can't decide how authoritative I should be about this. Shadow, old egg, it's becoming apparent that rumours may arise regarding my Amy and yourself. Especially considering the ball coming up,” he added, taking refuge in plain language – or as plain as his language got. “And while I've no intention of deciding for myself what you may or may not be thinking, or interrogating you on the topic, there is a certain cautious approval about it from both my wife and myself. Very cautious, mind you, she's our daughter,” he added with a gimlet side-glance, “but so far, approval seems to be the initial flavour of things, if you follow me.”

Shadow took a moment to digest this, and forced his ears to remain as they were rather than perking forward in immediate, enthused interest. “I believe I understand you, my lord,” he replied, softly but clearly. He was slipping back into old habits of more formal language, as he often did for serious topics. “And...if I am to be honest, I find the idea more than appealing. I'm gratified by your approval, and understand your caution. I believe it would be premature to put certain words into the conversation. But Ammeline is one of the most beautiful women I've ever known,” he continued, some inward part of him already shocked at the honesty even as it slipped unbidden from his lips. “And while her temperament is...shall we say spirited, I consider that a blessing for an intelligent woman.”

It felt distinctly awkward to discuss the finer points of Ammeline Rose with her father. The act hinted at some of the more distasteful things he remembered from the initial stages of his marriage negotiations. One or two moments in that conversation had felt as if they were treating the young lady like prize chattel. He'd found it disrespectful to them both then, and he refused to disrespect a lady that way now.

“Her heart I dare not speak for. Indeed, I don't think any intelligent man would dare,” he added wryly. “I find no malice in her toward me, and I at least dare to hope that might mean something, in light of how I've treated her so far.”

“Her nose spends so much time in the air around you, m'boy, it might require treatment for altitude sickness,” agreed the Baron, frankly putting it into words. “Though she did continue to nurse you when you were ill, and has made no real effort to avoid your company now that you grow...closer to full recovery. She means well, of course,” he added, hurriedly, “though now that you're up and about, I feel I should warn you: at this ball, and around Blumenheim, you may at some points encounter individuals looking bent and haggard, as if they've been caught in the gears of a windmill or similar powerful machinery. These are the poor souls who've been near my daughter, when she means well and miscalculates.”

“She certainly seems to put her heart and soul into whatever task she takes on,” remarked Shadow, considering himself warned – but, he reasoned after a moment, not discouraged.

“I only mention it because I've seen what you've come out of and survived, d'you see. If any man can walk away from the smoking wreckage of my daughter's schemes, and bring her out of them all right, I think that man is Shadow Erin,” the older hedgehog told him, with gravity and sincerity. “Of course, if she seems to be of a similar mind, we shall be speaking to her privately, her mother and I – love is a delicate plant, after all, what?”

“Absolutely,” Shadow agreed, left somewhat poleaxed by this unexpected and uninvited – but thoroughly welcome – vote of confidence.

“Requires tenderness, care, continuous attention. Can't be achieved by throwing the breakfast bread roll at a chap's head. But if you do pursue this,” the Baron added, looking him in the eye as intensely as he could manage, “then while you respect her and treat her well, you have tentative support from her parents. Should you fail to do those things, of course...”

“...I fear that if I were to fail in the task, the Baroness might find a way to fire me from that cannon she mentioned installing on the roof,” Shadow nodded. “I am...I can only call it hopeful, that Ammeline will see me in the same light. Someday. But I have had the advantage of a great deal of lessons in patience. She is worth waiting for.”

“Yes, she is,” agreed her father. “Well! I'm glad we could come to an accord and all that. But between you and I, old chap,” the Baron added, leaning close with a conspiratorial look in his eye, “I do rather think you should prioritise your health, if only to try these bally pasties all the sooner.”

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Leon Palace, Outer Gardens

Poise had its limits.

Drifting out to this part of the gardens, Princess Blaze had decided, was more an act of desperation than one of strategy. There was a pretty little sort of wilderness out here; the inner garden areas were much more strictly regimented in terms of which flowers were grown where, with their central floral clock a point of pride for House Felis to show off to visitors.

By contrast, the edges of the outer sections were allowed to grow rather more wild, and Blaze felt that a little wildness was in order just at this moment. The urge to unleash flames in anger, on occasion, grew almost unbearable; her response was to frequent the gardens in these instances, with the intent of providing constant reminders that she would invite catastrophe if she were to vent her fury via fire.

Nevertheless, it still burned within her. Having quietly ordered the guards away and announced that she wished to have the western outer garden to herself (and given a promise that if she were attacked today, her defence of her person would be visible from outside the city), the Imperial Princess took the chance to lower herself to some thoroughly undignified ranting.

“...unbelievable hubris of the damned fools, the smug, petty, entitled congenital halfwits,” she seethed to herself, kicking a pebble angrily against the head-height outer wall of the palace. From here, its inner surface looked pristine, but she knew that among the normal wear of the years stood a number of scratches where she had hurled epithets and small rocks in similar ratios to this. “incredible that such arrogance can exist while they're all so desperately trying to backstab one another like escaped theatre villains-”

Her eye landed on a larger rock, nearly the size of her fist, and she picked it up to bring it to her shoulder. “-sneaking, creeping, grasping, covetous pack of simpering mendicants!” she raged, throwing her free arm out ahead of herself in perfect shot-putt form before launching the stone at a forty-degree angle, right over the wall. There was a thud and a muffled Aargh from the other side.

This gave pause to Blaze's recreational blending of her inner and outer tirades. Only one of those sounds was something one might expect upon throwing a rock out of the royal gardens. True, what lay beyond the wall was technically a path open to the public, but no one bothered to use it; the route was no shortcut to anywhere in particular that couldn't be reached more quickly by other roads, and it carried the concomitant risk of being bothered by guards – especially given the small number of reasons someone might be taking a little-used back road that bordered the wilder edge of the Imperial Palace grounds.

Further groans of pain rose from the party of the second part, and belatedly it occurred to Blaze that she, the Imperial Princess, had quite literally hauled off and hit a complete stranger with a rock. This was not a situation in which to stand around and muse on Leon City's by-laws concerning public right of way. A brief sprint gave her enough momentum to leap, and she was atop the wall in a second or so; perched atop it, in a readied crouch just in case an actual assassin was involved, she searched the ground beneath her – and froze.

A hedgehog. Blue fur. Sturdy traveller's clothing, in muted blues and greys. Red shoes, with something like copper wiring at the heels that she couldn't immediately identify. Rakishly long quills, backswept in a streamlined style that would likely appear even more impressively groomed if he weren't sweeping them back and forth through the dirt as he lay on his back, one hand pressed to his upper chest. There was something familiar about this young man, she decided.

“Are you injured?” she asked, without preamble. He looked up at her and blinked owlishly at the sight; presumably, from his position, she was rendered little more than a black outline by the late-morning sun. His eyes were the most startling green she'd ever encountered, and she held his gaze for a moment before realising she was doing so.

“Not all that injured,” he replied casually, and she drew in a breath at being spoken to thus. But – silhouetted, with the sun behind her, her circlet would be invisible. He could hardly be blamed for impertinence, if he couldn't see the signs of exactly whom he addressed. He began to get up, swaying unsteadily, and Blaze covered her mouth at the realisation of why he seemed familiar.

“Vivid,” she breathed, in amazement. The young man glanced up at her in utter confusion, but then his face cleared.

“Oh. Sonic,” he introduced himself, with a tap of his thumbtip against his chest. “It's nice to meet you, Vivid, I'm very sorry I got in the way of...whatever it is you're doing with rocks-” Blaze's mouth was already moving, the words already leaving her lips, before her thoughts could slow themselves down.

“My name is not Vivid,” she replied archly. “You...have a rather distinctive appearance, sir.”

“Why, thank you,” grinned the hedgehog, all charm and affability. A cough of laughter escaped her before it could be halted, and she hid her smile behind her hand once more.

“Vivid is the name of one I met recently, who looked rather similar to yourself. The name slipped from me unbidden.” She straightened up, standing atop the wall; the hedgehog – Sonic, as he called himself – was doing likewise. He had to crane his neck up to look at her, and it hardly looked comfortable; in an impulsive burst of generosity, she resolved to address this, and stepped off the wall to land before him. “This is a path seldom walked upon,” she told him, gesturing to the ground on which they stood. “I had expected no one to be here. I must beg your pardon once again, for...inadvertently stoning you so.”

“Oh, well, I've survived worse than being hit with a rock or two,” smiled Sonic, rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt to at least look self-effacing. “But if I were to seek some redress, I would only ask the name of the lady with the superb throwing arm.” He – No. He cannot be. Blaze blinked, a very faint flush of heat coming to her cheeks as she realised that not only did this man still fail to recognise her, but he was attempting to dally with her.

Truthfully, no one had ever tried that approach with their princess before. She would give it points for originality...except that every bit of courtly training she'd ever had, to make her adept at spotting deception and manipulation, was telling her that this was completely genuine. Sonic had no idea he spoke to his ruler, and – no, she checked him over again for an instant, putting all of that training to work once more and inwardly gaping at the reiteration of its results. This hedgehog was actively trying to flirt with her.

For a moment – a brief, but remarkably light-hearted moment – the idea came to her to keep him in the dark. To keep her true identity a secret from him, and preserve this awkward but unexpectedly charming status quo intact. The novels she had read as a little girl had told of such things, sometimes; she might meet him here semi-regularly, charm him in return, and perhaps their attraction might grow...no. The real world intruded upon her short-lived, childlike fantasy. This stranger could not continue ignorant of her name for long, regardless. There were coins minted and in circulation that bore her parents' faces, for goodness' sake. Pardon me, mystery lady, but I cannot help noticing a certain family resemblance between your lovely self and the change I got from the baker...

She took a deep breath and drew herself up, resigned to staying with her duty and allowing herself to face the world head-on, rather than retreating into daydreams. “I am the Imperial Princess Blaze Felis,” she informed him, matter-of-factly, and expertly concealed her wince at the way his jaw dropped in horror. “And as you are plainly a newcomer to my capital, I welcome you, sir,” she added, forsaking protocol in hopes of salvaging something, some part of the quick and easy rapport she had struck up with this gentleman before she had been forced to make herself truly known to him.

Her heart sank as he took a step back, and bowed inexpertly.

“I – um – I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” he began, her dismay casting a longer shadow as he glanced nervously from side to side. He was going to bolt; perhaps she could interpose herself, convince him to talk-

He was gone. More than gone, the hedgehog was gone, and she whirled in place to see his disappearing back. He must be fifty yards away! In a couple of heartbeats! She sighed, and reflected that gifts were of all kinds; her own tempted her once again, with the thought of explosively venting her frustration. Those had been twenty or thirty decidedly enjoyable seconds, but they were over now.

Blaze vaulted back onto the wall, feeling her anger drain slowly out of her like a reservoir emptying – and where it had filled her, she thought with a poetic and faintly self-pitying air, remained only the cold, wet muck of disappointment. But she had things to do; she had stepped out into the gardens with the understanding that she would only be gone for a brief while. Her time was nearly up.

Her Imperial Highness raised her head, let authority settle around her like a mantle, and took a stately walk back into her palace.

=======>>>>=======

Duchess Rouge Chiros, at this exact moment, was enjoying herself rather more than she had in a number of years.

The loss of her husband, as could be seen far and wide, had ended up being less of a tragedy and more of a relief; this was certainly the view of the people of her duchy. There had certainly been no love lost between herself and Reginald; he had married her because he had fallen for the façade, and she had married him because he was a duke of the batfolk, and thus a superb strategic choice to make. Certainly not through any personal attraction.

Since Reginald's death, the eyes of others had once more spent their time upon her, in all the old ways. Another man's wife, especially a duke's, would be a foolish subject for such thoughts; a widow, however, a lady who might be presumed vulnerable or lonely...it was a minor miracle that no other fool had tried to overtly ply his suit. Perhaps the rumours about the nature of Reginald's passing were partly responsible for that. She certainly wasn't inclined to confirm or deny them; as long as they remained strictly in the realm of rumour, they were useful.

A slightly less minor miracle, however, was taking place before Rouge at this moment. While the royal tailor had briefly appropriated one of the rooms in the echidnas' ambassadorial suite, and was currently measuring one of his retinue, the enormous gentleman who had so shocked the Council that morning was seated with her in a private, remarkably casual meeting of their own.

A number of things had surprised Rouge about this man. A certain number of them were visual, and she set those aside for more thorough contemplation later. His behaviour, his manner, his diction – despite his foreign tongue, and that exotic accent, his treatment of her had been respectful from the moment she had entered with the tailor. He had not treated her – even conversationally – as one made of glass, the way some strong men might with a beautiful woman. He had not attempted, so far as she could tell, to hide anything from her; a number of friendly but gently probing questions concerning his background, and overall brief from Empress Tikal, had either been answered with humble honesty (he had been the son of a miner, and had served the Empress' father for some months in the aftermath of a quake, earning his oath-name there), or with frank acknowledgement that he did not know or could not tell her a particular answer. He had been completely open with her, ashamed of nothing, answering every question to the best of his ability.

His eyes had not wandered below her neck once. That, perhaps, was the most startling thing of all. She was so used to making a minor display of herself for distraction's sake, to control the conversation, that she found herself almost wrong-footed when she encountered a man whose gaze stayed firmly on her face, or on whatever else in the room he happened to glance at. It was surprising, to find herself effectively robbed of that conversational weapon; it was refreshing in a number of ways to find that she didn't require it.

And the darling little chao he'd brought, Vivid, was even more endearing when it was awake and engaged with the proceedings; it was currently playing an improvised game with her fingertips. Her palm lay flat upon the table; she would raise one finger or another, and the tiny blue creature would burble excitedly and tap both of its paws on the digit until she lowered it again. Knuckles looked on with approval, as he answered her queries about the ceremonial garb he wore.

“The eht-tlam is often nicknamed the Chain of Events,” he was explaining, raising the bandolier-like chain of gold squares away from his chest to allow a slightly closer look. Within each square was a mosaic image of tiny stones or fragments of shell, displaying landscapes that were entirely unfamiliar to her. One was a forest of what looked like enormous mushrooms; another, a stone-brick platform with a waterfall behind it. One was an altar that appeared to hold an absolutely vast jewel; without any figures for scale, even a connoisseur like herself could make no real estimates, but it might be as big as a person. Surely that was a fiction, she consoled herself. Such a gem could never exist.

“The chain will be changed, over time,” the echidna was saying, elaborating by holding up the first link to show an image of a crimson, dreadlocked figure attacking the end of a tunnel with his bare hands – as if digging further through the sheer force of his blows. “This was the first achievement I had, in service to the throne. The rescue operation I spoke of. The second, here, is my descent from the Island to speak to your people as Her Gleaming Majesty's envoy. If I accumulate more successes, then these other images,” he gestured to the landscapes and what had to be religious iconography in the other squares, “will be replaced with depictions of those. Very few in royal service bear an eht-tlam with none of its original mosaics, every section holding their achievements. Few are wise and brave enough to be so accomplished.”

“I must say, it's a marvellous idea for demonstrating one's capabilities at a glance,” the Duchess remarked, glancing back down as Vivid began pressing its paws on a fingertip; she had forgotten to raise one for it to tap, while Knuckles was speaking. She raised the fingertip and gently poked its nose; it fell onto its back and giggled, drawing an absolutely charmed smile from the bat. She looked back up at the ambassador, and saw a similar expression on his face. Evidently the huge man was not immune to the little creature's captivating presence.

There was a knock at the door. “Enter,” they both called at once, leading Rouge to dip her head in embarrassment and concede with a gesture that Knuckles was the one to control such interactions. A page came in, to stand at an inexpert attention by the table at which they were both sat.

“Beg pardon, Ladyship, but Her Highness wishes to speak to you. She asks respectfully that you visit her in her chambers as soon as you may.” The page was a cat, a striped ginger youth whose eyes were already drawn to the chao before him, sparkling with curiosity.

“Thank you young man. I shall be there directly,” Rouge replied to him, slipping on the Duchess Chiros mask once more. “Ambassador Knuckles, thank you for taking the time to see me. Should you require anything further, I am always glad to assist.”

“And thank you for coming to speak,” replied the larger male, standing as Rouge did, towering over the page to a degree that briefly startled the boy before the Duchess gestured for him to run along. “I appreciate your willingness to listen and learn, my lady, despite my imperfect use of your words.”

Rouge smiled and shook her head. With a further pleasantry or two, and an aggrieved look from Vivid when it became clear the game was over, she made her way from the ambassador's chambers with a sensation she had only rarely felt in her life: regret at leaving someone's company.

This, she mused, would be a summer full of surprises.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor.

Amy Rose had never quite seen a man change the way Shadow Erin had just changed before her eyes.

Their return to the manor had led to a calm hour of rest in the southern-facing sitting room, with a number of knowing looks cast between her parents for some reason. Shadow, unusually, had been quiet; subdued, perhaps, was a better word. He seemed a hedgehog with much on his mind. Conversation had been oddly careful, at least at first, and a number of minutes into the proceedings, her mother had appeared to come to a realisation that pleased her greatly – judging by the smile that grew upon her lips, at least.

Perhaps an hour and a half after this, the Baroness had stood and announced that she wished to canvas Shadow's opinion regarding the Winter's End ball, and they had moved to the ballroom itself – and the dark hedgehog had blossomed, seeming to undergo some odd internal gear-change that caused him to shift from a withdrawn, tired blot on the furniture into an authoritative and practiced teacher.

“The most important thing, my lady,” began Shadow, “is contrast. But only, and always, in the proper place, and with the proper rarity. For example: Let us assume it shall be dark outside, for most of the ball. Given the time of year, it seems likely.”

Amy's mother nodded, as Shadow's hands spread the colour swatches upon the table before them and began to separate them into groups. “Quite likely. By the time the ball comes, it shall still be sunset at about four.”

“Thus, and so.” Shadow's long, elegant fingers tapped at different pale colours thoughtfully, before selecting a couple – a bright white and a smooth ivory, and then a pale sage green. “And so we choose colours that will reflect light, both for what sunlight we have, and then the candlelight from within the room. But the paleness is not the key to the effect, only the background. Consider a cup of tea; the paler colours shall be the water. The infusion itself...is the splash of colour we add to these.” He glanced about the room again, and then began to separate out certain brighter and more vivid hues from the rest. “A brighter accent, to highlight the room's mood. A warm colour, ideally, I would think; a yellow, orange, or perhaps a variety of reds and pinks, so that the guests see House Rose's own colours wherever they look.”

Amaranthine mused over the colour selections for a moment, nodding to herself. “I think I see. With this paler green, it may give the impression of a floral bouquet?”

“Exactly.” Shadow shot a glance at Amy, suddenly, and she cursed herself for the way she started at it. He seemed to have almost forgotten she was there, but she hadn't gone so unnoticed as all that. “The brightest flowers in Blumenheim are roses, of course,” he added – with another look at her, damn him – “and roses only start to bloom in late Spring. With this colour scheme, and reds and pinks, we may remind guests of them a little earlier.”

Her mother glanced at her then, too, and Amy realised her face was heating up. She was opening her mouth to issue some denial of her blush, some off-the-cuff witticism to inform this tall, smug, erudite, insufferable, tall man that he was in fact devastatingly insulted, when two knocks came at the door and her father's page poked his slate-blue face through it.

“Beg pardon, sir, my ladies,” young Raine began carefully, “a letter's arrived for Mr Erin. The Baron sends word that he has it on the desk in his study, sir, and the room is yours if you wish to read it.” At a nod and a word of gratitude from his employer's wife, the fox withdrew; Amy turned her gaze to Shadow once more and was struck to see his face changed so completely once more.

Where a moment before there had been a confident speaker imparting his expertise, Shadow stood starkly outlined against the pale February sunlight streaming through the window behind him. Something was different; a moment's puzzled searching of his appearance brought her the answer.

The light in his eyes had gone out. Their glow was faded, fizzled, extinguished as he gazed at the door, a wave of grief crossing his features. Amy chanced a look over at her mother, from the corner of her eye; the older lady was no closer to understanding, but she was close enough to lean toward Shadow and inquire, whisper-soft, as to his health. The question seemed to startle him; he stirred, looking down at the Baroness with dismay in his eyes, and then toward Amy once more.

“You will excuse me,” he managed, after a couple of false starts. “You – you'll excuse me,” he repeated, practically stumbling from their midst as he made for the door and vanished.

“Well,” began Amaranthine, after a few long seconds of bemused silence. “one would hope it's better news than he seems to be expecting.”

The pieces came together with a click, and she stifled a gasp. Someone, evidently, knew that Shadow was here; he must have written to them first, to let them know. For the response to worry him this badly...Amy's eyes blazed. What was in that letter?

=======>>>>=======

Shadow barely registered the journey from the ballroom to Aidan's study. The Baron was as good as his word, and had left the curtains open; the desk was as cleared as could be for a man who ran a barony. In the centre of it sat a single envelope, sealed with a blob of standard military red wax...and a symbol in its centre that he knew was only permitted for use because of its owner's connections.

House Horizon had been, in terms of bloodline, about as distant from House Erin as the Rose family were. The Horizon dynasty, however, had traditions that kept them much closer to the duchy's seat of power: they were the hereditary protectors, the warrior house. The sword and shield of the hedgehog nobility. Upon reaching adulthood, by long-held custom, each heir of House Horizon enlisted in the Imperial Army as part of the infantry; it was held that this would help to instil a sense of humility and care for one's own men, so often lacking in other noble houses who threw their warriors into suicidal charges like wooden soldiers onto a bonfire. It ensured that each heir to the family had a solid grounding in what was variously referred to as Ungentlemanly Combat, Offensive Practicality, or Sensible Melee Approaches.

It was also the only reason his cousin hadn't been in Erin Duchy on the night they were attacked.

Gaia only knew, Shadow had reflected more than once, how Silver had taken the news of their house's fall. With his known gift for psychokinesis, it must have been fairly cataclysmic; his wife of four months had been dining with them on that night, and would have been counted among the dead. Truly, after a decade, Shadow wasn't certain what waited for him in that envelope.

His own letter, composed to Silver from his sickbed as soon as he was certain his cousin still lived, had been extremely brief and to the point; he had been battling exhaustion at the time, but had been as comprehensive as possible, he'd told himself, during the lucid period he had. Ammeline's mother had sent it as proof of his life, along with her own letter with further details of what they knew.

I survived. I was imprisoned; I escaped. I now exist at Rose Manor, in Blumenheim. Fatigue drags at me even now, but I live, cousin. I hope you can forgive me, but if not, I understand. To think of such a short note now, sent without further elaboration save for whatever Baroness Rose had added in her own letter, sent a shudder through the black hedgehog. It seemed a paltry communication, for such momentous news; Silver might well feel cheated by it. He may yet rage against Shadow, for failing to defend their family.

He didn't think he could stand to lose his closest cousin, his bosom friend through their childhood – the man with whom he shared a bond so strong, each had called the other his brother since they were old enough to groom themselves. He had lost everything else; to open this letter risked sparking a powder keg at the foundation of what life he was trying to rebuild. If it held condemnation, a cutting of ties, he wasn't sure what he might do. Such a severance might shatter him, truly and finally.

Yet open it he must. Forcing himself to think of it as inevitable, he allowed his body to sit at the unfamiliar desk and fumble with the letter until a shaking thumb broke the seal. Strange, what brought memories of older, warmer times; the feeling of breaking a military wax seal on a letter from his cousin, of knowing it would leave a tiny pinkish smudge on the tip of his glove's thumb from the cheap dye it contained, heralded a flood of memories. Sitting by the fire with his family, reading the letter aloud to his youngest cousin, more than ten years his junior, now cold in who knew what ground. Brutally, he shoved the thought aside and withdrew the folded letter from its envelope with rather more force than it might have needed. Opening it, chewing at his lip with an anxious urge, he began to read.

Shadow,

It has taken a number of days for me to reply to you, and for this I truly apologise. The news of your salvation, that you were redeemed from death and came back into the world, has laid me low as the enemy's shot and swords and arrows could not. I am told I laid on my bunk for an evening complete, mewling and keening like a wounded animal; it is something of a blur. I know that I woke in the regimental infirmary, in the hands of some very understanding nurses. My courage failed me until this morning, at every thought of writing to you.

Shadow, cousin. Brother, if brother you can still call me after my failure. I cannot say how sorry I am, that I was not there. Your note, which I clasped to my breast until I awoke in a hospital bunk, speaks of forgiveness. I wish more than anything to beg for yours, and for that of those who died that night. I know you of old, Shadow, and that you always felt as if your birth placed blame, as well as responsibility, onto your shoulders when misfortune struck. That sense of duty has always stalked your thoughts, preyed on your good sense. I ask you to silence it until you have finished reading, and allow me to say unopposed what I have longed to say for ten years: I am sorry. Perhaps part of me will always be so. A decade of guilt cannot be poured onto a page and forgotten. My family died that night, and yours. What guests we may have been entertaining, between us. My wife.

If you feel there is forgiveness that you yet need from me, brother, you have it. I never once held you responsible for anything that took place in our home. But if I might ask a favour: I need to know, if you have the truth of it, how my wife met her end. You know that her family never approved of me; they wished her to marry more advantageously than a soldier from a branch family, and deemed me beneath the dignity of a lady related to House Felis. Their spite was deep indeed, for they neglected to inform me of her passing. It was only after I received news of the attack that I contacted them for word of Honey, and received no reply. I was obliged to write to others, friends of the family I hoped might have news. In the end, news of her death took longer to reach me than the span between my wedding and my widowing. Please, Shadow. If you have mercy in you for the man who failed you all, tell me what you know of my wife's final moments.

If committing such things to paper is still difficult for you when you receive this, do not trouble yourself. I am coming. Our excellent aunt Amaranthine assures me that you grow stronger by the day, but that exhaustion still sometimes brings near-delirium upon you. Be assured, then, that I am coming. I know you are at Blumenheim, and I will be there as soon as I can reach you (which ought, if things continue calm along the border, to be sometime in the Spring). I hope to once again embrace my sworn brother, and my greatest friend. I hope to give thanks to his saviours and offer what assistance I can provide. I have not enough paper or ink to explain in full how deeply I hope for it. At the least, if indeed neither of us can forgive me, you may yet have the chance to condemn me to my face.

Hold fast, brother. I am coming.

Silver

=======>>>>=======

It was not quite two hours later, with the wan late February day beginning to sink into a weak shale-grey twilight, that Shadow descended from Baron Aidan's study with a freshly sealed envelope. A quick consultation with Mr Thrace had the older fox promising the missive would be sent out directly with the morning's post; his daughter, a bespectacled young lady named Leslie with a tolerant, perennially unruffled demeanour, would be sending out her own weekly letters. She was the family's faithful accountant, possessing a rare skill with numbers for someone barely into her twenties, and sent out so many carefully-calculated wage packets and tax receipts that she was entrusted with the Manor's daily post both coming and going.

Shadow left the letter with her, and returned to rejoin the others with his countenance once again subdued and thoughtful. He hoped that his explanation was enough. Honey Horizon had indeed fought like her lioness ancestors, had wielded her gift with a viciousness and skill that had almost succeeded in breaking up their attackers' momentum; control of bee swarms had always seemed an unnerving ability in Shadow's eyes, but it had become horrifying to witness when she wielded the humming, roaring clouds of furious insects with intent to kill. Combined with the shortsword she had taken from a wall display in a moment's lull, Honey had stood her ground beside Shadow alongside a young human lady from the Robotnik family, who had been visiting to negotiate some trade contract or another on behalf of her cousin. He had seen her fall, blood spattering her blonde hair, and Honey had desperately stepped over her to defend what she could, but it hadn't been enough. All of them together hadn't been able to stem that murderous tide.

Silver would hear it from his own lips, soon enough.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Leon Palace.

“My dear princess, you're going to have to tell someone what has you in such a distracted and faraway state of mind,” Rouge teased her lightly, “or you shall walk into a wall or door while your thoughts are elsewhere. And we cannot afford rumours that Her Highness has turned to drink.” Her tone was playful but pointed. Blaze knew she was right.

It had been less than a full day, for goodness' sake. Blaze knew better than to assume anything of herself after such a short time, but for a brief meeting, her encounter with the blue boy outside the garden had been surprisingly impactful. He had remained on her mind through the rest of the day, and she had insisted to herself that it was only in search of an explanation that she went over their conversation again and again; likewise, that her repeated smiles at the memory of his blithe, casual flirtations were only at the novelty of the experience. Her lips curled again merely to recall it, even now; unfortunately, this time, she was observed.

“Must you stare at me so, Duchess?” she asked, her gaze sliding away with the sudden realisation that the bat was intently watching her face. Rouge's eyes had narrowed, as if contemplating some inner puzzle; after a moment they widened in surprise.

“Well!” she began, with shock in her voice, as if some great truth in her life had been upended. “I shall stare no further, I do declare. I already gleaned the truth I sought,” she added impishly, turning and matching the princess' gait, falling in by her side.

“Did you, indeed,” replied the cat with a deadpan, sidelong glance. “What truth might this be, giving you such satisfaction?” What in the world could Rouge have determined, simply from regarding her so closely?

“Princess...Blaze,” began Rouge, her tone falling from the playful to the serious. “I know the look of a lovestruck lady far too well to deny it. I have practiced the air of infatuation myself, far too intensely to mistake this for anything else.” In a moment of daring, she took Blaze's hand and stopped them, once she was sure they were alone in the corridor. “I hope I may consider us close enough to say this,” she added, meeting the princess' bewildered gaze, “and I will understand if you prefer to hold your peace on the matter. But I feel confident that the person who can make you smile like that must be worthy of some time discussed with a friend.”

“You crave gossip,” Blaze told her shortly, and Rouge's mischievous smile returned.

“And you crave a way to speak of this one you met...yesterday,” the duchess retorted, deducing as she went, before pausing in trepidation. “Goodness,” she added, all faux-surprise, “an echidna? Did our new friend from the floating lands captivate you so?”

“No!” Blaze's reaction was...rather less thought out than the cat would have liked, with the benefit of immediate hindsight. She was becoming aware that Rouge was playing upon her as an instrument of some sort, deftly prodding at her until some reaction gave her away. Blaze considered this no imposition, really; she had had no true friends thus far in her adult life, no one she could unreservedly trust. Rouge might yet turn out to be the first; when they were alone, she would absolutely permit this familiarity. The others on the Council most certainly would not enjoy the same privilege. Nevertheless, she flushed in exasperated embarrassment as Rouge's shoulders dropped with a faint sigh.

“Well, that is a relief,” the bat remarked, as if only half speaking to Blaze at all. “I rather think I might fancy him myself. So if not the exotic newcomer, then...?” she continued, ignoring the princess' jolt at her offhand revelation.

Another moment's prolonged eye contact was all that was required for Blake's resolve to give way. Her eyes slid closed, but her hands didn't leave Rouge's yet. “A meeting room,” was all she said. “This is not a conversation for a corridor.” Rouge nodded, and they were off; a few moments' sashay brought them to one of the smaller chambers used for private discussions in the palace, when the bureaucracy of the Empire required some discreet conversation. Closing and locking the door behind them, Blaze stepped away from the wood – knowing, from childhood experience, that it was possible for an enterprising person to press their ear to a locked door and hear speech much more easily if the speaker were leaning against it.

“I met someone outside the garden yesterday,” the princess – just a girl with a friend, in this room, in this moment – confessed in a low voice. She kept her eyes low, avoiding Rouge's gaze. “I went out there to calm my thoughts, after the others of the Council displayed such heinous, cowardly bigotries toward Ambassador Knuckles behind his back. And toward my friend,” she added, with a brief nod toward the intently listening bat. “I was furious. Ranting to myself, and – and I picked up a stone, and threw it over the wall. Just to feel my muscles exert some force. And I hit someone with it.”

“You threw a stone at a citizen?” asked Rouge, dubiously. Blaze's eyes snapped up to meet hers, and she could see the duchess' question in them: was this an evening and morning of guilt over assaulting a stranger? Hurriedly, the cat shook her head.

“A boy I never met before. Perhaps my age, or a little younger. He was unhurt. But when I went to look...he was a hedgehog, I believe. Blue, quite a...hah.” She couldn't stop the short laugh. “Quite a vivid shade. And Rouge, he looked nearly exactly like the ambassador's little chao. Backswept quills, of course, but his seemed...particularly streamlined. In the same general pattern, yet! And he – he was more than forgiving about my thoughtlessness. He was charming. He was funny, he was engaging. He drew a smile from me, when half a minute before I had been brimming with rage.” There was wonder in Blaze's voice, now, to hear herself recount it. She risked another glance up at her friend, and found with mingled dismay and muted excitement that Rouge seemed fascinated.

“And where is this mysterious, charming, funny hedgehog now?” was the only question the bat had for her. Blaze slumped, and raised her eyes to the heavens.

“He fled,” she replied simply. “When we spoke, I was atop the wall. Silhouetted. He had no idea to whom he spoke. He had nothing but the chance of our meeting, the words we spoke, and the fact that I'd hit him with a rock. From those, he decided to be friendly, flirtatious, but never abandoned his courtesy. I could have done him serious harm with my carelessness, and he simply smiled, like...like sunshine.” She looked her friend in the eye at last, her chagrin permitted to show on her face in these private circumstances. “And then I was fool enough to let him see my face, and introduce myself, and welcome him to Leon. And he was aghast at the revelation, Rouge,” she whispered. “I believe I terrified him. I never saw anyone move so fast – well, there was lightning at his heels, it was clearly a gift,” she reasoned, with a shrug, “but he fled too quickly for me to follow. In moments he was out of sight completely. The closest thing I have ever had to a moment of romance, and my royalty frightened him away – you are staring again,” she accused Rouge, who had frozen where she sat. “Temper no reactions in private with me, Rouge. I'll ask you not to insult me with pretence. Tell me I'm a fool, and I'll believe you.” She slumped into a seat next to the duchess, who had schooled herself to calm.

“Blaze,” she began slowly, “this boy. A hedgehog?”

“Yes.”

“A hedgehog. With a gift?”

“Yes-” Blaze froze, too. The import of it had sunk in, and she turned quickly to face Rouge with a wild surmise. “Yes! A – oh. Oh, I am a fool, and my friend had to show it to me. Oh, Rouge, I thought them all dead,” she breathed.

“All but the Roses, and the single survivors of Horizon and the main Erin dynasty,” quoted Rouge. “I believe the Horizon survivor remains a soldier, though he rises in the ranks relatively quickly of late. His fire is reignited, they say. A silver-furred gentleman, gifted to exert force with his thoughts.”

Blaze nodded, distracted. “And the gifts of House Rose we already know, and none of them are blue. The main dynasty's survivor?”

“Safely married, these days, and well liked and respected in Blumenheim,” noted Rouge. “Black-furred, with those peculiar red streaks – you recall, we saw him with his wife at the Winter's End ball. Verbose fellow, when she doesn't rein him in; the only thing more oblique than his compliments are his insults.”

“And none of them – none of them have blue fur. And this was no disguise or dye,” noted Blaze. “No artifice is that perfect in appearance.”

Rouge leapt onto it like a pet upon a toy. “Perfect in appearance, is he? My, my. I must meet this charming, gifted, graciously forgiving noble boy with the perfect countenance,” she thrilled theatrically, “to see if he is worthy of my friend.” Blaze regarded her with a wary sort of horror, and put a hand over hers.

“Rouge, please do not attempt to seduce him,” she begged, half seriously.

Rouge squeezed her hand, amicable and reassuring. “Nothing of the sort,” she promised. “I merely intend to watch his eyes upon meeting him, to see if they remain watching mine. I shall test his moral character beyond his capacity to forgive being stoned in the street.”

Blaze's head sank into her hands. “Gaia help me, I just met this boy once and my only ally intends to be wordlessly importunate as to his resistance to feminine wiles.”

“Better an importunate friend than an impertinent man,” Rouge asserted to her, with another squeeze of her hand. “Be easy, Blaze. I shan't pressure him, if you ask it. But could this be a part of why he held your attention so thoroughly, after so brief a meeting? Your mind knew there was something unusual, but had yet to make the connection?”

Blaze considered this briefly, and drew in a deep breath. “I'm not sure if I fear that being the case,” she replied. “It would set my mind at ease, to know this was simply a mystery half-perceived, and now solved to reveal new questions. But I...feel as if I want it to be more. As if I wish it to be that he truly was charming and intriguing and agreeable enough a man, to warrant my thoughts dwelling on him this way.”

“You know what this shall mean, if he truly is what we both half-believe him to be,” cautioned the duchess, resting her cheek on her palm – her other hand still keeping a reassuring hold on Blaze's own. “There are those who will recognise him. And there may still be those who seek to write finis to House Erin completely.”

“I know. He may rapidly become both novelty and target,” sighed the cat.

“And one other thing, also,” added Rouge, prompting Blaze to look over at her – her face showing a silent plea for directness as to what she had missed. “He may also rapidly become Prince Consort. Depending, of course, on whether this really was love at first smite.”

It was nearly a full minute before Rouge could cease her husky laughter, and nearly three before Her Highness' face was once again under sufficient control to step out of the meeting room for her appointment with Ambassador Knuckles.

=======>>>>=======

The meeting with the echidna had been, by necessity, more of a planning endeavour than a real exchange of information. While its purpose was to enlighten, there were far more than Blaze whose knowledge of Echidna culture was lacking. The solution, rapidly hit upon, was for a member of the diplomatic group to begin putting together a folio for mass printing (a technology which a number of echidnas found fascinating, Knuckles had admitted) so that the folk of the Sol Empire – including, however reluctantly, the Imperial Council – could understand the customs of a friendly state. It was equally likely to engender interest in the people of the sky-lands themselves; the Sol Empire's people found no sin in curiosity, by and large, and when not at their own business they tended to look to the horizon and wonder.

Knuckles had been obliging and unfailingly polite, but it had hardly escaped Blaze's notice that he was thoroughly informed on their own culture, at least in the theoretical sense. The echidnas were certainly not lacking in knowledge concerning the Sol Empire. She set this aside to consider later as they wrestled together against the problem of this one-way ignorance between their peoples; the ambassador had seemed to have no idea that things had quite reached this point, but neither did he attempt to explain it away with a simple My Empress never mentioned this to me. He made no effort to place or apportion blame; instead he was taking responsibility for the task in front of him, and rising admirably to it. A part of her was beginning to think that this might be something of a baptism of fire; if Empress Tikal did know of this gap in understanding, and sent him into it with no forewarning to see how he approached the situation, then she was both crafty as a ruler, and talented at spotting potential in an individual.

She hoped they got to meet, one day. Until then, she would make do with this gentleman, his absolutely enchanting little blue friend (who threatened with every burble and squeak and giggle to turn her thoughts back to this Sonic fellow who so plagued her), and the growing feeling that the Sol Empire might soon have a very trustworthy ally indeed.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor. Dressing Rooms.

Shadow Erin considered himself extremely fortunate, in certain ways. While his life had its share of utter hell, he nevertheless had blessings which he could count these days. Among these was a more recently acquired skill: the ability to receive a nasty shock without visibly reeling, gasping in horror, or any such boon to the senses of an enthusiastic tormentor.

Today, he found the ability stretched to its limit.

“Well, old boy,” greeted Aidan Rose, turning away from the mirror to face him. “Decent of you to knock, what? But I'm thoroughly decent” - Shadow privately registered instant disagreement - “and the lady of the house seems to think I must change, yet. You've a way with these things, colour and style and all that – saw how your ideas for the ballroom have been enacted and I must say you're a bean, old boon,” the older hedgehog added enthusiastically, then paused. “Or perhaps a boon, old bean. But you've the knack of these kinds of matters, so let's hear your opinion, if you wouldn't mind?” The Baron threw his arms wide in presentation. The closely-fit black trousers and crisp white shirt were a solid choice, as was the cravat – Shadow nearly wore one himself, this evening – but the black hedgehog found himself horrified anew to behold the white mess jacket with silver buttons and sky-blue epaulettes. His eyes roved over it as one might gaze in morbid fascination at an overturned cart of dried goods and milk, wondering if the sudden abuse of the materials might yet spontaneously produce a cake.

“May I be completely honest, my lord?” asked Shadow, almost tentatively.

“Please be completely honest,” groaned Lady Amaranthine, from her position seated in the corner – head in hands, almost despairing at her husband's decision. The Baron agreed, nodding encouragingly with a wide smile.

“My first thought was that some enemy of the family must be responsible for the garment,” Shadow explained, and the man's face fell a little. He glanced down, finally beginning to consider that he may be wrong.

“Something of a fashion faux pas, d'you think?” he asked in his sudden, wavering doubt. Shadow and Amaranthine both nodded, with varying degrees of force and emphasis.

“Certainly a choice that might be seen as a calculated insult to any tailors who might be present tonight,” the younger man advised him, as diplomatically as possible.

“Well, dash it, I've more sense in me than to discard the advice of an expert, at least,” sighed Aidan. “Any suggestions, m'boy?” He began to unbutton the jacket and shrug it off; handing it to Raine, whose skilfully stoic reaction to handling the object raised his stock with Shadow considerably, the Baron moved over to his wardrobe and began to look through it for ideas. “We've, ah, let's see – we've the maroon?”

“Clashes with mine, dear,” sighed Amaranthine, gesturing to her own deep crimson gown.

“We've the green?” His tone was hopeful for this one. His wife's expression grew briefly thunderous.

“Aidan Rose, if you attend Winter's End dressed as a billiards table I shall put you on a diet,” she warned, and the offending article was back out of sight before Shadow could blink.

“We've this lovely sort of roasted-parsnip off-white, here-”

“I think basic black might be the way to go, my lord,” interjected Shadow, to defuse the situation. “A splash of colour should only be a splash, and forgive me, but those jackets were akin to floods. Accessorising should be your outlet here. A pocket square, or a flower in the buttonhole, perhaps in the Baroness' red?”

“I say,” mused Aidan, turning to look at his accessories drawer at the thought, and then turning to Raine. “Would you mind scampering downstairs to the gardeners, my lad, and asking them to trim me a beauty from the red rosebushes? I've a little sort of tin tube thing here somewhere, for filling with water and holding a flower stem, tucked behind a lapel...”

Shadow and Amaranthine's eyes met, and two sets of shoulders sagged in relief.

=======>>>>=======

When Shadow had last attended a ball, it had been an eye-wateringly formal, ritualised affair; the negotiations for his engagement, close to completion, had necessitated a gathering so that he and his prospective bride could be seen together. It was important, with such things, that the couple be perceived as able to withstand one another's company.

Or at least that they can simper at one another on cue, he mused sourly as he adjusted his lapels and made a final check of himself in the mirror. While normally a member of the house's staff would assist Shadow in dressing, he had declined the Baron's offer to assign him a valet; after so long restrained, he would never again take for granted the chance to do anything so fundamental and satisfying as to choose and don his own clothing. A coal-black wool suit, carefully matched to his own fur's midnight shade, and a collared dark grey shirt to provide a little variation; the wine-red ascot looped about his neck, loosely fastened through a neat silver tie-cuff, highlighted both his streaks and his eyes. The seamstress had been absolutely correct in her analysis; the reds in his coat, if they were to be a part of him, should be embraced. Attempting to downplay them would only make him look a timid, damaged fool, he knew, and there were some appearances he could not afford to put forth.

A knock at the door startled him from his surly reverie, and a wet growl nearly escaped him before he hurriedly mastered himself. “Yes,” he called softly, and the door opened to reveal Mr Thrace. The fox's silvering muzzle creased in a brief smile as he laid eyes on Shadow's dress. Perhaps it was a relief to see a well-dressed man, thought Shadow in a moment of unkindness he instantly regretted. Aidan Rose's faults existed, but Shadow's life was made no sweeter by pillorying him about them.

“Beg pardon, Mr Erin,” Mr Thrace began, “The Baroness asked me to remind you that Miss Amy will be wearing an emerald-green gown for this party, off-the-shoulder and long-sleeved. In case it's of any inspiration regarding an accessory, she said.”

Shadow scrutinised the fox, briefly but intensely. From his expression, he understood the circumstances, at least in part; likewise, his face betrayed nothing in the realm of disapproval. He gave a single nod. “Thank you, Mr Thrace. But if I've understood Ammeline's reputation correctly, I believe I may be an accessory to something or other all by myself, before the evening is done,” he added wryly, and watched the head butler's smile widen.

“Quite possibly, sir,” he agreed. “If I may speak plainly, I've encountered tempers like the young lady's before.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes indeed, sir. Five or six at a time, in my Navy days, whenever someone shouted full-broadside-fire. The trick was always to make sure not to be standing in the way when it went off, or right behind it when it kicked. I'm certainly gratified to see how quickly you got the knack of that, sir.”

“It takes a fast learner, Mr Thrace,” shrugged the black hedgehog, and the head butler nodded sagely. “Though I think perhaps I may lean gently into the firing line once or twice, just to see that pretty flash when it does go off.”

“Risky business, that, sir, but I believe I see what you mean.”

“The closer a man dances to the edge of hell, the more spectacular the view. Are the guests arriving?” Shadow added, glancing at the mirror and making an infinitesimal adjustment to his ascot.

“Arriving and curious, sir, if you don't mind my saying. Word travels swift and wild, when serving-staff meet. Like brushfire with a good breeze and a dry hillside. Whatever's been passed around, sir, you must know little enough of it is likely to have still been true by the time it reached the ears of other families.”

“Well,” smiled Shadow, revealing his teeth in something between relish and an undirected challenge to the world at large, “I suppose I'd better go down there and disappoint them.”

“Right you are, sir,” noted the older fox. “I shall ensure the Baroness knows you're making your appearance.” At a nod, he backed out of the doorway and allowed Shadow to pass him, before turning to stride back the way he'd come while the hedgehog headed for the ballroom.

=======>>>>=======

Evidently, disappointment was a relative term. While the loss of his anonymity had been a foregone conclusion, Shadow had been met upon his entry by faces ranging from recognition, to hope, to disgust, to outright fear; genuine smiles, of course, were few and far between. He had expected no less. He was something of a monstrosity, in comparison to the Shadow Erin these people had known; as the heir to his duchy, he'd held the title of Earl, but the son of Duke Erin had been a charming and amicable young man of average height and normal, if dark, colouring. The spindle-shanked creature now moving among them would naturally draw unsubtle stares that bordered on open insult.

Aidan and Amaranthine, to their credit, had moved to greet him with every sign of affection, familiarity, and equanimity; he had softened his expression as much as possible, through the near-permanent, involuntary scowl etched onto his face. Coupled with the way his streaks sharpened his features, and the necessity of keeping his mouth as close to shut as possible so as not to bare unexpected fangs at people, the broadest smile Shadow could permit himself to muster was a bittersweet, closed-mouthed affair that made him look more tired than pleased. Nevertheless, he put on the most personable mien he could drag to the fore, while allowing himself the refuge of knowing that the lord and lady of the house brought no false cheer when they spoke to him. He was truly a welcome friend in this house. The thought fortified him, buoyed his spirits above the hushed exclamations of shock and consternation that had rippled around the room when he entered. It let him rise from the almost-hunched half-stoop that had bent him down to something approaching a normal height; when Aidan Rose's hand came up to clap him companionably on the shoulder, it didn't seem so horrific that the man was obliged to reach higher than he otherwise would for the gesture.

It had perhaps not quite sunk in for Shadow, until tonight, that his height was truly so unusual. The Rose family had been a smallish sample size, and their staff likewise; while more numerous, their role in the place had them seeming habitually more unobtrusive. Here and now, in the company of those used to expanding to fill their own social and personal spaces as ostentatiously as one might expect, he still towered. Worse, he loomed, and his presence cast a literal shadow on certain conversations as he passed, or participated. Most greetings were perfunctory, and as he moved from blur to blur of assembled, politely simpering faces – introductions, courteous inquiries as to health, averted gazes or outright stares, must-mingle-so-lovely-to-meet-you and off to the next bundle of frightened strangers – Shadow found himself retaining less and less detail from what went on around him. It was similar to a fugue state he had entered once or twice, and he began to feel himself dissociate-

“Shadow Erin! Come down here and meet my friends, as I suppose you must, for I shan't be seen trying to climb onto a footstool in these shoes.”

...Ammeline. He turned to regard her, and sound and sight and sense and warmth came flooding back in as if a skylight had opened on his thoughts. She was indeed in emerald-green, her bared shoulders almost daring for an unmarried lady of her age – but offset by the long sleeves and floor-length skirts, ensuring that the dress' design was more a gesture of defiance than a sign of immodesty. He approved of it, he found; tearing his eyes from the garment before any improper conclusions could be drawn, he met her gaze and found a gentle, exasperated fondness in them. Her mood was on the pleasant side tonight, then, and he realised that he was himself smiling more warmly at the knowledge.

“Certainly, Ammeline,” he smiled, moving closer and leaning down almost conspiratorially; he had no schemes to share, but he felt she might enjoy – given her reputation – the knowledge that people might think otherwise. The brief smile on her lips was a blessing, and he resolved to earn a few more if the chance arose.

Of the next minute and a half, he remembered shamefully little. He was introduced to a number of ladies of Amy's acquaintance: a welterweight of a ewe named Lanolin, a wolf named Whisper who seemed intent to live up to it, and an excitable lemur with expressive eyes and a laugh like a cavalry charge over a tin bridge, complete with bugle calls. He supposed she must have mentioned her name, but his mind had been exercising a crude sort of self-defence at the time by refusing all contact with his ears, and so he had missed it. His eyes drifted, again and again, to Ammeline; the change in her, among her friends, was surprising. Ordinarily, she gleamed like a jewel to him; now, as animated as she was in this company, she leaped like a flame. It was all he could do to hold himself back from being consumed. Once or twice, he felt a knowing eye upon him from her companions, but he let it slide. If her parents had spotted it, and approved, then gossip from her circle of friends held no fear for him so long as they held back from announcing it to her, or to the general public.

It was only when Ammeline had declared her intent to circulate, excusing him for the moment, that the evening took a new downward turn. He had straightened up, given a brief and respectful incline of his head and a good-evening-ladies, and turned on his heel – looking straight into the eyes of Lydia Haestrom.

Oh, great Gaia.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Leon City.

Sonic hadn't seen so many people in one place since before he was old enough to go outside alone.

The sheer size and bustle of a place like the capital might be unappealing to many; he'd known plenty in Sanctuary for whom part of the place's appeal was its solitude and peace. He certainly didn't hold that against them, of course, and while his sample size was small, some of the best people he'd known were people for whom the most beautiful sound in the world was the soft, clear silence of starlight reaching the ground.

Sonic himself, however, had ached to be among people since he was in single digits. At every stop he'd made on his two-day journey to Leon, towns dozens of miles apart and barely an hour between, his heart had leapt to see more people than he could count, simply going about their business. Now that he was here, he was buoyed up by an inner rejoicing that lent still more swiftness to him. He still reminded himself to take care with exactly how quickly he moved; in short bursts he was now capable of motion that could leave a stiff breeze in his wake, and Mother Longclaw had cautioned him that such things could make him a target as well as a nuisance to those he passed.

He was at least certain that Miles' gift was working perfectly. The conductors around the heels of his shoes captured the natural lightnings he gave off, and something – he could never explain it if he took a year, he knew – in their construction fed that power back to him directly. It was as if the leaks of a water pipe were being caught in cups, and poured back into the source so that less was wasted; so Miles had reductively explained it to him. He remained as grateful for the apparatus as he was for his deep-green travelling cloak, oilskin and warm wool ensuring he was warm and dry even if caught in a downpour, and for the bedroll and pack of supplies hanging from his shoulder on a reinforced strap that Sister Nali had sewn extra-firmly so as to withstand his speed. He even had a modest amount of money, which Mother Longclaw had pressed upon him with the assurance that donations to the temple could be used for this – that this was in fact the primary purpose of Sanctuary, ensuring the survival and wellbeing of gifted youths with targets upon their backs.

His mood fell by some margin, when he recalled the one person to whom he had shown his gift. Taking a shortcut directly behind the Imperial palace had seemed a good idea at the time; much as he enjoyed being among people, even his slowest locomotion was a noticeably brisk walk by others' standards, and the directions he'd been given for a high-class inn (in which, he had carefully failed to mention, he hoped to find Lord and Lady Rose) had pointed him toward a district on the other side of the city. With the palace in the middle, taking a road less travelled by would surely mean fewer strangers obliging him to keep himself shackled to their own speed. He certainly hadn't expected to be hit with a thrown rock.

Her Highness had quite the throwing arm, he noted once again. His shoulder still ached faintly; it had been beyond what one might call a pebble, and she had put real force behind it. She was also the most beautiful girl he had ever, ever seen, and it hadn't helped that he had been completely unaware of her identity at first. Her voice alone had been captivating; while he was aware that he could be engaging and turn on some charm when he wished to, he had never before felt compelled to do so by the mere presence of a lady. She had exuded poise and grace, and had captivated him immediately; only when she had revealed her name had he realised his mistake. A part of him insisted that he recall the rest of her words; she had welcomed him to the city, so his faux pas surely couldn't have been all that heinous. He had still, in a moment of cowardice that now brought bitter regret, exposed himself as gifted by exploding into motion as soon as his clumsy apology had passed his lips, fleeing from the scene of his oafish behaviour and leaving more lightning in his wake than even his new shoes' additions had been able to fully capture.

It had truly been a shameful display, he thought to himself. Perhaps if she ever laid eyes on him again, he might find the courage to apologise for that gutless exit-

There they were.

His eyes snapped into focus. How tall was this man now? That could not be real...but as the distant, dark, red-streaked figure assisted his petite, pink companion down from a carriage, he found himself driven to action. He started forward, only to duck behind a market stall when the distant, dark-quilled figure's head snapped round to look in his direction.

How in the world – he risked a glance back out, but Shadow seemed unaware of him, as if something in this direction had merely caught his attention for a moment. Slowly, he began to move closer; it was torturous, but he needed to make his point. He must make Shadow understand what he had done. But...the realisation struck him amidships, and he paused at the mental image conjured up by his impulsive drive to approach them. Would accosting them in the street be the wise, or dignified, thing to do? If he were to maintain the moral high ground in this scenario, it should be private. He should demonstrate that he at least understood tact, even if he believed not everyone deserved it.

Thus resolved, Sonic maintained his distance. The couple had disembarked their carriage, it seemed, to examine the marketplace before closing; he had learned quickly on the other evening he had spent free of Sanctuary's restrictive protection. The market stalls often lowered prices when the sun dipped low, to help rid themselves of less appealing products that would take up space, or perishable wares that wouldn't last until the next day. It certainly seemed to appeal to the thrifty, but why would his cousin – heir to Erin Duchy, husband of House Rose's heiress – investigate such a place?

He was still asking himself the same question fifteen minutes later, though with a greatly increased sense of rhetorical desperation and resignation. A quarter of an hour, moving at less than walking pace, felt a truly exquisite torture to Sonic; with the rapid expansion of his gift, and after two days of moving whip-fast across the grasslands of Northern Soleanna, this snail-like progression seemed almost deliberate insult. He itched, he ached to erupt into motion, but for his plan to succeed, he must...wait. They had ducked into an alley, past the end of the market stalls, almost around the corner. He'd lost them.

A quick, desperate, thankfully deniable sprint brought him to the mouth of the alley; with a glance around, he noted with relief that he'd chosen his moment well. No one had spotted him; he appeared to have been mistaken for a sudden, odd gust of wind, but no one was looking in his direction. He turned and stepped into the mouth of the alley-

-and a sudden, inexorably powerful gloved fist grabbed him by the collar, dragging him into the dark.

=======>>>>=======

Knuckles was still, she had to admit, a strange name to her. But it would suffice.

Rouge had her own concerns regarding these luncheons; in order that nothing should appear improper, she made certain that when she met the ambassador – who, it had to be said, gave no indication of reluctance or insincerity in his acceptance of her invitation – she did so in places where the palace staff, or the public in general, could plainly see that she was being entirely (and strictly) friendly. The garden they currently occupied, with a small table set up near an oak tree, was a lovely example of such.

This was the other side of her facade; the mask she put up to control others worked too well, and it would be easy for rumours of impropriety to germinate between Duchess Chiros and any man who drew too many smiles from her. Therefore, to avoid causing any complications to her own life or to any future endeavours of the Princess, she ensured that their movements were plain to see and that no one could honestly claim there was a hint of...wiles. If any such accusations were to surface, she wasn't above making it official and demanding the use of truthspell in the matter; she would make an example of rumourmongers in this, to ensure no one thought it worth trying.

This spectacular man had already given every sign of being unaffected by such things as her usual mask, of course. His attention was first to his duty, to his Empress and to the needs of his retinue; the people for whom, and to whom, he was responsible. This included Vivid, which currently occupied a space on the table between them as they chatted over the food. Knuckles had allowed the tiny creature to investigate his plate, and with his assurance that chao were fastidiously clean creatures, Rouge had followed suit. It had gazed shyly at her as it approached, and she had given it a warm, encouraging smile; the chao had given a careful sniff to one or two items of her meal, before burbling something to the echidna opposite her.

“Nom?” he asked it softly, and it scampered closer with its arms up as if reaching for him. He smiled and reached into the satchel he'd brought with him, his powerful frame moving easily despite the more restrictive Sol fashions he now wore. The dark-grey suit looked as if it had been constructed around him, but Rouge was forced to admit that he made it look magnificent nonetheless. “Banoon?” he asked the chao before him, and resumed his searching when it shook its head. “Bapple?” he asked after a moment, and an enthusiastic reaching-upward from the chao drew a smile from him. He drew a bright red apple from the bag and placed it before Vivid, which responded by hauling the fruit around to show to Rouge.

“Bapu!” it announced to her, before seating itself in place and beginning to enthusiastically devour the fruit. Rouge had never been more smitten with anything in her life, she decided in that moment, than with this utterly delightful pair communicating so gently.

“Is that how you asked it if it was hungry?” she asked Knuckles, as the little blue darling enjoyed its meal. The echidna nodded, tearing his eyes away from his charge and meeting her gaze with those intense, captivating indigos. It was almost fatherly, how he looked at the chao. She felt her heart grow warm at the thought.

“I asked if it wanted a banana, but it preferred the apple,” he replied. “They do not speak as we do; their minds are simpler, but not so simple as beasts. Like...very young children, halfway to forming their own words. We developed a language to speak to them, but this is...very contextual.” He gestured toward her with one large, fingerless glove. “For example. I could not mistake the scent you wear today for anything but a floral variety.”

Rouge was going to blush. She felt it begin, in her cheeks, and a part of her protested at being made so easily to do so. She nodded, regardless, and forced herself to speak. “Yes, it – its name is Evening Amber,” she added, for something to say.

“Quite captivating. Jasmine and...honey?” he asked, completely innocent and sincere in his compliment, and Rouge fought furiously not to redden. Four different kinds of honey, true, but the fact that he had so quickly picked out the components of her perfume felt...somehow intimate, as if a part of her were laid bare to him. She didn't dislike the feeling, of course, but its intensity had caught her a little by surprise. At her wordless nod, he smiled a little wider and gestured down to the chao. “If I were to mention it to Vivid, I might simply say flob snoof. But while flob means flower, snoof can mean a scent, or the act of smelling or sniffing something. So with those two words, I might be describing a floral scent,” he gestured to her once again, “or inviting it to smell a particular flower.”

“This is fascinating,” cooed Rouge, surprising even herself at how true it was. “Might I-?” she gestured to Vivid, and Knuckles gave her a broad smile and encouraging nod.

“If you wish to try,” he replied, then looked back at the chao and made a sort of...sound at it. Like a mewing sound, almost, announcing that he wanted attention. It looked up at him, and he gestured to Rouge; Vivid turned its gaze on her, then on the wrist she proffered.

“Flob snoof?” she asked it softly. The chao's eyes widened in understanding, and it leaned in to sniff gently at her wrist. Pondering the results for a moment, it looked up at her and hummed gleeful agreement before resuming its lunch.

Rouge wasn't quite finished swooning internally from this interaction, when Knuckles glanced at the sun above the garden, and sighed. “Bapple nyam,” he told Vivid simply, and the chao nodded and began hurrying its meal as its keeper explained himself to the Duchess. “We have a meeting with a courier's guild in a short while,” he began apologetically. “Someone wishes to establish regular mail deliveries to our Island.”

“Something of a difficult proposition,” remarked Rouge, motioning to the hovering maid to take their empty plates. Knuckles murmured polite gratitude to the fox girl, and she ducked her head, pleased at the recognition. Gaia, he was good to everyone. “How many such meetings are laborious explanations of logistical difficulties, just out of curiosity?” she added, once the maid had gone.

“Nearly all of them,” replied Knuckles, picking up the reaching Vivid and settling the little blue darling on his shoulder. “But we live in hope that someone will think of something.”

Living in hope about some things sounded all right to Rouge, she reflected wryly. It was, for now, all she had.

=======>>>>=======

Sonic's eyes adjusted fairly quickly to the dimness, even through the panic of being handled around like a sack of potatoes. After he was dragged into the alley, he found his back against a wall – his shirt still firmly gripped, as two burning red eyes briefly became his whole world.

“Suppose you were to start,” came a feminine voice from his left – the pink hedgehog from the newspaper cutting he had seen, he realised with a glance from the corner of his eye – “with why you're following us, young...man...” she trailed off, and the grip on his clothing slackened as those eyes dimmed and softened, widening in recognition.

“No,” muttered the enormously tall, black hedgehog in front of him, as if denying what stood before him. Sonic's feet touched the ground properly, and immediately he burst into motion – pulling himself free of the trembling hand and moving toward the end of the alley so swiftly he stirred up some loose papers and dirt on the floor.

“Yes,” he managed after a moment, mastering himself and clenching his fists. He knew what to say here. “Hello, Shadow. My name's Sonic, now. And you're-” The breath was squeezed from him as Shadow enveloped him in a crushing hug, burying his face in Sonic's shoulder, trembling with the effort and the emotion of it.

“You're alive,” whispered his cousin, clinging to him as if he were a lifesaver himself. “You're alive...”

Sonic's heart dropped.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor. The Ballroom.

Amy hadn't felt quite so cheerful in rather a long time. With the long drag of winter finally falling away behind them, the world felt as if it were taking its first deep, invigorating breath in months. Sunlight broke through the clouds more often; the first flickies were returning from their collective winter sojourn, and her father had delighted to see the vapour of their song leave their beaks when he took his occasional morning ride.

As well, her friends had returned to the area. The Rose family were, of course, not the only society to be found in Blumenheim; her greatest and most beloved friends Tangle, Whisper and Lanolin – all of whom had older brothers, in their own social circles, and all of whom were thus under less pressure to marry from their families – had each been visiting relatives for the winter. When Amy was a child, she and her parents had done likewise, but after the destruction of the family they'd visited, they had had rather more subdued winters. The Roses made up for the deficit, however, in becoming known for the liveliest and happiest Winter's End parties of any family whose lands bordered the plains of the Great Turquoise. Their Springbloom party, only a couple of months from now, was likewise considered a perennially unmissable event. Their traditional masquerade ball for the event was highly anticipated, and Amy knew she would proudly continue the practice when she was Baroness Rose.

The return of her friends had brought liveliness back into Amy's heart, where before she had barely had the wherewithal to spend a conversation verbally jousting with the household's new black-furred addition. She found herself greeting even that gentleman cordially and confidently; while she normally lacked none of the latter, she had certainly never smiled to begin a conversation with him, the way she had just now. From a tradition almost as old as herself, Amy's smiles at a party were generally treated with the same sort of quiet, broadly-distributed dread that accompanied the arrival of a gentleman in a black robe and a scythe, in an amateur theatre production. An enthusiastic Amy Rose was an impending doom upon some poor soul, said the conventional wisdom; from getting into arguments with older and more hidebound members of society, to pushing a lady's suitor into a duck-pond on the basis that a recent romance novel had contained such a scene, the daughter of Baron and Baroness Rose had long been considered the Usual Suspect whenever some harmless misfortune befell any social situation.

For this reason, there had already been a clear space around Amy and her friends when she spotted Shadow. This was no surprise to her, and indeed felt the normal course of things. What surprised her, perhaps more than it should have, was that Shadow stood in the centre of a similar empty space. Where older people tried to ignore Amy if she had her back to them, Shadow was drawing stares and crass whispers, ill-mannered gossip rippling in his wake at a distance that – judging by the flicks of his ears, and the tired set of his face – was absolutely insufficient to serve as concealment. The words teeth, fangs, and terrifying passed by her ears more than once, and at least one monster in a gentleman's voice from the other direction. These were generally lost in the hubbub of conversation, but in this moment Amy felt as if they two were the only people in the room.

They shied away from him, like they did her. The realisation slid down her back like a carelessly-thrown dessert, and she tore her eyes away for a moment – to see her friends regarding him with similar expressions of shock or borderline dismay. This, she would not tolerate; they didn't deserve her ire for it, but she would help them to see the man behind that face, the gentle but razor-edged wit she had seen. To call him over was the work of a moment; she hardly had any loss of dignity to worry about, with her reputation.

What she did find gratifying, to an unforeseen degree, was the change in his face when his gaze landed on her. He had just finished his latest ricochet against whatever group of simpering fair-weather cretins had been next in the lineup of obligatory introductions, and a glance at his face reminded her of a description her father had given once – a chap encountering the unpleasant, acrid smell of burnt poetry – until his gaze met hers. Immediately, the falsehood in his smile was revealed; it was supplanted by a genuine one, and the difference was immediate and – at least, to her – emphatic.

Her friends were looking at her like a fool for calling him over, but a glance over her shoulder at them would hopefully tell them what they needed to know – and then he was upon her, leaning down so as to put his frankly unreasonable height to less of an advantage. Gracious of him, she mused inwardly, to appeal to her fondness for secrets by pretending that he had one to share with her.

“These are my very good friends,” she announced, turning to take a step back, allowing him to meet the gazes of her companions. “Shadow Erin, formerly of Erin Duchy, may I introduce Lanolin Evart” - who had never allowed herself to be intimidated by a man, and so rose to the occasion with murmured politeness - “Whisper Bastien” - who dipped into a brief, shy, desultory curtsey, to which Shadow responded with a simple incline of his head, before Tangle interrupted her.

“And I'm Tangle Rakoto,” she greeted him, her tail fairly swishing behind her in her interest now that the fearsomeness of the man had fallen away a little. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Erin, and I hope you're being a good friend to our Amy – I would hate to think of her being treated coldly or callously, but I can see you've been a perfect gentleman since your knees are both facing forward,” she added, with a still-slightly-nervous laugh.

Shadow had taken all of this directly in the face, and Amy felt a brief pang of pity; meeting Tangle for the first time, when she was in this state, was rather like being at the impolite end of her mother's blunderbuss when she test-fired it with powder alone. His ears were pinned back as if he were walking into a strong wind.

“Now ladies, Mr Erin is a reserved gentleman, but do not let that fool you,” she cautioned her friends, while maintaining her gaze upon the man. His eyes flicked to hers, and stayed, and something happened to his face; she had no time or inclination to decide what. “You must be cautious and diligent in timing your conversations with him. If he speaks for more than ten seconds without pausing for breath, then you may assume you're being gently insulted.”

“But always with the best of intentions,” Shadow began, as Tangle stifled a giggle behind her hand. “I never speak ill of any person I respect; only of their choices, if they should make poor ones.”

“You told me I looked ghastly in that bonnet,” Amy reminded him archly, folding her arms before her in an obstinate stance. She would not be moved on this.

“Ah, no, in fact I did not. I said that bonnet looked ghastly on you. The fault lies entirely with the headwear, rather than the head,” he defended himself, and Amy narrowed her eyes.

“Shadow Erin, this semantic hair-splitting is beneath you,” she told him, as his gaze softened into the odd, fond look he often gave her when she conceded to the temptation to return his jabs. “Kindly grow out of this chromatic cowardice before supper tonight, or I shall eat your dessert.” She turned to her friends again, at least two of whom were giving her...frankly some very odd looks. “Now, I believe I should like to mingle a little, and see who may be observed doing what. If you will excuse us, Mr Erin?” she added, and he returned to his usual obnoxious altitude to click his heels and wish them a good evening.

Once his back was turned, Amy drew her friends close and looked back and forth between the three of them. “I realise he does seem frightening,” she began earnestly, “but he genuinely doesn't mean to appear so. He is...well, he's no gentleman,” she added, rolling her eyes, “but he is a gentle man.”

“He's talking to a lady,” observed Lanolin, looking past Amy.

“He has a sense of humour, at the least,” continued Amy, “and he – what?”

“She giggles a lot,” noted Whisper, nearly inaudible through the noise of the party. Amy fought the urge to whirl, counselling herself to remain relatively still.

“All right. I must pretend to still be speaking. Who is she?”

“Haven't seen her before,” Whisper explained. “Coyote.”

“Very well put together,” remarked Tangle, leaning a little closer to her. “City fashions, I think. Big city fashions, like Leon or Corvid.”

“Cosmopolitan,” agreed Lanolin, fighting not to crane her neck. “She uses her fan most coquettishly. He...I believe he is smiling. She certainly is. I believe they know each other. I heard no introduction, and she...is not escorted. Or her companion is elsewhere, and has left her to speak to your Mr Erin alone for some reason.”

“He's not my Mr Erin,” began Amy, startled to find herself contesting that particular point. She followed through, regardless. “He's his own man, and I have no claim or design upon him.”

“That's good,” Tangle smiled cheerfully, making no effort to conceal her own gawking over Amy's shoulder. “The woman he's talking to certainly seems to. It might have become uncomfortable if you had to work out some sort of schedule between the two of you, for his use.”

Amy's cheeks were flaming; she knew it, but she brought herself back under control with a mighty effort. Stilling her limbs until they nearly vibrated with pent-up motion, she drew in a deep breath as her mother had taught her, and then released it slowly after a short span of holding her lungs full. Directly, she began to feel better and calmer. She nearly missed Lanolin's report that the woman had left Shadow's side; when Tangle gently nudged her, she started like a flicky hearing a gunshot, and looked around at her friends as if woken from a dream.

“Talk to him,” Lanolin instructed, direct and uncompromising. Amy turned, willing herself first not to move too quickly and then not to stop before she reached him. Marching over to him, she cleared her throat to get his attention; the taller hedgehog's attention seemed firmly affixed on the broad back of a man on the other side of the ballroom.

Another clearing of her throat brought his awareness at least partly back toward her, and he tilted his head to speak to her – though rudely, his eyes never left the distant figure.

“Ammeline. That gentleman in the stone-grey silk suit. I haven't seen him before,” he began, clearly with an expectation that she should fill in some blank space in his personal knowledge. Rolling her eyes, she allowed the moment of digression, and determined quickly which man he meant.

“Mr Clutch,” she explained, with the air of one describing the latest thing a beloved but incorrigible dog has done on the carpet. “An excrescence of the lowest order. Soul as black as his fingernails. Why were you talking with that lady?”

“Because it's rather too late to pretend my ordeals have struck me deaf and dumb. Where is he from?” Amy fought the urge to stamp her foot, aware that it would do her less than no good in this situation. It certainly wouldn't advance her toward her goal.

“I don't have the exact address of the midden in question. Were you aware she was giggling?”

“Is that what that noise was?” asked Shadow, as casually and mildly as if he weren't blatantly avoiding her questions. It was quite clear that he did so with intent, so she changed her angle of attack.

“At least tell me who she was.” A plea for reason seemed to strike a little more true, and he glanced back at her briefly.

“Miss Lydia Haestrom. She was once the leading candidate for my hand, when I had a duchy behind me. Little enough interest in it, for her own part, and that much was mutual. I hadn't thought about her in years; a surprise to find her mother hadn't married her off yet.” He tilted his head to one side in contemplation. “She didn't bother to be convincing with her flirtation. And yet she performed it, nonetheless, for a reason other than her own will. Perhaps the lady still hopes to find her daughter an equally advantageous match.”

“You'll start rumours if people see you together!” hissed Amy, and felt her temper rise at his nonchalant shrug.

“People must see you and I together quite frequently, and we have no such worries,” he supplied, unmoved – and still, for some reason, avoiding her gaze.

“Yes, but - that's different,” added Amy, finding herself unexpectedly struck by the fact now that she said it aloud.

He scoffed. “Of course it's different. You do have a reputation, you know.”

“Well, of course I – describe this reputation.” The instruction shot from her like the snap of a riding crop, before she could stop it. It had suddenly become important to her that she know what Shadow had heard about her.

Shadow continued talking, as if giving a lecture. “I, on the other hand, have only charm and the mystery of the last ten years. Mystery burns out soon enough; my plan is to appear pleasantly, obligingly unaware of the concept of romance, and eventually they may give up and leave me be.”

“ Shadow. ”

“It works for the tortoise in nature, which as we know displays the façade of a rock when threatened - moreover, a rock so uninteresting that it never gets invited to parties. We can learn so much from our dumb cousins.”

“Shadow Erin, so help me, I will act on that reputation this instant if you do not describe what you have heard of me.”

“Ah! You do know it,” noted the taller hedgehog, turning to look at her at last. That damned smile was back, lopsided and tired, but – she couldn't help but notice, now that she had made the comparison – different to the smiles he gave for formality's sake. He had been smiling at her like this all along. She didn't dare hope this was his genuine smile; evidently this was the smile he gave when he was tired, or cared little for the recipient's opinion of him.

“I shall kick you in the shin and call you a cad, see if I don't,” she warned him, narrowing her eyes.

He paused, aware that he was pushing a boundary, and then relented so plainly and visibly that his shoulders sagged. “Ammeline. You must know that even before my home burned, you had begun building the kind of notoriety normally reserved for a stick of dynamite, in relation to bridges and other tall works of architecture.”

Amy stared at him, her mouth a flat line. She couldn't deny it; she had been something of a force of nature in her youth. She'd thought he enjoyed it, given how much it had made him laugh when they were younger – or so she'd seen, from across rooms, on the occasions the Roses were able to mingle with the main ducal family in a social setting. “I do know that,” she ventured, cautious as to where he might be going with this sudden openness.

“I, on the other hand,” he gestured to his chest, “was taken to an unknown location following the murder of my entire family, and transformed into something as-yet undefined. You are looked down upon because when you laugh, you are considered too loud. I, because when I laugh there are too many teeth in my mouth.” He glanced away, for appearances' sake, as if contemplating something disinterestedly through the window; it would not do for people to notice his attention too wholly upon her. “We are both of us quietly feared, for what we may yet do. Or become.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Amy asked, feeling as though she tiptoed through some dangerous mire, or a field of tall grass known to house venomous snakes. One misstep could spell disaster, she could tell.

His eyes met hers again, and the dampened embers in them began to glow once more, as if warmed to ignition by the contact. “That we, being objects of fear, conduct ourselves as if we have none of our own,” he replied, simply and softly, “and let the onlooking world do the quailing for us.”

A lump briefly rose in her throat, shocking her. She fought it down, and ground out a reply as best she could past its presence. “I believe you do understand me, Shadow Erin,” she managed, successfully feigning wonder at the discovery.

“I dare to hope,” he replied, with true warmth in his tone. After a moment, though, he glanced away again – his expression hardening at something he noticed, off to his right. “...You must excuse me, Ammeline,” he murmured, glancing back at her and dipping his chin in what might have been an extremely brief bow. “I must attend to something. I've left it far too long unfinished.” He stalked away without a further word, and left Amy tense in his wake.

Well, now. He has set my course for me, she thought furiously to herself. After a display like that, and then to walk away from me and seek to have some private conversation? To treat me thus, in my own home, and think I won't respond? Foolish of him. With her mind made up, Amy began to move diagonally to his course; he was moving into the second drawing-room, and she knew it had an adjoining door with the first that never quite stayed closed. The advantage of her own turf would certainly let her creep in from the side of the room and remain behind the curtain that concealed this door from both sides.

She was in luck: the first drawing-room was unoccupied, with the party at its height. She moved as swiftly as she dared toward the adjoining doorway, relying on her soft shoes and the door's minor design flaw to conceal her presence. A moment's careful work on the heavy wood and she was past it, thanking its well-oiled hinges, and allowing her ears to filter out the conversation beyond the curtain.

“My dear lord Erin,” began an older lady's voice, laden with the sort of false sincerity that everyone seemed able to spot, but equally reluctant to point out when it was used against them. “My daughter has so missed your company. I trust she spoke with you, outside?”

“She delivered the message you entrusted to her,” came Shadow's voice, with a shortness to it that Amy hadn't encountered before. He was curt with this lady, and Amy had never heard him speak so. “Her enthusiasm was lacking, but I shan't hold her responsible for failing to dissemble. The marriage was never going to be one based primarily in affection. Doubly so, now that the arrangement is dust and memory.”

Amy wondered if she might dare to peep through a sliver of a gap between the curtains. A quarter of an inch, perhaps, if even that; the acoustics of their voices told her that neither party was facing in her direction. Shifting her weight to move almost without moving, she allowed herself to line up one eye with the tiny natural aperture and spy more effectively on Shadow – and on the older coyote lady in her own finery of heavy satin and flowing taffeta. She was speaking again, now, with a hint of urgency or – was that anxiety in her voice? She feared something...or feared losing something.

“Dust and-? Oh, surely not, my lord Duke,” she drawled, and Amy fought back a gasp at the audacity of it. Shadow seemed to feel the same way, as he slowly turned his head to face her directly.

“I am no lord,” he corrected her, in something near a hiss. Like the fuse on Mother's cannon, thought Amy, tensing imperceptibly. “I must confess bewilderment, ladyship, as to what you still hope to gain from the union.” He turned to face her fully, the crimson streaks in his quills lending a frisson of vengeance to what could only be described as the total contempt on his face. For once, Shadow wore his heart on his sleeve; a pity, Amy noted, that it should be for such an ugly reason. “Your negotiations for a marriage between myself and your daughter were strenuous indeed; but those negotiations were with my own excellent parents, who now lie lost and cold I know not where. My opinion was not sought. Nor can any agreement with them be said to stand today,” he added, holding up a hand as she moved to interrupt, her face flashing with fury at being spoken over thus. “The status, lands, and riches of House Erin are gone. My position as heir is likewise void, as I was considered dead in the eyes of the law.”

Amy dared another peep from behind the curtain, both chagrined at his choice of room in which to speak, and exultant at her own choice of how to spy on this confrontation. Shadow had drawn himself up, towering over Lady Haestrom, eyes flashing with carefully contained rage. “One must therefore wonder why you press the matter,” he concluded softly. “With the possible exception that you might hope to gain control over House Rose, branch family to my own as they once were...?”

The dowager's face was blanched with affront, at the baldness of the accusation – or perhaps, Amy dared to imagine, at some kernel of accuracy within it. “Young man,” she began coldly, “I do not pretend to understand what you believe yourself to be insinuating-”

“I am, forgive me, unaccustomed to making myself quite this plain. But what I would demonstrate by hand to other scavengers that might come sniffing around this home, I now say outright to you. They. Are. Defended. Do not think to encroach again, on their good selves or on me. My past was taken from me brutally enough; you shall not lay fingers upon my future. Good day, Lady Haestrom.” He turned on his heel, the tails of his suit's long jacket swirling theatrically behind him, and stalked from the room like a thundercloud with a grievance.

Amy turned and fled.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Leon City.

Sonic wasn't really used to being manhandled. Brother Whipton's lessons in Ungentlemanly Combat had included a number of ways to grapple with a man and subject him to a few minutes of agonising restriction in his movement; demonstrating these, for Sonic to learn them, had necessarily involved making sure he knew what they felt like from the other end. But that had been in the setting of a teacher and a student; there had been an implicit understanding that if Sonic were to give a signal for it, he would be released for his safety.

In the past half a minute, he had discovered what the real thing was like; he hadn't been painfully restrained, but this was pushing it. First, to be pulled off his feet by his collar, like a ragdoll – and now, after believing himself freed, to be taken in by what he had initially taken as a surprise attack. Only when he felt his captor's shoulders shaking, and heard the broken, incredulous whispers that he was alive, had it come home to him. What this really was.

How wrong he'd been, this whole time. He attempted to wrestle this discovery into place, but it was too big and unwieldy – it was an uprooting of too many long-held beliefs, to achieve in a moment's thought. Failing completely, he fell back upon his next recourse.

“Shadow – what – release me-” he grunted, barely able to squeeze out words past his shockingly tall cousin's desperate embrace. Over the older hedgehog's shoulder, he once again caught sight of Shadow's companion – his wife, he remembered, the heiress to Rose Barony. Her hands were clasped to her mouth, as if horrified – or just overwhelmed with shock, or some similar emotion.

“How?” Shadow whispered, drawing back just enough to look his cousin in the face. Sonic felt himself start at the sight of tears in the corners of the taller man's eyes, though Shadow's whole aspect was one of wonder...and something like fear. Shadow's hands were clasping his upper arms, keeping him in place; his cousin didn't want him to escape again, perhaps. Or, given his disbelief at Sonic's continued existence, simply wanted to be sure this encounter was no dream.

“I don't recall,” admitted Sonic, before his thoughts caught up with his mouth. No. He was angry, he was furious with his cousin, and no sudden, belated discovery of an extenuating ignorance would soothe a lingering hurt this old and deep. “I should ask you the same question,” he began, his tone accusatory, mustering an upward glare at those coal-glowing eyes. “Fourteen years, Shadow. Fourteen blasted years I waited, believing myself the last. Thinking myself completely orphaned, without any family left in the world. And then I find a scrap of newspaper that tells me my cousin has been married, while I languished in a temple-”

“Temple?” began Shadow, but his wife placed a hand on each of their shoulders – even though she had to raise herself onto the balls of her feet to reach her husband's.

“I believe,” she began, softly but firmly, “that this is a conversation best had indoors, not in a noisome alley. Sir – Sonic, if I heard correctly? - Sonic,” she addressed him at his mute nod, “would you do us the kindness of holding your wrath until we are between four walls, and can hear your story in full? We have a townhouse some few minutes' ride away, and a son of House Erin is always welcome in it.”

A part of Sonic wanted to fight. To lash out, to roar his fury in the faces of his disgustingly fortunate and thoughtless cousin, and his almost offensively reasonable wife. He found, though, that every time he thought of raising his voice he was met with the spectre of Mother Longclaw – and her disapproving gaze, though entirely imagined, was a firm reproof. He would not disappoint her, and would act like the man she had helped him grow to become. When he gave a slow nod, Lady Rose broke into a beaming smile that edged out of mere politeness and into the kind of warmth one would expect for family. Sonic found that he didn't know quite what to do with that.

=======>>>>=======

The carriage ride back to the Rose townhouse had been tense and silent. Each member of the little party had their reasons; Sonic's sullen, radiating fury spoke for itself, and his eyes never left the window to his left, though he saw none of what passed by. The younger hedgehog seethed, boiled with anger, and never left his seat. Shadow, for his part, hunched nervously in his own seat; on the opposite corner to his cousin to give his much longer legs room to exist, he couldn't help stealing glances at the fuming blue presence across from him. Amy's gaze, free to wander between them without so much direct rancour in the air, caught him flickering repeatedly between guilt, frustration, anguish, and one or two glimpses of such heartbreaking relief and joy that Amy felt her own eyes sting once or twice. Amy herself stayed silent merely for forbearance's sake; she knew that whatever conversation needed to happen would be emotionally charged. If she should chatter between the two men, to break this tension, she would only lessen the use they would get from it. This would do them both good, she knew. She could never, in good conscience, diffuse that.

When they arrived, there was a moment of fraught, awkward stillness before Amy decided to take the reins again. Her husband's poise, nigh proverbial in Blumenheim, had felt an effect similar to a keg of gunpowder detonated at its base; she wasn't used to seeing him react that way. Even her own veteran skills at sheer mayhem, honed to a subtle but powerful art over an enthusiastic youth and four years with Shadow as a force multiplier, had never caused Shadow's own composure to shudder and crack, to shatter, as the appearance of this young man had.

Every man, her mother had once said to her as advice for married life, is liable on occasion to act like a sulky schoolboy. Well, she wasn't going to allow such things when her husband's wellbeing was at stake; equally, his cousin – whom he clearly loved, even if the younger hedgehog was not presently of a mind to allow the prospect – would not be given rein to sabotage himself so. “Come along, gentlemen,” she instructed them firmly, reaching back for her memories of how her mother would talk to two brawling guards, or bickering servants whose differences had come to a head. “We shall be inside before this infernal spring weather turns on us, as it surely will sometime this week. We can arrange ourselves on the outside of a shared pot of tea, and each voice shall have time to speak. There shall be a reckoning for this matter,” she assured Sonic, being completely and scrupulously honest. She was certainly careful to give no particulars as to when, or against whom.

Shadow had begun to unfold himself silently from the other side of the carriage; in his fervour to avoid his cousin's personal space, Sonic was obliged to follow Amy on her own egress. She capitalised on this momentum, and within the space of a minute and a half the trio had arranged themselves in a drawing-room. Shadow had called for his page, Lewis – a cheerful, intelligent, but faintly irreverent young pig who fit well with Shadow's own approach to being waited upon – and asked that some tea be arranged. While it was brought, Amy nudged Shadow toward one of the two longer couches lining the low table; she took the armchair at its head, leaving Sonic with only one place to sit.

“Well, now,” she began, a little more softly now that they had the young hog in an enclosed space. “Have you travelled far, Sonic?”

There was a brief pause before the curt reply came. “A day or so,” Sonic noted, “though that's a few hundred miles, with my gift.” Shadow stirred, looking up hesitantly at his cousin, and Sonic's eyes flicked to him before returning to Amy. “My speed grows every day, now. If I had a wide, flat space, even I don't know how swift I might be.”

“Well, you must come and stretch your legs at Blumenheim,” she invited him, as cheerful and engaging as she felt she could get away with. There was a knock at the door, while Sonic's expression twisted; Lewis had returned with a tray, and Amy gave silent thanks that Sonic was not quite so out-of-control as to allow himself to explode in front of someone's staff. When the page had laid down the tray with a murmured took the liberty of bringing some biscuits, sirs, ma'am – withdrawing upon Shadow's sober nod of acknowledgement – Amy regarded the teapot with a longing eye. It had had little time to steep; she couldn't use it to busy her hands, and they yearned for something to occupy them in this anxious conversational tightrope-walk. “Ah. Yes, Blumenheim borders the Great Turquoise,” she added. “Grassy plains for miles. I do believe you might find them ideal for testing yourself.”

“Where have you been?” asked Shadow, suddenly and without warning. Amy fought the urge to bump the heel of her palm against her brow when Sonic's head snapped round to him, eyes flashing.

“Where have I been?” he retorted, in a cold, soft hiss. “I? Why, I was in a temple orphanage, cousin,” he continued, with blisteringly sarcastic cheer. “With exactly one friend who wasn't among the temple's own attendants. I was in the forests to the north, forgotten, stifled and imprisoned for my own safety. I was being raised by an owl, alongside a fox, tending vegetable gardens and carrying water. I was learning prayers, and being a good boy for my guardians, and thanking Gaia for my good fortune, to be the last of my family left alive.” He looked near to standing up, so Amy threw proper brewing to the wind and picked up the teapot with the most gentle movements she could – pouring the tea to ensure the civilised gesture happened under his eyes. “Where was I? Rotting, dear cousin, rotting in my heart even as I grew – abandoned, and left to be someone else's problem! But now I'm very much your problem, Shadow...Rose,” he added, narrowing his eyes. “So let's have it. Where was I? - where were you, son of House Erin? Where was the heir to the duchy, for ten years? Where was the one person with enough of a heartbeat to rescue me from a tiny, quiet hell in the middle of the woods? Where was family, to come and look for me, to see if I truly was alive?”

“Chained to a wall, being tortured,” replied Shadow tonelessly, and Sonic's reflexive response stilled in his throat. “I'm sorry, cousin. I truly am. I never found you because I never looked, and while I was in confinement of my own for the first ten years...the last four, I never looked for you. I believed I was the only one left, also. Until I was able to write to Silver's regiment, and confirm he was alive also-”

“Silver!”

“Yes. His wife, Honey, died that day, but he was away at the border, fighting in service to the Crown. I mean to write to him tonight, to pass the news to him that he and I are not the only survivors. He'll be overjoyed,” noted Shadow, his usual sense of equilibrium clearly on the edge of vanishing completely. “But...yes. I was taken, alive. And I spent the next decade being made to wish I hadn't been. Things were done to me, by my captor, which...well, you see the results,” he added, spreading his arms a little to indicate his changed physique. “I never found out the exact reason for it all. One day I grew stronger than that scum believed I would become; his chains couldn't hold against me. I broke free. I reduced him to shreds. I burned his tower and fled, stumbling and near naked, into raw winter.” Shadow's eyes slid up to Amy's, and she felt as if a blizzard's chill washed over her at his expression. She didn't retake her seat at the head of the table; her husband needed her next to him, and so she moved to sit at his side and took his hand in both of hers. “I was near death when Ammeline's father found me. I was retrieved, taken to Blumenheim, nursed back to health...fell in love rather quickly,” he added, and she squeezed his hand reassuringly at the return of his wry tone of voice. “It became home.”

Amy decided to take over, at least for the moment. “I think it's safe to start by stating the obvious out loud, Sonic Erin: it's frankly an enormous surprise, and a wonderful one, that you're alive.” The blue hedgehog's expression remained wary, but he was at least meeting her eyes, which told her that he was listening. “I can only speak for what we knew in my family; as far as we were aware, Silver was the only one who had survived, and he had grappled with the loss by throwing himself into his career. There were rumours that a valley now existed along the border, where none had been before he received the news; beyond that, we heard nothing. If my word is worth anything to you, then you have it: for those ten years, both of you were believed dead. Shadow can't be called the heir to House Erin any more, as his name was listed among those confirmed killed. We believe it was done to prevent anyone searching for him, so his captor could work undisturbed.” Shadow squeezed her fingers with his own, gently, and she returned the gesture without taking her eyes off Sonic.

The blue hedgehog had leaned back, gazing into his untouched teacup; now, he took it up and drew a hesitant sip. “This whole time,” he began, “more than half of my life – I thought myself abandoned. I...you need to understand, I believe you,” he began, and Amy could have embraced the boy in that moment for his graciousness. That was something he hadn't needed to say, but that Shadow clearly, desperately, needed to hear. “I do. But...so much resentment, for so long. I can't simply say yes cousin, and return to your lives as if none of it happened. I'm likely to wake up tomorrow, and still be angry, and continue so for some time yet. If you really had no idea, if you really were – imprisoned, like that – then I accept, at least, that you had no choice in whether you sought me.” His gaze hardened, for a moment. “But tell me: if you had known. If you'd heard that I was alive somewhere, would you have come?”

“I would have shredded any and all who stood between us,” whispered Shadow fiercely, and Amy started at the feel of a tear landing on her forearm. She looked up at her husband, and then over at his cousin...who nodded, once, slowly.

“Thank you,” he replied, in almost the same gravelly murmur. He drank off his tea, and stood. “And I'm grateful for the tea, Lady Rose. But I must find lodgings for tonight. I've...today seems to have lasted two weeks.” Amy stood, and Shadow with her, but only the pink hedgehog had the nerve to move around the table and lay a hand on Sonic's forearm.

“My dear, you must call me Amy,” she told him, beaming that family-warmth smile once more. “And I would be truly remiss if I didn't invite you to stay with us. We have plenty of room here, this townhouse will sleep five couples and their staff quite comfortably. We shan't disturb you or seek you out here, if you prefer to keep things on your own terms and at your own comfort,” she added, glancing pointedly at Shadow. He nodded hastily, and Sonic's gaze flicked between the two of them.

“If neither of you objects to housing a relative who still feels an urge to beat you silly, Shadow,” began Sonic, and his taller cousin dared a lopsided grin back at him.

“If we have pleasant weather this week, I may invite you to attempt it in the garden, Sonic,” he replied, and Amy's heart swelled to see Sonic's face when his older cousin used his gift-name. “With proper agreed-upon rules and no serious attempts at harm, of course.”

“And the wrath of a wife and in-law upon the first man to try to bend them,” announced Amy firmly, before the newly-rekindled competitive spirit could flare into a real flame. “But for now – Shadow, will you let young Lewis know to air out the southern bedroom?”

“Of course, angel,” replied Shadow, moving to the door. She shot Sonic a careful smile, waiting until her husband was leaning out of the door to speak to his page.

“Do you know, I've never seen him weep except the first days after we brought him home?” she whispered, capturing Sonic's attention. “Not once. Not even at our wedding. But seeing you again, finding out you lived...well. You saw.” It had been fairly immediate.

“I don't know what to think of it,” confessed Sonic. “Too much has happened today, I think. With the Princess and the rock and the...and meeting you, and him. I've been overwhelmed. Would you mind terribly if I declined to speak of it until tomorrow?”

“Oh, dear, then we're to be subjected to Shadow's small talk,” lamented Amy, smiling at him – then at her returning husband, who eyed her suspiciously. “I can promise you from experience that being beloved to him is no refuge. He shows no mercy toward your fashion choices, and is the harshest critic of even an improperly-ruffled cravat.”

“There is no cravat, my dear,” retorted Shadow archly, “whose ruffling is inconsequential.” Sonic stifled a brief smile, and seated himself while Amy began pouring more tea. This, she decided, was as warm a start as she could hope to achieve with only her own talents.

It was only later that night, after they had broken up and gone to their beds, that her eyes snapped open to stare at the ceiling in belated, sudden shock.

What in Gaia's name did he mean, 'the Princess and the rock'?

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor.

Shadow's days had grown longer, of late. With the return of his strength – assisted by the Baroness' exercise and weapons-practice, and by her husband's jovial coaxing to eat enough for a shift of coal-miners – he had found his stamina likewise expanding into something useful for a gentleman of active lifestyle. He rose earlier, he retired later, and he was beginning to fit firmly into the rhythm of the Rose family with a neatness that he found oddly poignant, if not outright promising. Today, though, arriving to breakfast slightly later than habit was beginning to dictate, he encountered a conversation already in the offing.

“Mother, you can't possibly be proposing leaving us here,” Ammeline was saying, putting down her knife and fork. This must be serious, Shadow mused, regarding the lowered silverware with caution and briefly haunted by the question of what she might reach for instead.

“Indeed I am, dear heart,” replied her mother, whose own progress through her meal continued undisturbed. Baron Aidan, true to form, was causing his own breakfast to disappear at the usual remarkable rate. Whatever disturbed Ammeline, clearly her parents found nothing worth abandoning their composure. “We must show the colours, so to speak. This is hardly the first time your father and I have travelled to the capital. You're a lady grown, you may be assumed to know how to look after yourself.” Amaranthine glanced up at Shadow, looming hesitantly in the doorway, and nodded her greeting. “Good morning, Shadow.”

“Shadow!” Ammeline latched onto his presence like a drowning man, snatching at a rope thrown from a passing ship. “Please, I must implore you – explain to my parents why their leaving for the capital on Saturday is a terrible idea.” Shadow considered this for a nonplussed second or two, but was forced to give in and ask politely for a rasher or two of context to go with his bacon. He accomplished this through the employment of a quizzically raised eyebrow in the direction of the Baron, as he took his seat at the table.

“There's an annual Winter's End ball at the capital,” explained Aidan, over his daughter's outraged spluttering. “Bally nuisance, honestly, but one shows one's face. It's the done thing to make one's presence known, d'you see. Amy's rather put out because, um – what was it again, beloved?” he added, turning to the pink hedgehog.

His daughter gave him a look that seemed intended to pin him to his seat like a butterfly. “I will not be here alone,” she intoned, slowly and carefully. “I will be here with a gentleman. And while we all know that Shadow is a man of honour and can certainly be trusted with a lady's, the rest of the world will not care.” Shadow nodded absently, noting with some interest that Ammeline was certainly capable of greater deception than she appeared; her entire reputation was built on flouting societal mores, but only those which it suited her to defy. Many would not think her cognisant of them at all. This conversation, at least, proved that her inner navigation of society was more deliberate and calculated than most could imagine. He felt privileged to be allowed to know it.

“Oh, my darling, surely you don't believe we're going to leave you unchaperoned?” interrupted Amaranthine, casually but with the air of one drawing a trap closed around a wily quarry. “And we shan't be leaving you with only Mr Thrace to try to keep up with you, either. Even the most devious of our staff are well-acquainted with the sight of an empty room that should contain a young lady.”

Ammeline had gone quite still at her mother's retort, as if attempting not to draw the attention of some prowling beast that had entered the room. Shadow felt as thought he were intruding, to open his mouth and speak; her parents seemed to be perfectly content with their plan, but she appeared to have some ghastly idea as to the truth of it. He could never allow her to suffer without intervention, and drew in a moment's breath. “I confess, I'm curious,” he began, diplomatically. “Are we to be graced with new company?”

“Quite so,” nodded Baron Aidan. “Amaranthine's sister, Lady Filaurel Rose, shall be spending a week at the Manor to ensure that – well, as Amy's said, old chap, you have our trust and our understanding. But her presence will ensure the gossips can't invent any nonsense, what?”

“One wonders that they still have the breath for it,” Shadow mused ruefully, “after Winter's End. Before the ball was even finished, I heard someone whisper that I'd been seen snapping at a horse, like a mad beast. I shouldn't wonder if April brought worse and stranger nonsense.” Rumours always expanded in the telling, since the goal was to shock and the truth was little restraint on them.

“May they go swimming and be run over by a whale,” declared Ammeline, decisively. Shadow was careful to hide the warmth her spirited leap to his defence brought him, but he was too well-versed in the conversational arts to miss the glances her parents gave her. They certainly paid attention when she added, “and that goes for that awful old lady from the ball, too. – I saw you storm out of that drawing-room, and she followed soon after,” she added hastily, and Shadow had no reason to disbelieve her except that she had taken the trouble to say it. He raised a slow eyebrow, and watched a rare flush of true, embarrassed guilt shimmer across her features. Gaia help him, she was magnificent to behold in nearly any conditions, but he could never trouble his conscience by watching her sit so uncomfortably within herself and failing to assist her. He could at least soothe that regret by feigning ignorance.

“She did seem somewhat behind the news,” he remarked, and Lady Amaranthine made a curious noise through a sip of tea. Well, he supposed, there was no harm in their knowing a certain amount of curated truth in the matter; he could ease Ammeline's tension by pretending that this was fresh knowledge for her, as he went. “You must all be aware that, before House Erin fell, my hand was the subject of some intense negotiation. The leading candidate, for whom things were fairly close to settled, was Miss Lydia Haestrom – from a branch family of House Canis.” He paused to sip his own tea, and let them hang upon the silence for a moment. “Her mother endeavoured to speak to me alone at the ball, and seemed oddly fixed upon the idea that the marriage could, or should, go ahead. I was quite firm in my refusal, as Miss Haestrom had made it clear that the union was her family's wish rather than her own; I had shared her predicament, in those days, and we'd already made it clear to one another at the ball that romance had not factored into the matter for either of us. A shame.”

“Shame?” Ammeline found a way to succeed in mingling a sharp question with a tentative one, and he gave her a warm glance – sending her gaze skittering away as her cheeks reddened once more. That, in particular, he found enjoyable.

“That her mother should be so determined to find her an advantageous marriage.” Shadow smoothly sliced away a piece of bacon from its parent rasher, his sarcasm evident even through his usual deadpan intonation. “Had I only the merest pittance – enough for a townhouse in the capital, a little place in the countryside,” he gestured around at their own four walls, “a couple of good carriages and a villa on the Emerald Coast and a bit of trout-fishing on some decent river...why, then she might have insisted to me that her daughter was truly in love. She was not so persuasive as all that, alas,” he added. “and I was forced to disappoint her, which she took not at all well. Rather resembled a parsnip struggling for self-expression, but I paid her little attention beyond that point.”

“A righteous talking-to,” mused Lord Aidan, approvingly. “Just the thing to round out an evening. These little events always have some frisson of drama to them; less a matter of if, more a mixture of when and whom, if you follow me. Sending the aggressor away with a flea in their ear is the what-d'you-call-it of a well-executed social gathering. Firms up the oratorical muscles for their true work, what?”

“Disparaging young ladies' headwear?” murmured Ammeline, and Shadow was forced to strangle a chuckle before it could escape him, disguising the sound as a piece of egg attempting a desperate vengeance for its lost brethren.

“Who's wearing disparaging headwear?” asked her father, temporarily derailed. Ammeline shook her head and placed her silverware together upon her plate, signifying she was finished.

“I rather think I shall wear red today,” she announced. When her gaze met Shadow's, the warmth of their shared smile was all the more precious to him for its spontaneity.

“A quite flawless choice,” he remarked, just to watch her face approach the hue once again.

=======>>>>=======

Shadow hadn't truly known what to expect concerning Ammeline's aunt Filaurel. His own more immediate aunts had been holy terrors for the majority of his life – and, he had often inferred, for most of their own. He had often wondered as a youth why Gaia, in its reputed infinite wisdom and sagacity, had created aunts; so many of them had seemed to tip the balance of life toward the clouded sky and the stormy sea, raising inconvenient obstacles of every kind in the path of young men who wished only to attend to their responsibilities as future Dukes.

A spark of hope glowed faintly within him, when he reflected that Amaranthine Rose was also an aunt, though so distant as to be on the very edge of the term at all. While bluff and hearty in a good mood, even the Baroness' more morose or choleric frames of mind brought only words of reproof; she had showed no signs of the intent to meddle that he had seen in his own parents' sisters – and, peculiarly, only their sisters. Uncles, by contrast, seemed distant but contented. Each of his parents, Finn and Ginger Erin, had had one sister; only his father had had a brother, named Josephus. Said brother had been happily busying himself with the raising of his own son, a blue-quilled youth who had attempted to become a companion to Shadow himself, and to Silver. The boy had cried on occasion, when it was explained to him that he was – being some five years of age – not yet able to keep up or to do the things a young man of near twenty would do.

The aunts in the equation had been, almost without exception, harbingers of disaster. Wherever an aunt reared her head, Shadow had been taught by experience to brace himself for some difficulty or other, be it taking time from his day to simper at strangers over a luncheon, or to represent them by lending the influence of a ducal heir's presence at some social event, or even putting in a good word for some offspring of their own at a particular academy or institution which would otherwise be less likely to approve them. He had always felt faintly disgusted at their abuse of his power; his parents had often found themselves mingling pride at his refusals, and chagrin at the fallout upon themselves from a disgruntled relative.

He had already resolved that he wouldn't allow himself to be made responsible for any gruntlement, or lack thereof, among Ammeline's immediate relatives. If they should attempt to drop such a yoke onto his shoulders, they would rapidly find themselves disappointed, or worse.

“I shouldn't worry, old bean,” chortled Aidan on Saturday morning, upon Shadow's careful inquiries as to the character of this impending dowager. “Filaurel's a good egg, if there ever was one. I've no siblings of my own, you know; no basis for comparison within my own tree. But of her sisters, Amara's happy with this one visiting. Jocular lady, six or seven years Amara's senior, enjoys her knitting. Never married; she never saw the point, and I can only salute her resolve. The sort of lady who looks as if she's looked at life long and hard, and seen the joke.” Aidan dipped into his long drawer, preparing as he was; young Raine stood at the ready with a small silk pouch. The page's goal on the outward journey would be to hold the smaller articles of clothing the Baron described as rather natty (and which Shadow privately described as inadvisable, but he held his peace out of respect for the man this time) and transport them separately from Aidan's main baggage so as to escape wifely detection.

“You see them sometimes feeding the pigeons, of either sex – the jovial sorts, not the pigeons, that goes rather without saying – and they always have the same laugh-lines around their face. One develops the knack of spotting them at a distance. I remember old Scromble Boltworth – older brother of Bongle Boltworth, good man with a squash racquet in his day – told me once that he should like to become such a buffer, in his dotage. I told him he – oh, dash it, I hear a carriage, that must be her now,” he sighed, handing the attentive Raine a yellow-checked pattern bow-tie that had been causing Shadow to wonder how the man would hear anyone over it. “We'd better go and welcome her, make introductions. Be respectful and engaging, my lad, and remember that over half of what she says is meant at least partly in jest. Raine, m'boy, I'd like you to keep hold of that pouch in case I should need it before we leave...”

The Baron's chatter continued along the landing and down the main stairway, where his wife and daughter – along with Mr Thrace, and a brace of well-built maids – had already gathered. Shadow eyed these two uniformed women with surprise; he hadn't encountered them before, and they appeared fully capable of great and mighty things. Perhaps they're here to pick up the horses and put them down facing the other way, if the animals refuse to play along, he mused, before taking in the details of the ladies of the house. Ammeline's expression and posture indicated some awful anticipation within her, though she seemed less afraid and more exasperated. That, at least, was an expression he knew well. Her mother seemed far more sanguine, and Shadow knew enough to take his cue from Lady Amaranthine; reminding himself of Lord Aidan's remarks, he straightened up to his full height. If he was to be found off-putting, then he would be politely off-putting; he had yet to meet an aunt who approved of a slouch.

There was a noise, without; it resolved into a voice calling out to those in the entryway, and together they moved out through the door. Descending from a carriage in the driveway was a lavender-furred lady of middle age; unusually, she appeared to be four-tenths hat by weight. The hat itself stopped Shadow cold, for one raw, nightmarish moment; it was the most over-decorated, frankly maladroit piece of headwear he had ever encountered. It was almost enough to make a man look back at Ammeline's ill-fated bonnet and issue an apology. As she sauntered happily toward them across the gravel, long and outlandishly hued feathers bobbed above it, as if she left a trail of rainbow smoke in her wake; atop the brim of the article, fruits of all seasons perched as if hitching a ride to some distant orchard from their homeland. Wherever the lady might wander, a cornucopia of cherries, grapes, a bunch of bananas and an entire pineapple rode with her. A veil covered her face, gently weighted with beads so as not to blow up and around her features from an errant breeze or swift turn of her head; indeed, if she were to pivot so, Shadow might entertain fair odds that the hat would stay as it was.

“Hello, hello!” the lady chimed, accelerating to a trot in her heeled boots as she approached the family more closely. Shadow stepped smartly aside as she raised her arms to embrace her sister; trapped in the entryway as he was, he could do little but to flatten his back against the wall and try to turn his head so that the hat's feathers wouldn't tickle his nose. It was fruitless; the ostentatious intruders seemed determined to bedevil him whatever the angle of his neck. They bobbed as she embraced each of the Rose family in turn, cooing delightedly about how long it had been, how much she had missed each of them, how pretty Ammeline was becoming – an observation which at least told Shadow the lady had some sense of taste, tucked away somewhere – and gentle reproofs for waiting until they needed her to invite her to Blumenheim, for she always adored the springtime here, where the new flowers turned the fields to tiny festivals, wasn't it so charming!

“And I believe there's a gentleman here whom I haven't laid eyes on in quite some time,” added the dowager with a coy smile, finally blessing Shadow with relief from the unceasing assault of the hat-feathers as she turned to face him. Behind her, they began to torment Ammeline, who looked as if she were fighting the urge to seek out a pair of scissors. “Do introduce yourself, dear, I like to see how a young man presents himself to a respectable lady.”

Dumbstruck for a moment, Shadow mastered himself and clicked his heels on reflex and long-learned habit; inclining his head and shoulders some twenty degrees, he managed “Shadow Erin, at your service, madam. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Lady Filaurel Rose?” She extended her hand, palm down, and he hovered his lips a precise inch above her knuckles for a fraction less than a second. She made a pleased face, and dipped into a brief and half-formal curtsey.

“You do indeed, sir, and it's a great many years since I looked on you last,” she noted – though without any displeasure to her tone, to hint that she disapproved of his presence or appearance. “though from a distance then, of course, and you did look rather different. A touch more intimidating now, perhaps, though you've no less handsomeness to your features. It must have been the Summer Start of eighty-one, before you reached your majority. Such a charming young man, even then,” she added, with the kind of smile that looked as if she had sculpted it out of pure mischief. It occurred to Shadow that, given perhaps thirty years, this might be Ammeline's expression when looking upon a situation with the potential for entertaining mayhem. He couldn't help but begin to warm to Lady Filaurel, at the realisation. “drawing smiles left and right. I do hope we shall get on – and dear me, here I speak the words without practising them! Come along, now, dears. Let's retire inside, and dear Mr Thrace – hello again, my good man, I'm glad to see you keeping well! - can direct these lovely girls in handling my luggage...”

Shadow followed the party inside, like the tail of a comet. He kept his distance as much as was polite, watching Filaurel's expansive, expressive gestures as she waxed lyrical about how delightful it was to be back at the Manor. This, he decided, would be an interesting week.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Leon Palace.

There were times, thought Blaze, when she was tempted to interfere in the affairs of her nobles a little more than ethics allowed.

Duke Vincenzo Lapin was a man it wasn't wise to casually dismiss. His influence was a part of it, but his ability to do harm was extensive – destabilising alliances, rumour-mongering, sowing division, to say nothing of more dangerous stunts. Everyone knew that occasionally, an assassination was undertaken for one ducal house or another; Blaze did what she could to make consequences for such things inevitable, as a deterrent, but her ability to punish higher nobles only stretched so far.

Perhaps the only thing that eclipsed his capacity to cause mischief was his willingness to do so. House Lapin, in Blaze's opinion, were currently one of the more overtly troublesome dynasties represented among her Council; while House Coleo's head, the ladybug Herman Coleo, was a more talented and practiced schemer, Vincenzo was noticeably less patient about making his point – or taking what he wished. More than one mine, or natural spring, or some other newly-discovered natural resource had been grabbed up by House Lapin with little to no restraint, or consideration toward the rightful owners (who tended to suddenly become much less rightful under the letter of the law, however he could twist it). The rabbit seemed constitutionally incapable of handling the idea that there might be something desirable in the world, which did not belong to him.

“Perhaps the more vibrant red this morning, Your Highness?” suggested her chambermaid, behind her. She turned her head a fraction, and smiled back at the older woman with a nod. Vanilla Baker was a rare exception to House Lapin's uncomfortably eager tendency to embrace their head's ruthlessness; as the widow of a branch-family member to the rabbit line, she and Blaze had encountered a mutual opportunity when she had been left with only her daughter in all the world. Blaze had taken her on as a chambermaid and confidante, and promised that her little girl would be educated privately as more established nobles' offspring would be. Vanilla had taken the chance to escape any further machinations from her more distant relatives, and Blaze had appreciated the chance to have someone level-headed and trustworthy around her – and had enjoyed the side effect of Vincenzo Lapin treating the arrangement as if she had done him a favour. She didn't know what Vanilla 'let slip' in her letters home to her relatives, but she trusted the motherly rabbit not to be the personal informant the Duke wanted her to be.

Vanilla's husband had, of course, been lost to Spagonia. It had been something close to seven years ago, now, that he had given his life. Some months before Vanilla had given birth, the enemy had attempted something truly heinous: a shipful of goods had been deliberately infected with a savagely contagious plague, and had docked at the white-stone acropolis imaginatively named the Water Palace – a trade distribution hub for the entire southern half of the Sol Empire. Her understanding of the incident was as good as anyone else's, but even Blaze wasn't certain what had tipped off Lucas Baker that something was amiss. Whatever the clue had been, from a sickly crewman to an incautious word on their attackers' part, he had ordered the pier closed and invoked their most urgent and immediate quarantine rules – including a message sent to the capital, warning of the threat. Lucas himself had fought his way aboard the ship, forcing the crew to engage him without coming ashore, and coming out the victor only because of the toll the sickness had already taken upon them. It had never been determined what leverage the scheme's architects had held over the crew, to coerce them into the suicide mission of bringing the disease to Sol; it would likely never be discovered. Lucas had cast off, crewing the schooner alone as best he could, and had managed to get the ship over a mile from the docks before setting it aflame. It had burned to the waterline, and Lucas Baker's body had accompanied it to the sea bed.

The rabbit was now considered a hero of the Empire, and Blaze had argued against using him as a martyr to drive military recruitment – with limited success, although it hadn't mattered much in the long run. Word of mouth had done the work, and numerous branches of the Empire's armed forces had seen a rise in volunteers from both the inspiration of one man's selfless sacrifice, and the outrage of an attempted disease-attack on their soil.

Vanilla, for her part, had become one of Blaze's favoured personal staff; Cream would, when she came of age, inherit a parcel of land that would ordinarily have been granted to her father for his courage and service. His widow had asked for this deferral, so that her extended family would make no attempt to claim the title and land out from under her child before Cream was ready to defend it from schemers. Blaze was thoroughly happy with this arrangement, and now Cream grew strong and clever among some of the same tutors and trainers who had educated the Imperial Princess herself; the gesture, and the unspoken granting of shelter from any attempt by House Lapin to capitalise on the event, had earned Vanilla's full trust and loyalty.

This did, of course, leave the rabbit with over half a decade's experience in seeing past Blaze's carefully-maintained poise.

“I see that the rumours are at least not without cause, then,” she began, carefully. Blaze's ear twitched, and she half-turned again – limited in her range of movement as Vanilla began to brush her hair with superb strategic timing.

“There are always rumours, Vanilla,” replied Blaze, keeping her voice perfectly level.

“There are,” the rabbit replied, “but you never speak like that about the others. You closed your voice off, to let nothing out. And forgive me, but as someone who's heard you when you aren't being evasive, Your Highness, all I can say is that the difference is clear.”

“I suppose this is the price one pays for having a friend and confidante,” the Princess sighed, theatrically. “My most oblique walls are as translucent to you as gossamer against sunlight.” Though, she supposed, having advice from only one source was a fool's idea of proper support in decision-making. Particularly since both were widows who had experienced courtship and marriage - and, unlike Rouge, Vanilla's partnership had been a truly loving one. “...Vanilla, I don't pretend to know which specific rumours may be drifting around at the moment,” she added, hesitantly. Vanilla's brushing slowed, to extend the moment and let the Princess know she could proceed; that she had a friendly ear. “I...encountered a young man. A gifted one. He was – charming,” she fought the urge to gesture, keeping herself as still as she could to help Vanilla, though her tail lashed in disquiet behind her seat.

“I see,” came her chambermaid's voice, and Blaze could hear the smile in it. “Charming, indeed. And handsome?” Blaze's tail fluffed out in alarm, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks as the rabbit continued. “Charm is all very well, but my daughter shall be disappointed if we don't have a handsome prince marrying our noble princess. The stories are unanimously particular on that point, she tells me. At length, some evenings.”

“He is – tolerably handsome,” began Blaze, finding herself unexpectedly flustered to have to go into these details. “Though I hardly encountered him at his best. He has a nice smile. And the most striking green eyes,” she added, her voice softening a little. “Quick-witted, and cheerful even in adverse circumstances. Except when he realises he's addressing a Princess,” she added bitterly.

“He didn't know from seeing you? And...you saw him in adverse circumstances?” Vanilla, pausing in the middle of reaching for the core fastening that would hold Blaze's ponytail today, sounded as if she weren't sure how to interpret Blaze's confessions; the Princess let out a sigh, and began to explain all.

By the end of it, that smile was back on the motherly woman's face. “Well. That certainly sounds like a fated meeting to me,” she remarked. “Perhaps Lord Gaia has provided the answer to your present ducal difficulties.”

“It might be more complex than that,” Blaze clarified with a twitch of her tail. “He's gifted, yes...but he's a hedgehog. Vanilla, he's a hedgehog with a gift, but he's not one the kingdom has any informal records of. He's not one of the pilgrims or civil servants. He's a complete unknown.”

“But gifted, and so legally entitled to become nobility should he choose,” added Vanilla, and her voice rose a little as she realised where this led. “Which makes him – oh, my goodness, he's eligible. And more importantly, unconnected.”

Blaze nodded, gently, as Vanilla finished brushing her hair back and began to bind it comfortably in place. “Thus, and so. But I worry. What if I can't find him again? If I send out agents seeking men of his description, the Council will know there is a piece on the table that can place them in check. Or what if they insist I marry before I have a chance to meet him again, or to grant him his rights? He wouldn't technically be eligible until he's ascended to nobility in the eyes of the law.” Vanilla made a miniscule adjustment to the ponytail, and then produced the cushioned box that contained Blaze's circlet of royal office.

“If I may, Princess,” she began softly, fondly, “You invoked Divine Beneficence. A religious holiday, honouring the gods and what they give us. The whole Empire will be celebrating exactly those things. So long as you can find him, and prove him gifted, the technicality can be glossed over and the people will cheer you both for it.”

“Those who'd oppose it still have the letter of the law on their side,” Blaze hedged, hating herself for bringing up the point but feeling obliged to do so. Vanilla gave a soft laugh from behind her.

“And what fools they'd look, if they spoke it aloud,” she agreed, at least with the point Blaze perhaps should have been making. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but you've spoken to me before of your frustrations with their attempts to be subtle, and how they underestimate you. But no one, even a fool, could see such a protest as anything other than defiance of the gods' will, and an attempt to gather more personal power to themselves in the process. Certainly they will know that you could accuse them of it to their faces, in public, and the public would agree with you.” She placed the circlet on Blaze's head, watching its empty socket line up with the gem adorning the Princess' brow to make it gleam all the more prominently.

“I hope he's courageous,” murmured Blaze, clenching her fists in frustration and anxiety. “I hope he's everything he seemed, to me.”

“If he's everything he seemed to you, Your Highness, then he may yet prove worthy of you,” smiled Vanilla, making eye contact in the dresser's central mirror. “A lesser man would not. And Gaia brought him to you once,” she added, placing a reassuring hand on Blaze's shoulder. “A god's will shan't be thwarted by a good man's fear. He shall come into your life again, and so help me, you will dazzle him even more completely than the first time. Enough to overcome his fear entirely.”

“I don't know if anyone can be pretty enough to blind a young man to that much fear,” protested Blaze half-heartedly, with a good-natured roll of her eyes at her chambermaid's declaration. Vanilla shook her head.

“My word as your maid on it, Princess. So long as I can be of assistance, you'll be the most radiant gem in Leon, and outshine whatever blinded him to your charms,” the rabbit reassured her. “Now – with the vivid red tying your hair, shall we be dressing to match it, or to make it a highlight?”

Blaze's shoulders sagged a little, in a wordless concession to Vanilla's confident, determined optimism. She was right, the Princess realised. This boy was out there somewhere, and the Summer Start festival had begun; all eyes were on the Princess, at her every appearance. She should make sure that when his gaze landed on her again, he should see her at her best. “Let's match it,” she replied gamely. Vanilla smiled at her over her shoulder once more, and moved to the wardrobe to begin looking through the reds.

They had a man to reel in.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor. Southern Sitting Room.

Shadow had often pictured what his first day alone with Ammeline might be like. Part of him had dared to think of a quiet, heartfelt confession, and had simultaneously dreaded the thought of disgust on her face – and delighted at the idea that it might completely wrong-foot her. When her face turned as red as her favourite dresses, she was achingly pretty to him. What other mayhem she might get up to on such a day, he hadn't considered except to imagine how she might pull him into it; the question of refusing to join her in playfully shaking the foundations of local society never even occurred to him.

The flame she had become around her friends at the party had flickered and faded again; she was nevertheless different, now. Before the Winter's End gathering, she had been like a finely cut peridot to him – gleaming and beautiful, reflecting back whatever light he threw her way in his teasing. Now, though, when she looked at him...now, he dared to hope that was an ember of the same flame in her eyes. That she might gaze on him with more warmth than before. A man could hope; indeed, for a man who'd done so little of it for so long, hope had become quite addictive to Shadow of late.

As he entered the sitting room, his thoughts returned to a moment of private conversation he'd had with Baron Rose, shortly before the couple left for the capital. It had amounted to just a minute or two, but Aidan's advice had struck a chord with him. “One must be careful with these things, Shadow, m'boy,” the older man had counselled him. “Especially at this stage of the proceedings. Covering one's interest too well can lead a lady to give up, don't you know - I don't know if you ever saw that play as a boy, called I-forget-its-bally-name? With Thingummy and What's-her-face, and he says something or other and she tells him 'Righto, if that's how you feel' and the engagement's off?”

“I think I can grasp your meaning,” Shadow had replied. He could, with a flailing grab or two, as it floated by in the current. “Be a little more open, do you mean?”

“Compliment her more directly, if you'll take my advice,” Aidan had clarified sagely. “Bringing it under twenty-five words a pop should suffice to begin with.” Shadow had nodded his assent, and five minutes later had watched – alongside Ammeline and Lady Filaurel – as the Baron and Baroness had set out on the week-long journey to Leon City. When the carriage had passed out of sight on the road between the trees of Blumenheim's oldest and most central woods, the older lady had turned to them both and smiled pleasantly.

“Well, now. Amy, dear, will you send for some tea? We'll retire to the drawing room and chat.”

Ammeline had departed without a word – what in the world bothered her so? – and Shadow had accompanied Lady Filaurel here, to take a couple of seats.

“Do you knit, young man?” Shadow paused in arranging himself, and shook his head.

“I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of it,” he replied.

“You shall,” noted the older hedgehog, with casual, patient certainty. “A firm knit will keep any number of things firmly attached to one another, and keep them all the stronger for it, you mark my words.”

Shadow began to suspect hidden depths to the conversation. “A man in my position will certainly be unwise to turn away strength,” he remarked, experimentally. “Or closely woven unity.” A gleam in her eye told him he was enjoying some success, so far; he hadn't misread her.

“Indeed,” was all she said, before she opened the satchel at the foot of her chair (which she had immediately declared to be such, upon her arrival in the drawing-room the prior evening; Shadow had assumed the lady simply had a preference for the armchair's shape). From it, she withdrew two balls of yarn, one in deep red and one in a deep forest green. “You may select your colour my boy, while you ponder how to tell me whose unity you wouldn't turn away,” she added, and Shadow wondered – not for the first time – exactly what, if anything, the Roses had told this lady when describing the situation into which she would be placing herself.

Regardless, his choices were already made. He wondered what this lady expected to see, in his thought process; he had no doubt that his lack of hesitation, even to consider the matter, told her something in itself. He inclined his head politely as he took up the green yarn, and withdrew the needles from it. “I believe I have little need to tell you my answer, my lady,” he began, treading carefully but noting the satisfied look in her eye. Vindication, he decided, was what he saw in that glance. “But this one shall contrast most pleasingly with pink, and bring out a pair of vivid green eyes. I commend your selection of the shade.” The smile that had begun to imply itself upon Lady Filaurel's lips promptly closed down, at the subtle acknowledgement that she'd set out the parameters of this...test?

It was a test, he realised. This wasn't a playful poking of fun at a tall, serious man. He was being evaluated. From her expression, it wasn't going well; he allowed eight or ten seconds wherein he held the needles like a fool, waiting for some instruction. When he opened his mouth to speak, however, the lady was faster.

“I don't believe I would support such a union,” she observed coldly, simply. “An intelligent, serious man is not a proper fit for a young lady of spirit and mischief. If the two types should wed, he might last perhaps three weeks before he tired of her. The result would be a life of misery, coldness, bitterness. Resentment. I will not have these things inflicted upon my niece,” she declared, all of her jovial nature gone as if a storm lantern had been shuttered. She was serious in her disapproval, then.

Shadow thought on this for a moment or two, and drew a slow breath. “This is broadly as I expected it to be,” he noted. “Hope isn't so familiar a friend to me yet, that I cannot be without it. I shall continue as I have thus far. Though it may be worth speaking to Ammeline for yourself, my lady, and ensuring that you forbid her in no uncertain terms.”

A bark of laughter escaped the dowager, and she narrowed her eyes a little more playfully at him. “Forbid the most rebellious little powder-keg I ever knew! Yes, that would certainly turn out well for someone. She'd enjoy the laugh, perhaps.”

“She certainly would,” he noted. “as I hope she may enjoy a scarf. Thus, I must clarify: is there to be a lesson, or are our conversations to continue this...distant orbit of salient points?”

“Why, Shadow Erin,” came Ammeline's voice from the doorway, “and here I believed there was nothing you could not do. Am I to understand there is an area in which you have no knowledge?” Shadow felt the smile creep onto his face as she was speaking, and found he could no more hide it from Lady Filaurel than he could conceal a candle-flame behind a spiderweb. Ammeline simply parted his diplomatic masks like smoke before a breeze.

“Alas, my talents are wide-ranging and deep-reaching, but in this arena I fail,” he replied phlegmatically, granting himself half a moment's amusement at the sight of her fighting her own smile. “I am forced to fall back upon your mercy, Ammeline, and beg your expertise in the matter.” The smile fell off her face as if she had physically shoved it, and she narrowed her eyes.

“Poltroon,” she declared him, and all the disapproving aunts in the world couldn't stop Shadow from hoping, desperately, that what he heard in her voice really was a hint of warmth. “My aunt Filaurel offers to teach you to knit, and you turn to me with the yarn upon your lap? Whatever have you been doing here?” Shadow shot her aunt a sidelong look, to take his cue from her; it wasn't until he had noticed her return the glance with her own silent reproof that he realised he truly did not care what she wanted in this moment.

She adores her rebellious niece. Let her have no undue ease from me, then. The moment of spite was certainly unlike him, but in this instance he embraced it. “We were discussing the benefits and drawbacks to certain categories of person, when selecting a marriage partner,” he told Ammeline, as casually as if he discussed the weather – keeping things purely in the realm of the inferred hypothetical. True to form, Ammeline made a face.

“What on earth for?” she blurted, leaning on the back of the chair in which Shadow had seated himself. His heart thrilled at the casual closeness, even as he turned back to Lady Filaurel to allow her to explain herself as she wished. The smile upon his face, he told himself, was more smitten than smug. Much more. Surely.

“Merely passing the time, dear,” replied the older woman, airily. She dissembled well; certainly better than Ammeline did. She had the skill to avoid overdoing the smile and the reassuring tone of voice, certainly. “And while you're here, I should advise you too: when choosing a husband, find a fool. Fools always make the best husbands. If you're to marry, my dear, I beg you to lasso yourself a chump. Tap his head first, and if it rings solid – bone all the way through – then don't hesitate. All the unhappy marriages come from husbands having brains. What good are brains to a man?” she added, as Ammeline's gaze slid briefly to meet Shadow's, and then back to her aunt. “They only unsettle him.”

“I rather feel as if I'm being corrected about what my opinions are,” noted Shadow blandly.

“Age and experience compel it, young man,” replied Lady Filaurel, before focusing again on Ammeline. “My sister had it right, you know, marrying dear Aidan. Lovely man, absolutely wonderful husband and father. Our father certainly thought so – heart of gold, he always said, and one that's firmly wrapped in six layers of damn fool. His own words, not mine, and that was to Aidan's face.”

“Aunt Filaurel, do you plan to spend your whole visit insulting both of the gentlemen who call this manor home, or is there some real conversation to be had?” asked Ammeline, curtly. “If you have no plans for it, I certainly do. And as I don't doubt that your chaperoning means I shan't have five minutes' private conversation with Mr Erin, on the most innocent and wholesome of topics – then I shall simply have to speak before you. Shadow,” she added, switching her focus to him as if her aunt had just been closed for the evening, “I have wondered in the back of my mind, since Winter's End. Why were you so concerned with the identity of that piece of cheese in the silk suit? You remember, the opossum, Mr Clutch?”

Shadow did recall, and – content to follow Ammeline's lead – allowed the change in conversation to take him with it like a bend in a river. “I do indeed. I greatly disliked the way he was looking about the place.”

“Was there something odd about it?” Her instinct for intrigue had been honed by a childhood of mystery and adventure books, from the way Baroness Rose had described it to him once; he saw a glimmer of interest in her expression, and fought down another smile. Now was not the time to experience the Soul's Awakening, in front of an aunt who had only just advocated that he be hurled aside in favour of some specimen who might be solid oak from the cheekbones up.

“He had the look of a man examining exits. And, possibly, entrances. And while his eyes did wander around the room, it did seem that the more expensive an object lay in his line of sight, the longer his gaze remained in place.” His observations were genuine, he reminded himself as – despite herself – Ammeline's eyes sparkled. He was voicing real concerns about the man. It was only his choice of phrasing that had been aimed at igniting her soul; if she were not the igniting type, or he were not half-desperate to bathe in her light again as he had at the ball, he would still have explained himself to her along these lines. He had already spoken of it to the Baron and Baroness, after all.

“Ah, well. I did wonder. Perhaps we should lay traps outside the windows, in case he should send a friend or two on a nocturnal visit for another look at what he liked most in the ballroom,” Ammeline suggested, and her animated smile was pure sunlight. He felt himself warm in her glow, and at that moment he could forgive the world for nearly anything – but then Lady Filaurel coughed pointedly.

“Let's not drop the gardening staff in a spike pit, dearie,” she suggested, and Shadow found himself forced to concede the point. But the older lady's eyes were fixed on him. “You say you observed this churl at the ball, young man?”

“I was, at least, well-trained enough in diplomacy to know the venal type when I see them,” he replied, and Ammeline nodded vigorously.

“He was quite thorough and immediate in demanding details from me, that much I can promise,” she concurred wryly. “He abandoned every other topic until all I had about the man was shared with him.”

“And is there a reason for such interest, Mr Erin?” Shadow, finding himself beginning to chafe beneath this questioning, felt his eyes begin to grow warmer. He knew their glow was becoming a little more pronounced; thankfully, in this light, the difference was negligible. Beneath his heartbeat, he felt it growl once more, and pressed it down firmly as though dealing with a suspicious pet in new company.

Perhaps some directness, for a change. It might also grant him the blessing of seeing Ammeline taken completely by surprise. “Because I would crack the planet beneath us rather than see this place, or its people, come to the slightest harm,” he growled out, in a voice that was very nearly his own. Both the ladies froze for a half-instant that grated on his conscience; immediately once he had used it, he understood that such a thing was unfairly frightening for someone uninitiated into the horrors of what had been done to him. It smote him to feel the chair shift as Ammeline's weight left its back; he had time to feel the beginnings of guilt and regret, before registering her standing next to him instead – facing her aunt. He turned to regard her, fighting with mixed success to keep the surprise from his features as she folded her arms and stared in open challenge at the older lady.

She was defending him, it occurred to him. She had been since she entered the room. Her aunt held suspicions, and they were his to assuage, but Ammeline had responded to those doubts with direct contempt and dared Lady Filaurel to discover the truth for herself. The dowager had kept her focus to her target, but...well. Ammeline Rose, with an innocent to defend, seemed to become an impassable fortress of a young lady.

“Indeed,” murmured Lady Filaurel, and something danced in her gaze. “Intelligence, true, but...determination and protectiveness? Acceptable, young man,” she told Shadow directly, and her incisively oppressive demeanour dropped like a curtain released from its rail. “I do believe I may approve. Now, with the nasty part over with, we may entertain ourselves. Attend – and Amy Rose, if you continue to make faces like that at me, Mr Erin shall be forced to do something drastic.” She shot him a sly smile as Ammeline floundered, and continued, “I shall certainly force him to. Now! Watch closely, young man, and we'll see how clever your hands are instead of all that unseemly brain. This is called casting on.”

The Rose family, Shadow thought to himself amid his bewildered obedience, were rapidly becoming impossible to predict.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Rose Townhouse, Leon City.

Sonic had imagined his reunion with his cousin many times, since his discovery that the man had survived.

He had played the meeting in his head like a puppet show, over and over, refining how best to introduce himself for the greatest impact and inflict the greatest guilt and shame upon the hedgehog he believed to be not only his sole surviving family, but a coward who had fled that day of hell. He had worked on his words, one iteration at a time, until the slag was burned away and the bright, shining steel of accusation gleamed in its perfected form. The process had honed his anger, cooling and sharpening the outrage of the initial revelation into a needle of patient wrath – at least, as patient as Sonic's constitution permitted.

It was hardly his fault, he insisted to himself again on the way to breakfast, that he'd lacked information. He had charged Shadow with that heinous dereliction of familial duty, and had been gently if abruptly informed of his blunder; a part of him howled indignation yet, to have been so abandoned, and yet he couldn't fault Shadow at all now that he knew the truth of it. There had been pangs of guilt when he took to his bed that night - though Lady Rose had been as good as her word, and after a decade of the more austere furnishings of Sanctuary Temple, the softness of a manor-house bed had quickly overcome him regardless of his feelings. But the echoes of self-recrimination had begun to return when he had awoken (at least, after he'd remembered where he was); he had shoved them firmly aside, repeating to himself that he could not possibly have known the whole truth.

To their credit, neither Shadow nor his wife had shown even the slightest inclination to hold his mistake over his head. Shadow's remorse was genuine, and almost as great as his shock at finding Sonic had survived at all. Amy had been nothing but reason and kindness, welcoming Sonic as family even without explicitly saying so. The invitation to stay under their roof had, he knew, been an unspoken offer of support and refuge; he dared to hope she had been deliberate in omitting any limit on how long he could stay with them. Perhaps she had seen what Sonic had steadfastly refused to even hint toward aloud, and what Shadow – if he'd noticed it – had been tactful enough to avoid bringing up: Sonic, orphaned so young, yearned for family and acceptance more than anything else. More even than the vindication of facing Shadow with his accusations, he had craved the feeling of being among family. Perhaps it came of having such things torn from him once already; he could never have his parents back, but the glimmer of hope remained that he might gather his surviving relations to him and live among them.

“Good morning, Sonic,” greeted Amy, as he came into the dining-room of the Rose townhouse. It was a modest affair by comparison to his hazy recollections of the Erin ducal property, but still felt lavish after his time at Sanctuary. Shadow likewise looked up from his breakfast, and hurriedly swallowed his current mouthful to smile at him. Sonic blinked at the revelation that it wasn't just his cousin's rangy, shockingly tall build that had resulted from his long, nebulously hellish captivity; those teeth sent a shiver down his spine briefly, and he felt another stab of guilt as Shadow's smile fell from seeing it happen.

“Good morning,” he replied to Amy, and then to Shadow. “Good morning, cousin. I'm sorry,” he blurted in addition, the impulse seizing his mouth before his thoughts could do more than accede to its demand. “That just – they caught me off guard. I hadn't noticed them last night. They won't do so again.” Shadow gave a nod, averting his eyes briefly, before meeting Sonic's gaze again with what appeared to be an effort.

“They often make that impression at first,” the taller hedgehog assured him. “It...yes. I trust you. I'm not offended.” Sonic wondered for a moment which of them Shadow was attempting to convince, but a knock at the door drew his attention. After a moment, his cousin's page opened it and leaned inside.

“Beg pardon, my lords, my lady,” the pig greeted them, on the bare edge of respectfully – which Sonic couldn't help noticing the couple accepted without so much as a flicker of affront. “A letter for you, sir. Looks to be from the Palace, it's got the gold around it. The courier was dressed quite shiny, too.”

“Ah, thank you, Lewis,” responded Shadow, reaching for the letter with one hand while taking up a spoon with the other; before him sat a pudding of some sort, coffee-scented, on its own small plate. Evidently he'd asked for something sweet to go with his breakfast today. “To formally introduce you both: Sonic, this is my page, Lewis. Intelligent lad, and wise enough to time it well when he hints that I'm making a foolish decision. Lewis, this is Lord Sonic Erin,” and Shadow's eyes flicked to meet his cousin's. “He'll be staying with us at Blumenheim, I hope.”

Sonic wasn't quite sure whether he would do so; everything was still far too new, and it felt as if he would be rushing into a decision of great import to say anything conclusive here. Some spectre of Miles, in his heart, laughed uproariously at the sight of Sonic Erin choosing to bide his time and think carefully about anything at all. He suddenly found that he missed his friend greatly; Miles would have known how to proceed here.

Outwardly, he only inclined his head in greeting and acknowledgement to the pig, whose deferential response was significantly less deferential than he'd expected it to be. Amy continued talking about something or other while Shadow gave the envelope wary looks in between spoonfuls of pudding; Sonic remained silent, content to pick at the breakfast a maid placed before him and indulge in some rare moments of self-pity, until he heard his name.

“Hm?” he asked, looking up at Amy, whose concerned expression immediately filled him with his own apprehension.

“Sonic, you must remember that you let it slip,” began Amy. “I understand if you'd rather not, but if you did meet the Princess...then whatever happened with the rock, there may be consequences you haven't yet considered.” She glanced at Shadow - and then nudged him, causing him to spill the latest spoonful of his pudding onto the still-unopened envelope in his other hand. "Shadow knows how this sort of thing works, and in time, so will you - won't he, Shadow?”

“Just a moment, dear," replied Shadow absently, giving a forlorn look to the now-stained paper. "I seem to have desserted my post.” A laugh, brief and completely unexpected, exploded from Sonic before he could get himself back under control; Amy paused in her exasperated glance toward her husband to shoot Sonic his very own counterpart to it.

“You sound like my father, you gangling cretin,” she scolded the taller hedgehog. “Oh, open your letter and occupy yourself. Now then, Sonic, dear, please – as one hedgehog to another. It isn't as if either of us is in a place to judge any behaviour of yours that wasn't actively malicious...”

Sonic let himself catch up to what was happening, as Shadow resignedly opened the letter and began to read it. “Well...I was taking a shortcut past the palace yesterday,” he began, trying to decide quickly what to tell them and what to leave out. “And I...may have been hit by a carelessly thrown rock. I'm unhurt,” he added hastily, as Amy opened her mouth with a worried frown. “Really, it barely even bruised, and that seems to have faded in the night. But it turned out to have been thrown by the Princess, from inside the palace walls. I may have...been flirtatious before I realised whom I addressed.”

“You were flirtatious,” repeated Amy flatly, as if trying to gauge how monumental a falsehood this was. “With the Princess.”

“With an extremely pretty feline lady,” corrected Sonic insistently, “who turned out shortly afterward to have been Her Highness the entire time. And as soon as I realised, I apologised and – and, well, I fled.” His gaze dropped to his plate in shame. “It was a moment of panic, and I don't believe I was insulting in my behaviour before then. She seemed...unruffled, I suppose. But I've never fled from a conversation before.” Not one that didn't involve one of the temple attendants trying to wrangle him into cleaning something, at least, and Sonic privately decided those didn't count; he was fleeing the cleaning, not the conversation.

“...I can see why you felt as if you'd had a crowded day,” was all Amy could muster in response. Sonic hung his head in shamed agreement, while Shadow turned over his letter.

“You did make a good impression,” his cousin noted. “She looks for you.” Sonic's head whipped up and around, and Shadow's eyes rose from the paper. “From the pen of Duchess Rouge Chiron: I hope that I give no offence at my presumption, dear Mr Rose, when I ask this of you: our Princess recently encountered a rather dashing young hedgehog, and he lingers in her thoughts. I use the word 'dashing' quite deliberately, as he demonstrated a Chaos-gift of remarkable speed; while I hesitate to broach such a delicate subject, you must understand my reasons for asking if this gentleman is known to you. I know that the boy is blue, and is of age; far too old to be a new heir to House Rose, and so far as I am aware your own union is yet to be blessed with fruit, though we may hope that the happy event et cetera, et cetera-”

“I shall want to read those et ceteras later, you coward,” noted Amy, and Sonic fought a blush as Shadow forged onward.

“...our Princess seeks this boy, as he seems to have caught her eye, and in a manner that cannot be called displeasing. He seems to have made an impression upon Her Highness, and I am sure you will understand that this has come at a precipitous time in our history. She seeks – oh.” Shadow lowered the paper. “I think reading further aloud will lead to an undue influence on events,” he explained. “Regardless, it's clear that she hardly intends to slap your face for whatever it was you said, cousin.”

Sonic's blush was winning in its war against his admittedly ill-prepared self-control. Amy's comment had been one thing, a marital communication in his presence that bordered on impropriety; she seemed to care little for such things when directness could produce greater results without harm. But to have Shadow receive such news about...Sonic hesitated, even internally, to refer to the concept of his love life, especially with the Princess. He could hardly deny, though, that he had been absolutely captivated by her; worse, he had no idea what he should do with the knowledge imparted to him – the fact that Her Highness was giving hints that she felt a similar spark between them.

He needed time to think. Time to run. His eyes flicked up to meet Amy's, and then Shadow's again. “I think I'll go for a run,” he began, and continued over Shadow's mouth opening to caution him. “Just a...morning constitutional. Without using my gift. I think more clearly when I move,” he added, almost in a plea.

“Then take care, and return safely,” replied Amy firmly, before Shadow could speak – delivering a quelling glance to her husband. “And for all that's good, if you happen to see Her Highness again, don't be impulsive. Let her see the sweet young man again, instead of a mask you think she might like. I can assure you that a lady in her position has seen more of such facades than anyone should.”

Sonic swallowed hard, and nodded once. He hadn't thought of that. “I shall return before lunch,” he promised. “And – Shadow, may we talk after that?” Shadow's gaze hadn't left him since the taller hedgehog had put down the letter, but there was a brief quailing in it when their eyes met this time. It felt strangely comforting, he realised; his older cousin was as nervous about all this as he was. The height, the fangs, the happiness of his marriage – Shadow's apparent success in life, relative to Sonic's, had felt like something of a gulf between them. He had always placed the darker hedgehog, and their pale, gleaming cousin, on something of a pedestal. To see him share Sonic's nerves about a difficult reunion felt grounding, and reassuring.

“Of course,” was the only response Shadow gave him, at first; a meaningful glance from Amy pushed him to continue. “I'll find us some staves. If you still wish to beat me senseless. But if you-” he faltered, and tried again with a sheepish look. “Whatever conversation you wish to have, cousin. I won't fail you again.”

Sonic was through the door before he'd thought of a response to that, both of them forcing themselves away from the awkwardness. Perhaps the morning's sunshine, in the bustle of a great city, would energise him.

It could hardly make him more mixed up than he already was today.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor.

Families, Amy Rose declared inwardly, occasionally felt like a vicious joke played by Gaia.

Four days of Aunt Filaurel's company had begun to grate, very slightly; her understanding of the older lady was rather unique, in that they shared a number of character traits, but she was also quite used to being the only agent of chaos – with a small C, she was obliged to clarify – in her own vicinity. To find another like herself, someone who left her no longer the most unpredictable person in a given room, left Amy herself off-balance and subject to some vague sense of discomfort.

I wonder if this is how other people feel around me, she had mused at one point, and felt a pang of guilt at the sight of her own behaviour from an outside perspective. That, itself, was a thought that heaped its own problems upon her already lowered mood; she was rapidly driving herself into a funk, and she despised the sensation.

What this called for, Amy decided, was a treat. To cloister herself away in her bedroom with something delicious, and an improving book – or possibly a downright deteriorating one, depending which title caught her attention from the bookshelf first. The tasty side of the matter, she had already chosen: one of Aunt Filaurel's preserves. Her mother's sister had taken up the hobby of preparing fruit jams some years ago, and had rapidly developed her skills; while her visits filled Amy with exasperation, the jars of deliciousness she brought with her remained a silver lining to the whole business, and it was with these in mind that Amy stole into the kitchen around mid-afternoon while Cook was busy in the scullery, doing something inexplicable and mysterious to a piece of brisket to prepare it for cooking.

Some three minutes later, having escaped with a particularly inviting jar of purple spread, Amy discovered something terrible: the lid of the container wouldn't budge. Twisting it both ways produced identical failures; a careful examination of the bottom edge of the lid showed she'd had the direction right first time, but gentle taps against the edge of the stone steps at the front door provided her with no results either. Hot water would be easily obtained, but would give her away as a thief of jams, and her soul flared with indignation at the thought of turning herself in so.

A marginally less mortifying route, at last, presented itself: she sought out Shadow, and without preamble thrust the jar toward him. “There you are. Would you mind taking a moment with this? I can't get it off,” she added, ladling as much diplomacy as she could over the top of her impatient start, determined that her bad mood shouldn't be allowed to ruin this chance.

Shadow gave her a faux-stricken look in response to the request, filled with a jovial parody of disappointed horror – though thankfully, not at her manners. “Ammeline. I was led to believe in your indomitable might,” he began, faux-scandalised.

She forged ahead, hoping to minimise the verbal jousting. “Shadow, against a superbly-sealed jar of my aunt's finest blackberry preserve, what am I to do but call for assistance?”

“You might kick its shin,” he suggested, completely straight-faced.

“I might crack this jar upon your fool head. Cease this yammering about your shin. Open the jar. I wish to eat.” She gently flicked his elbow with a fingertip. “Your limbs are longer, and I have studied well enough to understand principles of leverage, as laid out by Barkimedes.”

“You wish to eat...but you brought this to me,” the taller hedgehog reasoned, examining the container with a dubious eye. What in the world did he think she had planned about it? It was hardly a day for pranks; something in her prevented her from enacting practical jokes on Shadow Erin, regardless. The détente between them, though tested with repeated crosstalk, was something she refused to risk damaging by truly robbing him of his dignity. Perhaps it was that she'd seen him so completely without it, in the days after he was brought home to them.

“I see your eyesight is still superb,” Amy replied, outwardly remaining all business. Those days were a dark and frightening memory, and she had long resolved to push them away and fill the intervening days with laughter. For now, though, she simply wanted her jam.

“Instead of going to the kitchen and asking Cook to press some of this between two slices of bread.” He sounded as if he didn't quite believe it, and Amy put her hands on her hips in mock rebuke.

“Shadow, I'm ashamed of you,” she declared. “Bread is terrible for the figure. A lady must watch hers.”

“Her bread?” he asked, tilting his head to one side with that damned smile of his tugging at his lips.

"Open the blasted jar.”

“Ammeline, were you intending to eat this blackberry preserve with a spoon?” There was what seemed like a perverse delight in his tone. He could not know her plight; he had still deduced her intention, and this was what entertained him so.

“You pestilential scarecrow, so help me-” Amy paused, and drew in a deep, calming breath to master herself. “...Fine. Shadow, give it back. I shall take it to Cook, and wait until they hand me two thick slices of white bread with an abominably thin whisper of blackberry between them. They might say to one another, I say, did you hear a blackberry just now? and reply Must have been the wind, old man, no blackberry preserve within thirty yards of here...” she paused to receive the jar as he handed it back to her, and glanced down at the faintest of metal-on-glass rattles. Somehow, somehow, the lid was loosened. “Shadow?”

“Mm?” He appeared distracted, gazing off toward a window as if he hadn't just handed this - this bald-faced purple provocation back to her.

“The jar is open.” Her voice had gone flat, but the ugly, tranquil fury he'd shown toward Lady Haestrom was absent from her tone. Mostly.

“Gadzooks, is it?” he asked, with superb delivery in the role of a man with no clue as to how anything happened at all.

She prodded him in the ribs with a suitably uncouth fingertip. “Kindly tell me how you did that.”

"Surreptitiously.” He was giving away nothing, inscrutable as a stone monolith and twice as easy to stub her toe upon. She gave him a glare calculated to ignite bone, and only grew more incensed when it failed to deliver anything of the sort.

“Now, if you'll pardon me, I believe I hear Mr Thrace moving toward the kitchen, where he may well detect the absence of a jar and notify Cook. Someone must stop him, before it's too late.” He strode off, affecting the air of a man who lived his life without a care in the world for any petite pink hedgehogs whose patience he had beaten with a broom.

Amy watched him go, sparing the jar a glance every now and then, until he was out of sight. She let out a slow breath, feeling an odd tension ease from her chest as her lips curved into a cautious smile. She kept it small, in case he heard her do it. “Swine,” she murmured affectionately, turning toward her room.

=======>>>>=======

It was two days later, when the post arrived at breakfast, that Amy finally had a bit of excitement.

“Ah! Thank you, young man,” twinkled her aunt across the table, as Mr Thrace handed over a letter addressed to her. “This is my sister's hand,” she added, glancing at the envelope and beginning to open it. “Informing us they're setting off for home today, I should imagine. Always been the conscientious sort.” She looked through the rest of the sheaf of letters, and handed them to Amy. “From your friends, my dear, and there's one there for young Shadow – oh,” she interrupted herself, as the envelope bearing his name fell open. It had been improperly sealed, and the single sheet inside bore one word, in block capitals: TONIGHT.

“My goodness,” remarked Lady Filaurel, and Amy looked at her with an air of incredulity at so indifferent a reaction. “That seems rather urgent, dear. Perhaps it should be passed on to him swiftly. He seems the type of gentleman who dislikes missing an appointment,” she added – and a glow of warmth kindled in Amy's heart at the outrageous wink her aunt gave her. Mischief, whispered that lifelong instinct in her, with a glee that echoed her own. She quickly slid the simple note back into its envelope, sealing it properly this time, and stood up from the table without a word, under Filaurel's indulgent smile.

Shadow was leaving his room when Amy found him; these days, his late mornings were more sparse, but he would still be caught by an occasional night of what he would only describe as awful dreams, which would torment him until the small hours and leave him rising later the next day. This was one such morning, it seemed, and even his smile at her arrival seemed muted. Those smiles were invariably warm and carried a sort of sad or tired feeling with them, or so it seemed to her – while still far more honest than the false, rehearsed expression of pleasantry he had worn when greeting the gossips at Winter's End.

“Ammeline,” he greeted her, embers dancing in his burgundy gaze.

“Good morning, Shadow,” she replied, pleasantly enough to pass muster. “You've a letter, I thought I should bring it to you as soon as I could.” He accepted the envelope with murmured gratitude, and paused when she lingered in his presence.

“I think I shall open this inside,” he remarked, and she fought not to let her ears sag out to either side with disappointment. Seeing his reaction to the note would, Amy had decided, be a superb way to determine some gist of what was meant by it. He disappeared back indoors with a calm and controlled you'll excuse me, and manners forbade her from doing anything but let him go.

The rest of Amy's day was a blur of impatient clock-watching, even while reading the latest letters from her friends. Of the two she'd received today, only one held anything of even the remotest interest to her intrigue-starved mind: there were rumours that Blumenheim's parson, a middle-aged skunk named Reverend Smunt with a deep and abiding passion for the sound of his own voice, had been seen in the company of some strangers to the area, and had seemed rather worried about being noticed or remembered among them. She attempted to write responses, but found herself too thoroughly distracted by the morning's developments to get farther than a sentence or two in each return missive.

It was exquisite torture, waiting for the sun to dip lower in the western sky, but by the end of dinner Amy had formulated her plan: she would conceal herself, wear her least attention-grabbing clothes, and follow Shadow wherever he happened to go. It was a simple plan, required little preparation, and – best of all – was open-ended enough that no part of it was made impossible by an unforeseen event, except if Shadow were to evade her somehow. Given the soft molten-iron glow of his streaks when he was in darkness, it seemed unlikely...but what if he wore a hooded cloak? A heavy, thick layer of cloth would undoubtedly dim the lambent parts of his colouring; she must be sure to keep pace as best she could, if he were to anticipate pursuit and take such a countermeasure.

All through dinner, her gaze strayed to Shadow again and again; the taller hedgehog seemed completely oblivious, and focused on getting those intimidating teeth into his victuals. He truly was becoming a member of the family in that sense, a detached part of her mind observed as she matched him forkful for forkful. Her aunt watched them both, with a quiet amusement that she signally failed to conceal, prompting gratitude from Amy that Shadow was so absorbed in eating. It seemed they both had somewhere to be. When the meal was finished, Amy waited only long enough for Shadow to leave the room before she caught Aunt Filaurel's eye, and exchanged a meaningful look with her. “Go on, my dear,” smiled the older lady, with tolerant encouragement, and she was gone.

With twilight drawing closer – it was not yet so late in spring as to have lighter nights yet – she stole up to her room and quickly changed into a dark green set of clothes with a specific purpose; they were a gift from her mother, for wearing during her lessons as a swordswoman. It had initially been an exercise in futility to attempt to teach Amy, despite her instinct for controlled havoc; she had simply found that a sabre lacked the impact she preferred, and that her talents led toward slower, more powerful strikes, carefully chosen for the greatest impact. Changing her preferred weapon to a maul had left her mother crestfallen; Amy had felt guilty for a brief period, to have disappointed her in failing to take up the family weapon. Her subsequent lessons had proven it was the right decision, however, and a hammer-wielder she had remained.

Now, clad in the same dark green she normally reserved for learning the arts of warfare, she left her room via the tree nearest the balcony of her bedchamber. It was a swift leap away, a journey she'd performed many a time and oft over the years; her mother had noted with disapproval the security issues with that tree so near her daughter's window, but Amy had so far blunted the protective urge to cut it down.

She had made a guess at which exit Shadow would use, and was pleased to see that she was correct – he stole out of the servants' entrance some five minutes after sunset, and Amy slid down from her perch in the tree once he was thirty or forty paces past her. What followed was a careful game of pursuit and surveillance, on what appeared to be a random path through the gardens; every so often Amy found herself obliged to duck behind a hedgerow or drop prone to allow a rosebed to conceal the pink of her quills; Shadow's meeting must be at some specific, previously discussed place, and yet he seemed to have doubled back more than once. Did he knew he was pursued?...no, she reasoned, that couldn't be it. He was making absolutely no effort to outpace her. He couldn't be aware of her, she was being so careful she almost lost him in the darkness every few minutes.

The clear sky tonight worked against her, too; her quills stood out in the silvery light of the full moon, and without a cloud layer to hold warmth close to the ground, it had rapidly grown cold. The days may be sunnier, but the nights still recalled how recently winter had come to an end. She was glad of the modified riding suit she wore, now; padded as it was, it retained enough warmth to ensure she wouldn't be given away by the chattering of teeth. There would be frost on this grass before sunrise, she decided – hurrying from one carefully cultivated bush to another, to catch up as Shadow approached the corner of the house. Was he meeting this person in a different part of the gardens? Amy Rose wouldn't be evaded so easily, and certainly not by a man moving at such an arrogantly casual strolling pace. She narrowed her eyes and closed the gap, from cover to cover with ever-increasing confidence and stealth.

She would know his secret yet.

=======>>>>=======

Perhaps an hour was long enough, reasoned Shadow. It was turning cold, and while Ammeline was a capable young lady, there was no need to inflict unnecessarily lengthy periods out in the cold upon her. They had, after all, completed a half-circuit of the manor grounds; the front doors loomed large and dark in his enhanced eyesight.

He turned, clasping his hands behind his back, and ambled toward them with a satisfied little smile. He knew that he would have a moment or two once he closed the front door behind him; Ammeline wouldn't risk being found out after an hour of sneaking through the gardens in his wake. She might not even mention the escapade at all to him, or at least not directly; to do so would be to admit she had a reason to follow him, thus implying she had opened his mail.

Of course, she hadn't done anything of the sort. When he had passed through the front doors and closed them behind him, giving a nod to the serving-man who watched them at this time of night, he immediately made for the drawing-room where he knew Lady Filaurel would be knitting. “Good evening, my lady,” he greeted her, in his usual quietly formal purring drawl.

“Good evening, young blot,” she replied, hearty and jovial. “You look as if you've been for a bracing walk. Received a letter, this morning, didn't you?” His teeth were slightly bared by the gentle mirth that crossed his face then; to her credit, the dowager continued unperturbed by their predatory appearance.

“I must thank you for playing the part so well. I hope I've gone some way to proving myself a little,” he ventured, hands still clasped behind his back. “At the least, to prove an intelligent man may still find amusement in these things, when well-executed.”

“Yes, it's certainly given me something to think about,” replied Lady Filaurel, with a twinkle in her eye that spoke of more genuine – and less grudging – approval than he had had from her previously. “Though you still seem far too complex a man to have only one reason for doing anything. You must have had something else to gain from this. I wish you'd tell me,” she lamented plaintively, deliberately failing to conceal her impish smile behind her knitting. Yes, thought Shadow at the sight. In forty years, Ammeline might be such a lady indeed. To go along with his request, and bring the note he'd written to himself into Ammeline's line of sight while making it look accidental, spoke of expertise in japes and harmless havoc.

“You are of course correct,” he confessed, tilting his head to concede the point to her. “And I achieved that goal, also. I proved myself correct, in a private surmise.” The older lady leaned forward, ears perking ahead with her in her curiosity, and his smile widened just a little bit. “Ammeline's eyes are magnificent in moonlight.”

Lady Filaurel's hearty laugh wasn't quite enough to cover the quiet opening and closing of the front door, at the end of the hallway, but when Shadow's own quiet mirth joined it, he allowed the sound to conceal Ammeline's steps hurrying up the stairs. “You'll do,” the lady told him, through the giggles that followed. “You'll do, young man.”

He might, he decided. He just might, at that.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Leon City.

Sonic's gentle jog around the city had begun as a way to escape some emotional turmoil that threatened to overwhelm all attempts at conversation in the Rose townhouse. He was comfortable with admitting it to himself, now that he'd spent ten or fifteen minutes with the bright, warm morning sun upon him. Being indoors for too long on a beautiful day always seemed like ingratitude, to his mind; as well, he hadn't lied to his cousin's wife when he explained that motion helped him to think. Already his feelings were clearer, more settled, and he felt more firmly under control.

Once he had begun, it seemed foolish to stop after a single circuit of the block on which the townhouse stood, and so he had opted to take the time to explore the area. If he did need to unleash his gift at some point, being familiar with the terrain could only help him. He had already located the post office and two taverns in this rather upmarket portion of Leon City, and was accelerating into a nice steady gait toward a slightly busier crossroads when someone stepped out of a bush directly in his path.

His first thought was assailant, and he very nearly threw himself at the figure in a vengeful fury, but his vision and reactions had improved along with his speed – evidently Lord Chaos had understood that he needed to see where he was going even when lightning wreathed his heels – and it was clear that the young lady before him was neither equipped nor prepared for violence. He successfully turned the upraising motion of his arms into a flail for the bush itself, attempting to grip it and bring himself to a tighter halt. He was only marginally successful, and his flustered, embarrassed apologies only served to infuriate the stranger with which he had become briefly entangled.

“Off me,” hissed the girl, and Sonic freed their limbs from one another to back away in alarm. Her tan-and-brown fur was lank but healthy; improperly washed, perhaps. She dressed worse than a commoner - like some sort of wild woman, come to the city for whatever ludicrous purpose might catch those constantly-wandering eyes that flicked from shadow to shadow.

Perhaps she was lost, it occurred to him. There was at least a proper way to behave in that case. “Is there something I can help you with?” he offered, carefully, keeping his distance. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“No,” the stranger scoffed. “Stuck here 'til the festival's over. Ridiculous civilised tradition. Go to the town. Must show your face. Learn city-folk ways. Get stolen from, it's character-building...useless,” she muttered, lowering her gaze. “Druids don't need polished streets and walls. Don't need carriages or silly, fancy, tie-you-up, bind-your-throat, can't-run clothes. And certainly don't need nosy hedgehogs!” she added viciously, pointing a finger at him. “I know what I've come to learn. Civilised people can't be trusted. Lesson done. So stay away from me,” she scowled, turning and scampering off along the street. Sonic resolved, then and there, to keep his counsel to himself should he ever encounter a badger again.

At the same time, though, the stranger had retreated in the direction Sonic had planned to travel; that, at least, convinced him to save further exploration for another day. He turned on his heel, beginning to retrace his steps slightly faster than he'd intended. As he rounded the corner and started moving faster, he caught a glimpse of Lewis atop a pony; the pig touched a respectful fingertip to his brow (or at least, respectful by Lewis' standards) on sighting him. Truly, reflected Sonic, there went a valet who had an employer, and certainly not a master.

Still, the arrangement seemed to work well for all involved, and that was the main thing. He wondered, idly, where Lewis was off to on horseback at this time of the morning.

=======>>>>=======

Duchess Chiros hadn't expected to receive a reply from Lord Rose so soon; likewise, the arrival of his own page as a courier was a surprising compliment that she could hardly ignore. But was it a gesture of trust, or placation? As hurriedly as she could excuse, she seated herself in her private chamber and unfolded the letter.

From the hand of Lord Shadow Rose, to Her Grace Duchess Rouge Chiros, greetings and salutations.

I must begin with a word of caution. The youth you describe is a known quantity, indeed, and one of very recent reacquaintance. Enclosed is a second letter – Rouge unfolded the missive to its full size, and caught the smaller envelope that slid free –containing particulars. I beg that it be opened only in complete solitude. I trust that Your Grace will understand the necessity of this, and the import of said necessity.

As regards your other queries, both Lady Rose and myself thank you for your well-wishing. We may confidently confirm that there are no plans in the direction you describe for perhaps another year or so yet; it is not so long ago that our safety was quite rudely threatened, as you may remember from court proceedings at which we were both in attendance, and it is our wish that any child of ours should never be in such a situation themselves. My lady wife has forbidden me from allowing her mother to hear of your missive, as there are only so many pointed reminders a married couple can take – and a Baroness who has a naval cannon emplacement on the roof of her home is capable of taking emphasis to quite extraordinary degrees...

The letter went on for a paragraph or two more, and Rouge found herself smiling at the way the man had turned his positively arid sense of humour to the task of padding it with pleasantries. There was little to no actual substance to what remained of his writings, but she memorised what details he gave; in particular, that whatever threat they believed might remain to House Rose, it was not expected to exist much longer than one more year. That, indeed, gave her pause; she had indeed been present at certain legal investigations, related to the incident Lord Rose described. She had been certain that nothing had come from it that could give the gentleman such confidence in a timeline.

His wife's gift, she realised belatedly. That must have something to do with it; the lady's talent was rare, but not unique. She had, perhaps, made use of it here.

Satisfied, she folded the letter and opened the second one. Already alone in her rooms, Lord Rose's plea for caution was fulfilled; no uninvited eye would see the contents.

In less than a minute and a half, she was moving nearly at a dead run through the palace, toward the Princess' chambers.

=======>>>>=======

Blaze was in concerned discussion with her chambermaid when the door guard informed her that Duchess Chiros requested an immediate audience. She granted it with a nod and a gesture for Vanilla to continue; there were few secrets between the three women, these days. The tiny, unspoken conspiracy to prevent the Empire's assembled ducal scions from undermining House Felis might have had its roots in political intrigue, but Vanilla's only goal was to ensure that the Princess married for love, or at least married a man who would respect her enough to deserve her. The past two nights, however, had drawn a new concern to her attention: her daughter had suffered nightmares, and the two terror-dreams had seemed identical as far as the child could remember.

“And no other details, thus far?” Blaze confirmed with her maid, as the guard admitted the third member of their little coalition and closed the door behind her.

“None. Your Highness, she's only six years old,” Vanilla reminded her. “She barely recalls how to tie her bootlaces yet, pulling dreams out of the fog...I fear we'll have to wait. My worry is that some fool child in her lessons – or worse, some member of the palace staff – has spoken unwisely of certain incidents of infighting around her, and the imagination of a child...well.” Blaze nodded at this, before turning to greet Rouge.

“Duchess,” she began carefully, as Vanilla bobbed a curtsey to the flustered bat. “Is there some hurry? You came in haste.” She paused, and frowned as Rouge caught her breath. “Please tell me Herman Coleo hasn't started making trouble with the Echidna envoys.” One of her worries was that the scheming ladybug had been quietly behaving himself, and had failed to push at the boundaries of his authority or loyalty for rather a long time. Sowing discord with emissaries from a sister nation was almost expected, at this point.

“No, nothing like that,” Rouge managed, waving away both the concern and the formality. “This relates to, ah...our business.” Her gaze slipping to Vanilla and then back to Blaze told them what she meant, and the air in the room changed to that of friendship and shared secrets. In these matters, they were very nearly equals and treated one another as such. She drew up a seat, as Blaze gestured for Vanilla to sit on the bed next to her, and withdrew the letter from her bodice. “I could not let this be seen by anyone while I was hastening here,” she added. “Regarding a certain young man...I wrote to Lord Shadow Rose, yesterday, via trusted courier. I received this reply not an hour ago, brought by the man's own page.”

Blaze's eyes, from narrowed contemplation, widened at that. “Truly secret, then?”

“Doubly so. He saved all his pleasantries for a larger letter, which contained this one, and begged me not to reveal its contents to any I could not completely trust. And here he writes,” she unfolded the little note, “So long as this is in confidence to those you know you can fully trust, I feel safe in revealing details: the youth is my cousin. He has taken the gift-name Sonic, for reasons you will understand, given what you related in your own letter. I only became aware of him last night, a source of some friction and embarrassment for all involved; you may imagine the current state of relations. It appears he encountered Her Highness before he made himself known to my wife and myself. I must be a good cousin to him, and avoid airing his private feelings to those whom he has not met. However, I believe I commit no sin to pass along tidings, to someone he described as “an extremely pretty feline lady”, who later turned out to be a greatly esteemed personage: that she dwells on his mind, and he thinks his abrupt exit to be an act of some cowardice. He hopes that some day he might encounter the young lady once more, and show her a more courageous and informed side of himself. I believe him to be genuine in this, and if you and I (and indeed Lady Rose, who reads over my shoulder as I write and gives occasional imperious nods) are of one mind, I believe we may – oh, and the rest is further pleasantries,” she dismissed, folding the paper back down and slipping it into her dress once more.

“The future Baron certainly takes his time to say something important,” observed Vanilla, carefully.

“He's a man happy to let a paragraph do a sentence's job,” agreed Rouge. “But the gist: yes, this boy is known, and is his cousin. A survivor of House Erin. And he seems quite enchanted with this mysterious and beautiful feline lady, from whom he regrets fleeing,” she added, looking pointedly at Blaze – whose face seemed intent on treating her name as a verb, and who merely nodded at first before clearing her throat.

“I believe,” the princess told them both, “I should take this as a good sign, but take no action. I don't want to...appear desperate,” she added hesitantly, glancing between her two friends for confirmation and becoming rather less hunched in on herself at their encouraging nods.

“It wouldn't do to be the one pursuing him, and certainly not from a position of royalty,” noted Rouge. “Even aside from the questions some might ask regarding pressures placed upon the young man, it sets an unacceptable precedent for the relationship. Vanilla, dear, I think your strategy remains sound in light of Lord Rose's information. Let him come to you, Blaze, and dazzle him when you do.”

Blaze took her friends' hands and nodded mutely, her cheeks as scarlet as her bedspread.

=======>>>>=======

When Sonic had arrived back at the Rose family townhouse, he had discovered Lady Amy in the drawing-room and been directed without preamble into the small courtyard enclosed on three sides by the main part of the house, and its northern and southern wings. On a patch of grass off to one side stood his cousin, leaning casually on a wooden stave some four feet long and examining a number of other, shorter counterparts to it.

“Sonic,” Shadow greeted him, as he approached. “I thought about what you said, before. I wondered if you might want to...practice.” He gestured at the lengths of pale wood before him. “I don't know if you have any training in a weapon. I'll ask that we make no use of our gifts, or things might get out of hand, but if you still feel that urge to beat me senseless...”

Sonic stared at him for a moment, and then – without breaking the eye contact – reached down and took up a piece of wood about the length of his own arm. “I've had...a little education in it,” he confessed. “Though I'm no duellist.”

“My own skills with bloodshed were largely self-taught,” noted Shadow, still leaning on the longer shaft. “After...well. After that day, I wasn't in a position to keep up my training, and my muscles forgot how to wield my favoured weapon. By the time I took it back up, I was at Blumenheim, and Ammeline's mother helped me to find a tutor among the guards. I learned it all again rather more quickly.” He took up the wood at last – and to Sonic's dismay, held it not like a quarterstaff but like a long, double-handed sword. It made sense, he realised belatedly; Shadow's sheer height and reach made such a weapon perfect for him.

He took up his own stance, inexpert as it was, and Shadow nodded to him. “Baroness Rose uses a sword of much the same length. Ammeline writes to her today; she would certainly be delighted to find a student of the style.” Sonic nodded warily, unsure if the offer was a veiled insult; he knew he was inexperienced, of course, but that was all right. He intended to thoroughly bruise this man.

He shifted his weight, and charged. Shadow's form was frustratingly solid, while he wielded the hefty weapon as if it were only half its weight. A few frenetic moments later he was on his back, eight feet past Shadow's shoulder. The taller hedgehog turned to face him...with the most damnable look of pity on his face.

“Again, cousin,” he said, simply. “Let the rage out. I'll take it all. Hurt me.” Sonic flipped back onto his feet, and sprinted forward once more.

This would be a busy and uncomfortable morning for them both...as soon as he could land a hit.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor. Four hours before sunrise.

The return of Baron and Baroness Rose to Blumenheim had been hailed with some relief on all sides. The couple themselves, though veterans at representing their territory in Society, had little patience for the almost whimsical social backstabbing and clique-based jostling among minor nobility at such events. It sometimes seemed as if the lower stakes of such behaviour, compared to insulting an Earl or a Duke, encouraged people to become more vicious about it. Leaving that seething cauldron of old grudges and self-important feuds to return to their pretty little territory was a blessed escape.

For Lady Filaurel, it had meant that she could return home, instead of being pulled hither and yon through the manor to ensure that propriety was observed by the younger pair still residing within. While she adored Blumenheim as a location, and the manor as a place to stay, she had hardly yearned for a chance to hover over two increasingly frustrated younger people and teach ever-more-complex knitting techniques to a man with extremely sophisticated views on clothing.

Likewise, for both the heiress to the barony and the well-dressed rescuee, the observation – overt as it was – had chafed mightily, and a return to normal had been thoroughly welcomed. The dowager had managed one final mischievous act, as she departed; embracing Shadow as she might a close family member, she had whispered a threat that if he failed to be gentlemanly in his treatment of her niece, she would alter her will to bequeath her most monstrously ostentatious hat to young Lady Rose as soon as she heard of it. Shadow had acquiesced with a violent shudder, both at the proximity to the stately galleon of a headpiece she wore at the time, and at the insinuation that she owned something worse.

Thus the household had settled back into the routine they had enjoyed for the past two months or so...for all of thirteen hours.

Behind Shadow's heart, it snarled. Its influence slid along his nerves like ripples in a dark, stagnant pool, caused by some unmentionable motion beneath its surface. Shadow turned over in his sleep, and bade it be silent. It refused. Snuffed the air, with a nose of its own, and then with his. Something had its attention. An ear flicked at a tiny sound – a breath, outside, where there should be none. The scuff of boots against a wall. The scrape of...metal on stone.

Intruder. Shadow's eyes snapped open. All of them.

=======>>>>=======

The first sound, the one that woke Amy, was a scream. A man's voice, she thought, lying in her bed with her eyes wide, staring at the ceiling; it didn't sound like pain. She had never heard a cry of pure terror before, but this was a fairly close match to what she had imagined when she read of them.

The second sound was the one that saved her life: another scream, but...unrecognisable. Something was utterly enraged, perhaps – some creature that had never been heard in Blumenheim before, certainly so long as she had lived. An unholy shriek that dipped down into Hell and came back with souvenirs, a voice that couldn't express all the fury it was feeling but was doing its absolute best.

The figure standing over her bed flinched, and turned to look in the direction of the howling, and Amy's own scream as she noticed seemed to startle them back into action. Her training with her mother took over, and she threw herself aside as a knife came down. Her hand flailed as the curved blade caught in the mattress, reaching for something – anything – that could buy her another moment. A pillow to throw into a face, a bell-rope to summon aid...

...the handle of the bedwarmer. Her fingers closed around it, it shifted just enough for its weight to become apparent, and Amy's eyes lit with a rage of her own. The bedwarmer was a long-handled brass pan, with a flip-open lid; it was designed to be filled with hot coals and placed in her bed, to safely warm the sheets before she climbed in. It weighed a fair amount before it had smouldering, glowing-hot firewood added to it; to a hammer-wielder, there were few better strokes of luck she could have had in this moment. She bared her teeth and brought the pan around in a gleaming, moonlit arc that trailed smoke from the pinholes in its lid, and felt one or two of the small jarring impacts that meant bone had given way under her blow. Her assailant was smashed prone onto her bed, blood spattering her sheets, and that – irrationally – made tears start from her eyes. To sully her room so, to invade this sanctum with such grisly intent...the sense of violation fuelled her wrath, and she drew back her improvised weapon again.

“You DARE” WHANG “to come HERE” CLENG “to do MURDER” BLONG “in my HOME” WHBLANG “to my FAMILY-” she paused her outraged screeching at the sound of the doorknob being tried, and brought the bedwarmer down in one more brutal blow to the back of the would-be assassin's head. The figure had already gone still, but one more wouldn't hurt – not her, at any rate – and left her feeling safe enough to whirl and confront the new threat.

“Amy!” came her mother's voice, before the door was unceremoniously kicked open. Baroness Amaranthine's quills were down, much like her own, and the moonlight from the open window gleamed silver and strangely purple on her drawn blade. Thorn's curved edge was bloodied, but she hadn't expected blood to be tinted so in the dark. A glance at the bedwarmer showed her droplets and spatters of the same colour, and her gorge rose; she fought down the urge to empty her stomach as her mother ran forward to embrace her. Behind the older woman, something shifted in the dark, and a low, wet growl escaped it. Amy froze in new terror, but her mother glanced over her shoulder. “Shadow's gift,” was her only explanation, before her arms enfolded Amy's trembling shoulders. “Oh, my girl, my darling – are you hurt? Did he wound you?”

“I – no, I – oh, Mother, I thought I'd die, I've never-” The handle of her last-ditch weapon fell from nerveless fingers, and she clung to her mother for dear life. “Who are they?”

“Don't know,” came a voice from the doorway that was almost Shadow's. Puzzlement briefly gripped her, but the recollection came swiftly of how he had sounded when he had made his protective declaration to herself and her aunt Filaurel, and Amy opened streaming eyes to get another look at the thing in the hall – no, she told herself firmly, somewhere inside. Him. As far as it mattered with Shadow, the what was less important than the who.

His height was unchanged, though his quills seemed longer, wilder; his teeth were more pronounced, but it might simply be the way his lips stayed peeled back from them, after all the time he'd spent schooling his facial expressions to conceal them for polite company. His voice was deeper, rougher, as if forcing words through a throat – and a mind – that was no longer built for them. His arms were longer, and his hands were shockingly ungloved – but, perhaps, no glove had been made that could contain the huge palms and powerful fingers he now sported, each digit as long as a child's forearm and cruelly clawed. His eyes...were horrifying. Above each, a second smaller eye had opened; likewise a third pair laterally to them, clustered close together on either side. Between and above them, in the centre of his brow, a seventh gazed at her from lids that opened sideways, rather than vertically. When he realised she was gazing at him, Shadow flinched, turned away, hunched down in shame, and her heart tore.

“Shadow,” she whispered softly, “Shadow, look at me, please.” One of those smaller eyes slid back over to her, and then more as the shaggy-quilled head dared to turn a little in her direction. He looked like an ashamed dog, she realised, obeying instructions to pay attention but consumed with the knowledge that he'd done something wrong. “Shadow, my life was saved by a great howling noise a few moments ago. Was that you?” At his tentative, wary nod, she forced herself to smile. “It made him flinch, and I noticed him then. It gave me time to defend myself. You've saved my life, Shadow, do you hear me?” Her voice roughened at the end of it, both from the maelstrom of emotions in her adrenaline-shaken mind and the way her mother had squeezed her tighter hearing it.

Shadow still crouched, more than bashful – mortified at the feeling of eyes on him in this state. That wouldn't do. “Shadow,” she added, fresh tears starting from her eyes at how the man's conscience seemed to savage him simply for being seen like this. But she knew better. “I see you. Do you understand? I see you, Shadow. In there, under that. I know you, and I trust you,” she continued, as her mother's grip relaxed a little and the older woman turned to regard him also. Amy took the opportunity offered to her. “We both do. Will you come a little closer? It's hard enough making myself heard at your altitude, without calling across my bedroom as well,” she added ruefully, and a soft chuff of wry amusement escaped the altered hedgehog in the hall. He ducked under the lintel to enter the room, walking apelike on his knuckles, his streaks glowing faintly in the darkness as he approached.

“She is right, Shadow,” began her mother, and all of those slit-pupil eyes flicked to her for a second or two. “I see your forbearance in there, when among those close to you. I just heard you laugh, for heaven's sake, longer arms and more eyes can't fool me. But I will ask you to turn your back until my daughter is a little more presentable, young man,” she added, suddenly stern, and all seven eyes widened in near-comical panic before he whirled on the spot – revealing that his tail, of all things, had grown to match his new stature. Now perhaps five feet long, with ridges standing up along it and a sharp stinger at its tip that gleamed like wet black metal, the appendage seemed almost draconic. Whatever had been done to him, it was beyond an atrocity, reflected Amy as her mother hastily pulled a shawl from the back of her bedside chair and draped it over her shoulders, matching the older lady's own quickly-donned nod to decency. Yet his reaction to the request had shown beyond doubt that the soul within that body was the same man who so often prodded at her pride until she flared up, seemingly because he enjoyed basking in the warmth of the flames – and yet had never once truly insulted or hurt her, and made her feel as if he never would. He had her unconditional trust; she decided then and there to show it.

"Mr Erin, I would very much appreciate it if you were to ascertain our staff's condition," began Amy, raising her hands and lifting her quills back from her shoulders, the darker hedgehog keeping his back to her in that flustered concession to her modesty. There was a brief pause, while she waited for an acknowledgement where none would come; her mother, with a roll of her eyes, took it upon herself to do the decent thing.

“Shadow!” she barked, tapping into those reserves of verbal shock-and-awe she had gained during the war. “The staff quarters. There may be more, and our people need protection. Consider yourself off the leash, sir.” Shadow's eyes flashed with a sudden, terrible realisation - and then fury boiled from him as he tore himself out of the room so quickly he took a splinter of wood off the frame of the door.

“Would that he obeyed so swiftly when I told him to cease his bantering about my choice in shoes,” muttered Amy, eyeing the groaning intruder on the floor. She was halfway to reaching for the bedwarmer again, when her mother's arms enfolded her tightly once more.

“What ho, what ho,” came a voice from outside the room, and Baron Aidan ambled in, carrying something long and gleaming over one shoulder. “Rude company we've got, what? - I say, Shadow, we must get you seen to by the barber, old chap, you're in dreadful need of a trim,” he added in a raised voice to the transformed hedgehog's retreating back, halfway down the corridor. Amy could have kissed her father for that; such a flippant reaction was a better example than she could have dreamed up in a week, for showing the man he was still himself and among friends even when looking like this.

“Encountered one in the kitchen, and thought I'd better make myself useful,” Aidan continued as he crossed the floor with his dressing-gown firmly tied, girded for war with his wife's ammunition bandoliers draped over his shoulders, and her Great Turquoise long rifle in one hand. “There's one of the blighters making a break for it across the lawn, m'dear,” he announced to his wife, glancing out of the window and handing her the weapon. “Loaded it on my way here, he might make the treeline at this rate. Southwest edge.”

"You're an ever-present help, darling," replied Amaranthine warmly, striding to Amy's open window and dropping to one knee upon the balcony, her eye to the sights. From downstairs came another tearing-metal shriek of soul-rending rage, and an answering roar of approbation and fury from a number of voices - one of which Amy recognised as Leslie Thrace, who had only previously given such an ululation when performing the part of Echidna Warrior Number Three in her school play. Shadow, it seemed, was leading the household staff to war.

“I say, he's certainly got a way with people, hasn't he?” murmured her father approvingly, leaning out of the door to listen. Behind her, there was a loud, sharp crack from her mother's rifle, and a Hah! of triumph from the Baroness herself. “No wonder he fits in at Rose Manor, what?”

“Did you say you'd met one in the kitchen?” Amy asked her father, and he nodded soberly while handing her mother another bullet – lifting the first bandolier off himself and holding it out to her for when she needed it.

“Indeed. Thoroughly unpleasant little miscreant. D'you know, I shouldn't have minded nearly so much if it had been mid-afternoon tomorrow, but to interrupt our night like this – well, I mean to say, what? I recall one of the kings – I forget which – once said that a number of hours sleep per night – can't quite recall just now how many – makes a fellow something which for the time being has slipped my memory-”

“Father, the assassin.”

“Oh, right, yes. Well. I'd wandered down to sneak another piece of that magnificent steak-and-kidney pie Cook put together for dinner, and I'd just started to tuck in when one of the bounders emerged from the scullery waving a knife. Well, at first I thought he was a late-night serving-lad feeling industrious and offering the man of the house an implement with which to better isolate his chosen slice of pie, but the blighter went and took a swipe at me with it. If I hadn't been reaching out to offer him a furtive slice of his own in the spirit of solidarity, I rather think he might have connected, but he caught the edge of the tray in the chest. About here, d'you see,” he added as the gun rang out again behind him, gesturing to a spot a few inches below his collarbones.

“But he didn't hurt you?” asked Amy's mother, taking the whole bandolier from her husband's arm and slinging it over herself before reloading with much swifter, more practiced movements.

“Oh, I say, no. Once the jig was up, and I knew his intent, I cast about for a weapon of my own. I shall have to apologise to Cook in the morning,” he added with a shaky laugh, and Amy realised abruptly that her father was concealing complete terror with the flippancy of his manner. “I realised I was holding a cast-iron pie try, so was obliged to ruin all that good work.” He looked over at her mother, taking a deep breath. “I rather think I'm going to need to chat about this later, dearest,” he told her. “I'd managed to avoid all that sort of thing until now. I know you prefer to take the lead in matters requiring violence.”

Amy decided the first priority should be to have herself and her father seated; she knew she wavered on the edge of a similar hysteria from the unexpected plunge into combat. As baptisms by fire went, she would much rather have had one that didn't leave her feeling as if her bedroom were no longer a safe haven. She sat on her bed, and pulled the Baron down to her right; allowing herself to cling to him might provide him with a sense of being the one to protect her. “You hit an assassin with a pie tray?” she asked him, forcing a smile and watching him guiltily force one back.

“The pie's rather beyond saving, I'm afraid,” he noted. “Left me inconsolable, what? It deserved a better fate than an unwashed scalp.”

“Such as?”

“Well, my mouth, for one. Better even prolonged contact with the dinner-manglers of a man who knows how to truly appreciate a good meal, than the end it came to.” He hove a grieved sigh, and cast his eyes heavenward in silent respect for the fallen. “Regardless, he's in the vegetable cellar now. Absolutely smothered in ropes, bruises, my bally pie, and shame, in no particular order.”

Amy gave her father a sidelong glance, from where she'd begun watching her mother snipe at fleeing survivors. “You tied him up? Will the knots hold?”

“Oh, I should say so – my mother used to despair of me ever being able to undo my shoelaces again, once I was done with them as a boy,” her father replied proudly. “I should think we'll have to cut the ropes to free him-”

“Someone's coming,” called the Baroness, raising her head from the sights of her gun and taking the sharpshooter's spyglass from the lower portion of her bandolier, to peer off toward the road. “On horseback. He's just entered the drive – oh, great Gaia,” she gasped, lowering it. “It's Silver Horizon. We need to find Shadow.”

Amy was already moving, running for the door despite her mother's sudden cries after her. She threw herself down the hall, past at least one other assassin who lay unmoving with a deep indentation in the clothing over his chest. He looked like he had been hit by a cannonball; had Shadow done this, on the way out of his room? Resolving not to think of it, she skipped down to the ground floor as swiftly as she dared – she knew that Shadow had been moving for the servants' quarters below stairs – and managed to glimpse one last intruder desperately fleeing out through the front door. A dark shape out of nightmares followed him, moving too swiftly for Amy to see more than darkness and red streaks and seven glittering, furious eyes, a near-feral growl trailing behind it.

She moved for the door at a dead sprint, her chest burning with the exertion, and saw the assassin disappear in a fountain of dark liquid as Shadow caught up with him and struck at him. She brought her hands to her mouth at the savagery of the blow; a single swipe of one large, clawed hand had turned the fleeing man from panicking would-be assassin to cooling meat, in an instant. Death had come too swiftly for him to even cry out.

The horse coming up the drive reared in terror at the sight, and its rider threw himself off. Gleaming like moonlight itself, wreathed in a faint tourmaline-coloured glow, he travelled a good twenty or thirty feet before he touched the ground, and drew a shortsword that shone like his fur. Sizing up the scarlet-streaked apparition before him, he spun his sword in his hand – evidently believing that he had found a monster of some sort attacking the manor. Amy dragged in another burning breath and hurled herself forward at the same time as the soldier did, knowing she was too far, too late, to do anything but scream.

“SHADOW!!”

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Solar Square, City of Leon

“All of that, and you weren't fighting seriously,” groused Sonic, his chagrin still evident in his posture. It had been two days, and the youth still found it difficult to believe how unprepared he had been for the practice session.

“When I fight seriously I don't use the sword,” remarked Shadow, with a wry smile at nothing. “You did manage a hit or two, cousin.”

“A hit or two would hardly have saved me were it serious,” Sonic insisted. “Practice has no purpose, without preparing me for the reality.” Shadow glanced over at him, his demeanour as cheerful as it tended to get; the older man's moods remained muted, though Sonic's intense scrutiny of him had begun teaching him some of the more obvious tells.

“Were it a serious fight, you would have used your gift and struck before your enemy saw you move, surely,” the taller hedgehog observed. “Also, if you should ever require serious use of a blade, I shall be using mine alongside you. And that, I can promise, will not be in jest.”

Sonic fought back the urge to make a face. While he knew the man was serious, he was also receiving rather more declarations of protective intent than he knew what to do with. He had mentioned this to Shadow's wife, over a surreptitious cup of tea while Shadow was dressing yesterday morning; Amy had gone to pains to explain that such declarations were likely not only for Sonic's reassurance. Shadow Rose would go to great pains, she said, not to let down those who needed him. What Sonic had initially interpreted as intentional abandonment, Shadow had treated as the greatest failure of his life from the moment he had discovered the truth.

In that light – and Amy's gentle emphasis that Shadow was torturing himself enough for six or seven such condemnations from long-lost relatives, without Sonic's collaboration in the task – the blue hedgehog found himself unwilling to lay on with further excoriation. Indeed, part of him felt rather put out by the development; Shadow's guilt was clearly heartfelt, absolutely unmistakable. But something in him felt as though this were his punishment to administer. His anger had few places to go, though he and Shadow had found one the other day.

It hadn't helped all that much, however, that he couldn't seem to consistently get past Shadow's guard. Shadow had laughed off the depth of his defences as something he'd learned from being a duke's son, and then laughed rather less when he admitted much of that quick, snap-reflex protection came from the decade when he'd yearned to be able to put up resistance of any kind. When such moments occurred, when Shadow's past was brought up, Sonic felt himself teetering on the edge of some vast, dark sinkhole; Shadow had been reticent concerning what had happened to him, by Amy's account, since he had been found in the snow. No one knew the full extent of what had been done to him, and the most he'd said regarding the perpetrator was a terse He will never hurt anyone again. In something of a rush to step away from the precipice – which, Sonic hoped, would recede from the discourse once the dust had settled from their reunion and the desperate mutual sharing of explanations – he had noted that the Summer Start festival had begun this morning, and expressed a wish to see it.

Amy had leapt upon the suggestion like a pouncing predator, but not for herself; citing a number of letters still to write regarding recent developments – not least one to her mother and father to notify them of what still seemed like Sonic coming back from the dead, which she had dreaded attempting to put into words for how ludicrous it sounded – she had announced she would stay behind. You two can get to know one another in happier circumstances than mutual brooding in a drawing room, she had declared firmly, and moments later they'd been blinking in the sunlight, each as bewildered as the other. A wordless, shared shrug had set them off toward the sound of the festivities, and the scent of food stalls and beer.

They had scarcely arrived when they'd found themselves nearly bowled over by a trio of bizarrely-dressed characters apparently engaged in a footrace; Sonic had made some inquiries with friendly-looking bystanders and discovered that a gentleman possessed of a few coppers could purchase a chance to try himself against three of the city's swiftest, who had nearly run him over in their warm-up lap. A glance at Shadow had turned pleading when he saw the taller hedgehog's caution; Shadow raised an eyebrow in response. “Your gift would make it unfair,” he noted simply.

“Only if I were to employ it,” came Sonic's rejoinder, his excitement plain to hear in his voice. “I'll be as abstemious as a parson – what?” he asked, as Shadow let out a quiet bark of laughter. His cousin shook a slightly-bowed head as he chuckled at whatever Sonic had said to make him react so; a single raised index finger counselled Sonic to wait until he'd drawn in another breath.

“We'll see what the entry list says?” the older man offered, as a compromise. “If we've a long wait, it may be easier to come back in the morning.” Sonic nodded in ready acceptance, and began taking in the sights with a will. He sought the organisers of the running, of course, but his isolated upbringing had rendered him thoroughly susceptible to the distracting calls of street-food vendors, of gleaming trinkets on market stalls, on fortune-tellers – and this latter case gave him pause. He touched Shadow's arm again, to get his attention over the bustling crowds around them.

“We should get our fortunes read,” he declared with a grin. “Perhaps find out when you'll become a father! Or I a husband,” he added, glancing back at the tent he'd seen with a narrowed, theatrically contemplative gaze. This time, Shadow's laugh was deeper, more sonorous – less incredulous, or perhaps simply more pleased.

“If that's what you wish, we can go back to the townhouse,” his older cousin smiled. “Ammeline's gift is in that vein, she often uses a set of cards to help refine her perceptions. She'd likely be able to spot something coming in your future, if it's big enough or close enough.”

Sonic, brought up short by the revelation that his in-law was a precognitive, took a moment to gather himself sufficiently to retort. “Oh, yes? And what of your future?” he challenged, with that lopsided grin upon his face once again. “It doesn't sound as if she saw me coming, all that clearly.” Shadow matched the smile, his own rather more pointed teeth at odds with the casual confidence in his eyes; like this, it was clear to them both that the smile was as much a family resemblance as the backswept quills they shared.

“She's my wife, Sonic,” he replied. “She dictates my immediate future to me regularly, and has the wisdom to reliably pick good ones. I trust her at it. And...well, perhaps you slipped her sight. You're not all that big, after all,” he joked, resting a hand atop Sonic's head and earning a sputtered protest and hurried disengagement from his cousin.

“Not all that big, my eye,” huffed the blue youth in mock outrage. “Simply because I'm not built like a giant's hatpin-” He got no further, as a wave of heat and force passed over them from somewhere further west of them with a muffled, ground-thudding boom. A moment later, a second explosion followed, much larger and more visibly spectacular, and Sonic's first thought was that someone had started the evening's fireworks show hours early – but no, those were flames, and screams. He drew a breath of suddenly-warmer air, and met Shadow's gaze. No words passed between them, but in an instant Sonic was gone, and Shadow began to wade determinedly between the thronging, shocked bystanders toward the conflagration.

What followed amounted to an unexpected afternoon's work, in a number of harrowing ways. The building that had caught fire was a bakery, and Shadow winced internally; the flour dust present in the air of such a place would have taken the first flames and detonated with them, in a way few other materials might. Reasoning this was the cause of the second explosion they'd heard, he pushed forward again – catching sight of a blue head of quills among a group of volunteers, heaving at a fallen beam in the shop frontage. Hurrying forth, he placed a hand on the straining youth's shoulder and met his gaze with a shake of his head. Sonic scowled and redoubled his efforts, only to be pulled away from the beam.

“You have far too much riding on you, to break your back lifting that,” muttered Shadow as patiently as he could force himself, by Sonic's ear. “I'm larger, stronger. I heal quickly, part of my gift. I'll put my shoulders to work and try to rescue anyone inside. Look to your own gifts, cousin - find a way to be useful and swift.”

“Such as?” hissed Sonic in frustration, before looking down at Shadow's hand where it clapped gently onto his shoulder.

“I have faith in you,” Shadow told him, with that smile flickering across his features again, before striding back to the storefront and beginning to add his formidable frame to the first-response volunteers. Sonic shook off his stunned reaction, casting his gaze around for something, anything, at which his skills could be put to use – and an idea caught at him, sending him jogging over toward a line of people with buckets preparing a chain.

“It must be quarter of a mile to the river,” he began without preamble, speaking to the large bear lady organising the volunteers. She paused in barking out orders to look at him in disbelief.

“I know that perfectly well, young man, but there's a well at the end of the road, so allow me to organise this as quickly as-”

“You don't need to,” he interrupted her, and allowed her glare to bounce off his confidence. “I'm gifted. I can get the water. Can you arrange them ready to use it?” Her eyes narrowed, but his explanation mollified her enough to give a cautious nod. He returned a confident one, picked up a bucket in each hand, and narrowed his own eyes as he determined his path between the hurrying citizens.

“Must be swift,” he muttered to himself, and felt the lightning surge at his heels as he burst into motion. It crackled across his body, caught by Miles' magnificently crafted additions to his footwear and fed back into him, and he felt his perceptions sharpen in response to his speed, reflexes tightening so that every impulse, every thought, became motion. The rush of it drew a smile to his face even as he lengthened his stride – only to run right off the edge of the stone retaining wall at the bank, hurling himself bodily into the drink. Thankfully the water only came up to his shoulders, and he found himself uninjured when he pulled himself upright and planted his feet firmly on the worked-stone bed of the city-straddled river. Checking for the buckets, he picked them back up with the water that had filled them, and gritted his teeth to force his power down his legs again – only for the water to explode away from his feet as he erupted into a sprint once more. He felt himself accelerate more easily once the sudden motion had shaken most of the water from his clothing; he would dry off soon enough at this speed, he reflected briefly, and now he knew when to stop.

He slid to a halt at the fire, placing the two buckets on the cobbles at the feet of those he'd taken them from; they were still standing around and talking, but it had only been perhaps twenty seconds. As he snatched up two more empty buckets from the ground, the volunteers picked up his delivery and began putting them to use on the smaller fires that threatened to catch on neighbouring businesses. He grabbed at a second pair, and felt a cobblestone crack under his foot as he planted it down and surged off toward the river again.

=======>>>>=======

It wasn't quite sunset when things were declared under control, and Blaze had retired to quickly change out of her smoke-stinking clothes. The fire at the bakery on Short Street had been an unexpected disaster, but the response of her citizens had left her elated, even as Vanilla fussed around her and sprayed perfume onto a soft-bristled brush to begin working both through her fur, removing the scent of the fire from her arms and face and the hastily-loosed tresses that fell around her ears. She had hurried to the scene the moment she'd heard what was happening, and while her gift had helped her to drag the largest flames away from what might burn so that others of greater brawn could remove it, she still found herself chagrined that extinguishing flame had never seemed to manifest as a part of her skillset.

Eclipsing her pride in her people, though, was her current excitement at another development. When she had arrived at the fire, she'd encountered Lord Shadow Erin lending a hand to rescue efforts, his towering, rangy frame put to use in hauling away larger timbers that had merely collapsed or had places untouched enough by the fire for him to grip them. He had informed her, in the middle of his greetings – apropos of nothing – that he was not the only member of his family present. She had assumed he meant his wife, but his meaningful look had turned to a nod of his head over her shoulder; she had risked a glance, and her heart had leaped to see trails of blue lightning darting back and forth among the crowd. Someone had brought a water-cart, a brass cauldron fully five feet across the mouth and mounted on wheels; empty buckets were vanishing from outstretched hands and reappearing filled to the brim, ready to be thrown, wherever the azure blur passed by.

He was here. Whether or not he had seen her, he was here. The man who had occupied her thoughts so firmly of late was here, in Leon, only a few minutes' walk away. The thought of seeing that boyish smile again made her tail lash impatiently, and Vanilla took a moment to ask if she was injured or in pain, at the sight. Blaze merely shot her maid a warm smile and promised her a show in a gentle whisper, unwilling to strain her voice quite yet after the smoke she'd inhaled. There would be time enough for that once she got back out there...but for that, she would need formal regalia. A soft instruction to her maid had the rabbit in motion, curious and excited – and the princess' further advice to bring your dear daughter, Vanilla, she'll want to see this had had her chambermaid's eyes widen, in a wild surmise. They'd better hurry, after all.

=======>>>>=======

Shadow wouldn't leave him alone.

“I'm telling you, it's fine, I'm dry now,” protested Sonic, in vain. Shadow's hands flitted over him, tweaking the seams and lines of his outerwear, fixing the simply-looped cravat he'd worn to come out and almost lost when he hit the water.

“We need better than fine,” his cousin told him cryptically. “If she's half as clever as she seems, you need to look good. Now.”

“I could be at the townhouse in half a minute, find a brush-”

“Don't you dare. You're staying here, your speed has largely fixed your quills.” Shadow straightened, looked him up and down, and nodded in something distantly related to satisfaction. “That will do. Thank me tonight, cousin-” he paused as a bell rang out, of the type used by the town criers before a royal announcement was to be made. Two more followed it; they went on for perhaps two-thirds of a minute, until the attention of all nearby was held. In that time, with Shadow's urging, Sonic had accompanied him to Solar Square – to see if a gamble worked, his tall cousin had insisted, and then we must get word to Ammeline.

“My people!” came a cry, in a familiar voice, and Sonic's head whipped round toward the stage that took up half of the square. The Princess stood there, in a deep indigo outfit that looked halfway to a military uniform. Gold piping gleamed here and there on the outfit, matching the small, almost understated epaulettes; Sonic caught Shadow nodding in absent-minded approval, and rolled his eyes.

“...has been a day of unexpected trials,” Her Highness was saying, “and yet we have endured. No lives have been lost today, thanks to the quick thinking, civic-mindedness, and unerring will to do what was right that unites us all as Solar citizens. I am beyond proud, beyond grateful, to know that my people are capable of this – and at the drop of a hat, willing to show it.

“Heroism comes in many forms,” she continued, her eyes drifting over the crowd as if searching for someone. “Some will hurl themselves into a fire to pull its victims free. Some will join together with strangers and become brothers in arms, for a short time, while lives are at stake. Some,” she added, pausing for breath – and she found him. Sonic felt a jolt up his spine when their gazes met, her candle-flame amber and his deep-forest green locked to one another even as she went on. “Some will put themselves at risk to bring what others can use, and throw off the safety of secrecy to help enable others.” Sonic saw one of her hands flex, almost a twitch.

“We were privileged to witness a new gifted individual among us today,” the Princess announced, eliciting a soft murmur from the crowd as a smile began to curl her lips. “A young man not yet known among the ranks of nobility, whose gift of speed allowed him to carry water and help save lives, before the water-cart was filled and brought to the scene. More than one citizen's heart still beats tonight that would not, without this young man's quick thinking and willingness to devote himself in support of the people of Leon.” She brought that hand up, reaching out toward him. “I see him among us, now. Will you come, sir?” she asked him, and nothing in the world could have stopped Sonic from moving forward. The crowd parted along the line of her gaze and her gesture, and the sheer number of eyes on him helped Sonic remember not to rush this.

This is my opportunity, he realised numbly, halfway to the stage. This is my moment. He passed the front of the crowd – including a row of large, ostentatious seats before the stage, where it looked as if the Dukes of the Royal Council had already taken their traditional places. In the seat nearest him, a fruitbat lady with a scandalously low-cut neckline shot him an encouraging wink, and he tore his gaze from her and back to the Princess – whose smile widened a little as he planted a palm on the stage and vaulted easily up onto it. Gesturing to a small rabbit girl, Her Highness stepped back so that all could see when the child came excitedly forward and proffered an open, wooden box with a cushioned interior. From it, the feline beauty who had haunted Sonic's dreams since they'd met was withdrawing a small brooch, a graceful curve of deep gold. Sonic found himself rooted in place, transfixed by the sudden import of these events and by the unmistakable fondness in her eyes.

“In the name of Lord Chaos,” she intoned, “and of the Sol Empire: I, Imperial Princess Blaze Felis, do bestow upon you the Headwater Medallion.” She pinned it gently to his lapel, and his breath caught at the feel of her hands upon him – he didn't dare move, or speak, and a part of him recognised that this was just as well.

“With this, our Empire recognises that you are favoured by Chaos with a gift, and thus entitled to become landed gentry with noble title. Will you tell us your name, favoured one?” prompted the Princess, and Sonic felt his throat close. He met her eyes in panic, before his gaze slid sideways – landing on the starry-eyed rabbit girl watching the proceedings in gleeful awe. The sight released something within him; never let it be said that Sonic didn't know how to get a smile from a child, after his time as Miles' only friend.

He drew in a deep breath, and turned to face the crowd. “My name is Sonic Erin,” he announced, and a hush fell over the square – one or two overenthusiastic cheers trailing off into silence as the words sank in. Below him the six faces of the Royal Council stared upward, each of them schooled into such experienced serenity he couldn't even see the encouragement Duchess Chiros had shown him moments ago. “Long hidden away, but returned; the last of my line, after my cousin Shadow.” Something in him encouraged his gaze to slide over the crowd, to look for outrage or upset. From here, though, he hadn't the skill to discern it. “And I shall never be helpless again.”

He chanced a look back at Princess Blaze, beheld the radiant smile on her face, and fell in love.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor. The Gardens.

It had taken less time than Amy thought, to cross the lawn. But no one in the world could have been swift enough.

Silver's sword was already in motion, a thrust aided by his gift aimed at halting the momentum he was sure he would face – the inertia of a charging beast, eager for a new victim. When the scream of his cousin's name had reached his ears, he had faltered, lost a little of his own thrust's power, but the disruption hadn't been enough to overcome a career soldier's combat habits, and his body insisted on this strike landing regardless of the distractions his mind faced.

It didn't matter, when Shadow's long, whipcord-muscled right arm lashed out ahead of him and caught Silver's hand, the tip of the gladius a few inches from his face. Silver halted in shock, staring into those eyes – his gaze flickering as he tried on reflex to meet all of them, frozen before the beast that had shattered a man in front of him.

Amy's thoughts tingled. Part of her realised with dread what was about to happen, and she braced for it – her gift always gave that sign before it produced something spontaneous for her, when she witnessed something that reminded her of things that hadn't yet happened. She reflexively sought it, even as she stumbled to a halt ten or fifteen feet from the pair – and the image came to her of Shadow, well-groomed and back to normal, shaking his cousin's hand with joy on both of their faces. Both wore formal black suits, as one might for some momentous event, and on Shadow's left hand gleamed a golden ring. Seized by a sudden and wild surmise, she drew her hands up before her-

-and beheld the silken gloves she wore to sleep, and beyond them the lawn of Rose Manor. The vision had passed swiftly, and her senses drifted back into focus in the present. Silver was still gazing into the many eyes before him, not daring to move or pull away from the grasp of the entity holding his hand.

“Brrrotherrrr,” came that wet, predatory growl of a voice, and Silver recoiled. Tears started from his eyes, and Amy berated herself for leaping to conclusions about her future-memory when this tableau demanded her attention. She hurried forward, as her parents emerged from the manor's front door fifty or sixty feet to her rear.

“My lord Horizon!” she began, stumbling forward barefoot in the dewy grass, drawing the attention of both male hedgehogs as she babbled out what information she could hurl at the newcomer. “Please, it's him – that's Shadow, we've been attacked, he saved us all, don't hurt him-” Silver's blade fell from his hand, its superbly maintained edge causing it to sink an inch or two into the soft loam of the lawn before its balanced weight caused it to fall slowly flat. Amy tore her gaze away from it, a part of her still marvelling at the tiny details that occupied one's attention at moments like this, and caught up with the two at last.

“Shadow, release his hand,” she admonished the taller hedgehog, who promptly complied and dropped to all fours – which still left him of a height with her, to her vague chagrin – before looking between the two of them. Silver was staring in growing horror at the revelation of what had seemingly become of his cousin, making quiet but distressed gasping noises; it wouldn't be long before the man began to shout, if nothing was done. She leaned a little closer, conspiratorially, to almost touch her forehead to Shadow's. “If you have it in you to return to the way you looked at dinner, Shadow, now is the time,” she whispered urgently, and the altered man nodded before placing a hand on her shoulder and firmly turning her around to face away from him.

She couldn't have resisted his strength if she'd tried, but for Shadow to lay an ungloved hand upon her, especially in her current attire, spoke volumes of the importance of the action. Turned in place like this, she met her parents' gazes, filled with relief (and in her mother's case, pride) before they looked past her and their eyes widened in dismay. There was a familiar sound behind her, and the enormous hand still resting on her shoulder convulsed slightly with the force of Shadow's stomach emptying itself. Mingled in with the unpleasant noises were groans of pain and misery, and what sounded like grief – but she steeled herself to stay as she was. If Shadow didn't wish her to see this, after everything she had seen of his initial weakened state, then she would respect him whatever it cost her curiosity.

Her parents had long caught up to her by the time the coughing and heaving ceased, her mother taking both of her hands and holding her gaze firmly – keeping her attention, and resolutely declining to look past Amy's shoulder at what was happening. Her father, for his part, had time to look uncomfortable at whatever he was witnessing before moving past her to start muttering reassuringly to Shadow. Amy felt tears prick her eyes as she realised he was helping the darker hedgehog through the experience the same way he had been with her through childhood illnesses and their more intense discomforts. Her mother's hands squeezed hers, seeing her begin to weep; Amy wordlessly maintained the eye contact until the sounds behind her were more recognisable panting and groaning.

At some point, she realised that the hand on her shoulder had shrunk back down to its normal size, and the realisation that Shadow Erin had his ungloved hand resting on her shawl drew her attention into a shocked glance – only to see a crimson smear on the fabric, where the bloodstain of a fresh kill had soaked in from a much larger, clawed set of fingers there.

The last assassin's blood was still on his hands. Amy fought her supper back down at the realisation, overcome with a revulsion that had nothing to do with Shadow's change and everything to do with the rest of what had happened since she woke up with an armed stranger standing over her bed. Her knees weakened, and she dropped like a stone – her mother catching her and pulling her into an embrace as Shadow's hand slipped limply off her shoulder with the movement. It slid down her back, and the dual thoughts of He must be unconscious and He just smeared blood down the back of my nightgown suddenly felt overwhelming. She clung to her mother like an eight-year-old after a nightmare, her breathing growing rapid and shaky as the older woman held her and rocked her gently, praising her courage and goodness in softly whispered nothings.

Behind her, she heard Silver's voice, recognisable from her youth, asking what in blistering hell is going on before the darkness took her.

=======>>>>=======

Time passed. Morning broke, and the village of Blumenheim descended upon Rose Manor.

This was aided by the Baroness hurrying to the rooftop of her home, and quickly priming and dry-firing the twelve-pounder naval cannon she had mounted on its own special rack there; while it was aimed toward the trout lake, there was no need to give the fish a bad morning, and it would be a waste of a cannonball besides. It had long been understood between Lady Amaranthine and the elders of Blumenheim that the sound of this cannon was to be treated as a general alarm in case of attack or catastrophe, equivalent to the church bells being rung as warning.

The leader of the village, a late-middle-aged ursine lady named Janine Arum – mother to the Manor's lead stablehand, Cuthbert Arum – had responded admirably to the explosion, hastening to gather and organise the bleary-eyed villagers before panic could take hold in the lack of context for their awakening. A quick deputation was sent toward the Manor while others began preparing for likely outcomes – gathering medicine and tools, preparing water in case of a fire – but halfway out of the village, they were met with the Baron's page coming the other way with the facts of the matter.

The revelation that there had been an attempted murder of the entire manor's population in the night had immediately prompted protective fury among the folk of Blumenheim; even before the question of how well-loved the Rose family was, nearly the entire domestic staff had grown up in the village itself. Blumenheim's children, their brothers and sisters, had been assaulted. The response was suitably fierce, and within twenty minutes there were small groups of volunteers combing the fields and woods (armed with farming tools, of the sort classed as 'not weapons' by those unaware of what a billhook or scythe can do to living flesh when swung good and hard) to ensure no more accomplices were concealed there. The innkeeper's family had begun boiling water and preparing rooms, as it was understood there were some minor injuries among the manor's staff – though the innkeeper's own daughters among their number, the two powerfully built maids named Grace and Mercy, had accounted for themselves admirably. Grace in particular had suffered a broken finger from the sheer force of the violence she had delivered in defence of her friends and colleagues; similar stories were emerging as the staff were vacated from the manor house to show their families there had been no serious casualties.

Within the manor, several prominent figures had come to assembly and seen the damage for themselves: Mrs Arum was of course at the head of the little delegation, supported by the skunk Reverend Smunt in his capacity as the community's spiritual leader, Constable Jonathan Lightfoot, and Miss Temme the schoolteacher and village nurse. The latter had hurriedly excused herself, given the situation, to place the injured first and begin aiding Doctor Bauer in their treatment. The constable, as the only official representative of Imperial law in Blumenheim (and therefore invested with the power to place the Baron and Baroness themselves under arrest, if some wrongdoing were discovered and prosecuted by the Crown), had likewise ensured that he knew the salient facts of the night before asking to borrow a wagon. He had begun the process of removing the surviving assassins to the village lock-up, after searching them for tools or weapons.

The little party in the drawing-room, therefore, was a mixed box of biscuits indeed. Lord and Lady Rose – now rather more properly dressed – had left their daughter in the care of the nurse, after ensuring that her fainting spell on the lawn was due to no actual injury. Likewise, Mr Erin had been placed back in his own room following his return to what passed for normal proportions with him. (His unconscious form had been hurriedly wrapped in a travelling cloak when it had struck them all that he was completely naked; whatever transformation he had undergone in this dire emergency, it had not included the magical vanishing and return of his nightwear.)

With the lady and gentleman sat Reverend Smunt, and the newly-arrived Silver Horizon. Having ensured that all was well with his cousin, the stunned and pearlescent arrival was receiving a précis of the past four months that left him near dumbstruck, but visibly and increasingly joyful at the completeness of Shadow's return.

“...and had you asked me yesterday,” finished Lady Amaranthine, “I should have speculated that his gift remained that of moving himself from place to place in an eyeblink. I saw him do it once or twice, in his youth, and until tonight I'd assumed that he had his own reasons for no longer doing so. To see him so fundamentally changed – well, it was a shock. But his soul remained his own, and his conscience never abandoned him in that shape. I'd dealt with the one in our bedroom swiftly enough, and when I heard him roar...I worried they'd brought some beast of war with them, perhaps to disguise their work as that of some roaming brute. But on my way to Amy's room I saw his door explode off its hinges, and one of the thugs came through it backwards with one of those terrible hands against his chest. It looked like a thrown punch, but it hit the man like a cannon. And yet for all the savagery he showed against our assailants, he laid all those eyes upon me and simply ducked his head. Said Ammeline to me, and fell in behind me without hesitation.” She shrugged. “I can only say that of all the gifts I've seen, it's the strangest. But only his body is altered. He is the man you knew, sir, I'm as confident as I can be of that.”

Silver sat back, digesting all of this, until the Baron leaned in a little closer and inquired as to his health. He shook his head dismissively in response. “I'm fine, my lord,” he replied, quietly, with the curt confidence of a professional soldier. Aidan relaxed slightly, knowing he was in the presence of someone rather like his wife. “This is simply a lot to take in. I rather feel as if I've been beaten to death with a story-so-far.”

“A summary execution, what?” chortled the Baron, and Silver let out a disbelieving chuckle in response. Amaranthine rolled her eyes fondly, but placed a solicitous hand upon Silver's to get his attention back onto her. Behind her, Raine came in with a bottle of sweet, weak summer wine (requested by Aidan, to steady the nerves of all involved for the day ahead) and began to pour at his employer's grateful nod.

“I realise that I have little room in which I can stand, to say this,” she began softly. “Shadow is welcome here for as long as he wishes; one day, Amy shall be Baroness, and I truthfully cannot see her gainsaying it when the decision is hers. I know what the soldiering life is like, Captain. I know, too, the attraction of a place to simply call Home. To have somewhere to go to, when the fighting is over. I hope I don't overstep, when I say that if you should wish to hang up your sword one day, you will be embraced should you choose to do it here.” Aidan's hand came down on his other shoulder, and Silver ducked his head briefly in acknowledgement and gratitude.

“I am...most exceedingly grateful,” he began softly, formally – evidently he and Shadow had a similar approach to such moments as this, laying out their thoughts and feelings in more courtly language to ensure they couldn't be misunderstood. “Your invitation is more than...perhaps I thought I had deserved. But my dear cousin often told me, and has reminded me in letters since, that what we deserve is rarely our decision to make. Nevertheless...I am a soldier. My responsibilities are what they are for a while yet, and I am not ready to put up my sword.” He clenched his free fist briefly, before relaxing it to accept a wineglass from Raine and take a sip. “It still haunts me, to have missed the chance to defend my family. Tonight has struck me oddly, as I nearly missed it again.”

“I can only imagine,” replied Amaranthine sympathetically. “Then you shan't stop soldiering just yet?”

“My hurt is still too great,” the gleaming hedgehog replied. “I marched away, Sir, and I marched back, Madam, and found that all I had left in the world was the strength to keep marching.” Silver set his wineglass down, in a slow, deliberate motion. It was the kind of delicate care one might expect from a drunk man, attempting not to make a fool of himself; with someone of Silver's gift, however, it might be conceivably supposed that he feared blowing the side off the house with a sudden movement. “And to hope that perhaps, someday, I shall have marched far enough to find a place where I can grant Gaia forgiveness.”

“You would hold Gaia responsible for what was done?” asked the parson, mildly shocked. It was the first time he'd spoken since the Roses had begun explaining things to their guest, but evidently he could not let this gentle blasphemy slide, even from a soldier. “You would speak of offering a god forgiveness?”

Silver's eyes flashed gold as they turned on him, the air of the room suddenly seeming heavier. “I assure you, sir," he promised quietly, "that I shall offer it to no one else involved in the matter.”

Into the weighted silence left in the wake of that promise, Silver turned to Aidan and Amaranthine once more, to steer conversation toward the practical. “My batman will be along soon, I should imagine; he broke off to arrange for himself a room at the inn, to give me some privacy meeting Shadow again. He is a pangolin, a sergeant named Padraig Jute. If he could be given leave to attend me, I'd be obliged.”

“Your batman?” echoed Aidan in confusion, only to be granted a quick explanation of Military valet, dear from his wife and nod in understanding. “Absolutely, old fruit. We've a guest room only just vacated by my dear sister-in-law yesterday afternoon, with space for a serving companion. Your chap can bunk there, if it suits you both,” he offered cheerfully, “and if you like, you may think of it as practice.”

“For the day Blumenheim welcomes you home,” agreed his wife, squeezing the soldier's grateful hand once again.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Rose Townhouse, Leon City.

Amy had never felt so confused about vindication before.

“I'm telling you, I didn't know that part,” she protested, following Sonic into the house. “Blast it, I barely saw anything! I saw her smiling at you, with a crowd watching, and that was all. You have my word on that.” Shadow came up behind her to place a hand on her shoulder, conscious that Amy only resorted to certain word choices when someone was irritating her beyond her capacity to remain sanguine. “If I had known there would be a fire, I should have...”

Sonic turned as she trailed off. “What would you have done, if you'd known?” he asked, the anger gone from his voice. A cool spot of relief spread in Amy's chest. He'd sounded as though he were on the verge of making accusations Amy would absolutely not have appreciated, and she had not been looking forward to the argument such treatment would spark between the two men in the room.

“I should have asked the maids to lay down some newspaper, and met you at the door with some slippers,” she told him, gesturing down at the sooty footprints on the carpet. “Poor Maude will have a frightful job ahead of her, to get that out. I've a mind to have you assist her, young man, and put that speed to work cleaning something.” Sonic winced at the realisation, and had the grace to look sheepish.

“I'll find her myself,” he announced, after a moment's thought. “Perhaps it's something I need. Mother Longclaw told me, before I left, not to forget who I was when I was with them. To be the kind of man that boy was becoming.” He met Amy's gaze, and then glanced up and past her at Shadow. “She would never have let someone else clean up such a mess after me, even if I had just received a smile from a princess.”

“And a Headwater Medallion, don't forget,” noted Shadow. “Speaking of which, cousin: wear that everywhere. It's a crucial part of your social identity now.” Sonic blinked and looked down at the deep-gold brooch, shaped in the graceful curve of a river bend with a single blue diamond set above it like the northern star.

“It's a medal for courage, surely?” he asked, and Shadow shook his head.

“It's a sign of – ah, Lewis, would you mind getting two pairs of slippers for my cousin and myself? We seem to have trodden in some heroism. My thanks.” He turned back to Sonic, from the disappearing page. “The Headwater Medallion is a sign of your rights, as a gifted man. Boiled down to its essentials, it's a statement that you are recognised by the Crown as gifted and thus legally due your land and title, but the paperwork has yet to properly form around the matter. While you wear it, you are legally recognised as socially equal to myself, to Ammeline, to Lady Amaranthine, any gifted individual who has been granted what's theirs by right.”

“And thus someone not to look down upon, or take lightly?” Sonic looked thoughtful. “After all, a gift could be anything. A stranger seeing this upon me would not first think of speed, would they?”

Shadow nodded. “Thus and so. Simply wear it, at all times, indoors or out. Take it off only to bathe and sleep. If we are surprised with company...well, it's often surprising how much conversational leverage can matter, upon a first impression.” Shadow turned at the sound of Lewis' voice, and accepted the slippers from him. “Thank you. Sonic, change into these and carry your shoes to the scullery. Then do as you will,” he added, full of faith.

“To the scullery, and then to find Maude,” replied Sonic, justifying his cousin's confidence. “I've not yet forgotten how to clean a floor.”

=======>>>>=======

The following day brought a number of surprises for Sonic. Some were simple and pleasant – the staff of the townhouse greeting him with greater welcome and warmth, and finding an extra couple of rashers of bacon on his breakfast plate, for example. It had transpired that not only had his humble and matter-of-fact willingness to help Maude to clean up after his mistake become below-stairs gossip, but a number of the domestic help had been enjoying their day off yesterday, and had seen him honoured for his heroism. He had managed to accept this with gently self-effacing humour and at least some measure of grace, for which he found himself thanking the people of Sanctuary yet again. He didn't like to think what he would be like today, if not for their unforced and patient lessons in humility to temper his otherwise-unbounded enthusiasm.

Still other changes were rather less pleasant, for a number of reasons; one of them in particular took the form of a rather larger postal delivery to the townhouse that morning. Lewis had had a downright cheeky smile on his face when he'd brought it all to the breakfast table, but if Sonic had learned anything about the porcine boy in the last half-week, it was that there was no malice in him.

“Here we are, sirs, ma'am,” he began, placing some simple invitations to small nearby parties next to their respective plates. “And some consequences for Master Sonic-” fully eighteen separate envelopes were laid next to Sonic's place, in various shades of white and pink. One or two were perfumed.

“Consequences?” he asked, helplessly, as Lewis ducked his head and excused himself past Amy's eye-roll and Shadow's abortive half-tearing of the envelope he held.

“You might find, cousin, that you impressed more ladies than one,” began the taller hedgehog, a little hesitantly. “This is...well, another facet of nobility. Especially nobility with the adulation of the capital, having been called up for praise and recognition before hundreds, or thousands...”

“What your abstruse fool of a cousin is trying to hint at, Sonic dear,” cut in Amy, “is that you've made an impression. There are many noble families in the Sol Empire, who have unwed daughters. And those daughters, or their parents, have seen you make a hero of yourself. You're a catch now, Sonic Erin,” she announced primly, “so aren't you lucky to have family around you who know something of these things, and can help you to plot your course without making too much of a fool of yourself?”

Sonic opened his mouth to reply, but found himself at a loss; rather than sit there catching flies, he closed it again and conceded with a resigned nod. “Then...I should at least begin learning,” he resolved aloud, picking up the envelopes. “To begin with, am I expected to answer all of these?”

“Goodness, no,” urged Amy, holding up a hand in something close to a plea. “Whatever you do, only answer to a lady if you intend to show sincere interest. It's considered loutish to lead them on. A week without a response, and all but the most tenacious will get the message. May I see them? - I might know something of some of the senders. You never know what a letter like this might betray of someone's motives, after all,” she added with a wink.

Sonic handed them over obligingly, and continued his breakfast while Amy flipped through the envelopes. She opened none of them, seemingly content with examining the handwriting and determining what she could from exterior scrutiny. On the fourth envelope, she gave an unladylike sound; Shadow glanced up, only to be handed the envelope without comment. A moment's gazing had his eyes narrowing to unimpressed slits.

“Gauche, Haestrom,” he muttered softly, “very gauche. We can destroy this one,” he added to Sonic. “I know her mother. Less a social climber than a social catapult, launching her daughter at ducal sons in hopes she'll clear the walls of one House or another. The daughter is my age, and less willing than obedient to her mother, in matters of marriage.”

“One wonders if it isn't time to stage something of an intervention for poor Lydia,” mused Amy, regarding the envelope as one might a spoor from the neighbour's dog found in a flowerbed. “At least a gentle talking-to about drawing a line in the sand.”

Shadow had returned to reading his own mail. “I may speak to her if I see her,” he noted. “We've been invited to a tea party with Duchess Chiros this afternoon, angel. Sonic, you're mentioned by name, too. Ducal tea parties are often held at the Palace,” he added, causing his blue cousin's ears to perk up. “Duchess Chiros is said to be the closest friend Her Highness has in all the world. By some, at least. This may be an opportunity to speak without so many eyes on you.”

“You believe I should come?”

“I believe Her Highness may appear, in a relatively private and informal set of circumstances,” replied Shadow, and Amy paused in her rifling through the stack of envelopes.

“Darling, that was refreshingly direct of you,” she told Shadow, and then spoke to Sonic. “Come with us, Sonic. The Duchess has likely arranged this as a way to accidentally have you in the same room as Her Highness, where there are few eyes and ears. Yet we other three shall be there, to act as chaperones and keep propriety.” She caught Shadow's eye, something meaningful in her face. “Her Grace is a talented matchmaker, it'd seem.”

Sonic munched onward, contemplatively. A tea party...?

=======>>>>=======

Entering the Imperial Palace was something Amy continually found daunting.

She had only been within its walls twice before, and on neither occasion had she been welcomed so effusively by anyone of ducal rank. Her host proved an emphatic exception, clasping both her hands and begging Amy first and foremost to call her Rouge when they were alone, “for I have so few opportunities to make a real friend in this maze of intrigues.”

Amy couldn't have stopped herself if she'd wanted to. She acceded to the Duchess' request immediately, for she saw that the lady sought more than a friend today: she hoped for an accomplice. And in that role, Amy Rose was a neat and immediate fit. She found herself glad she had been caught up in conversation on the way, with an older guard who recognised her mother in her features; she had told Shadow and Sonic to go on ahead, while she exchanged well-wishes with the veteran on behalf of an old comrade. It had given them time, at least, to make their own impressions upon the Duchess and the enormous gentleman also present today.

“Your husband is yonder with his cousin, making the acquaintance of the Echidna ambassador,” smiled Rouge, unreserved in her delight and still holding both of Amy's hands. “I was fortunate enough to speak with him yesterday, in passing, shortly after that unfortunate business with the bakery. Such a charming man. I wish I had been so blessed in my spouse as you are in yours, Lady Rose! None of my usual tricks for confounding the attention of a gentleman worked at all, though I assure you they were solely of posture and intended only to assess a man's character.”

“Tricks of posture, indeed?” asked Amy, a little warily.

“Indeed,” the bat winked, so outrageously that it was impossible not to trust her in the matter. “I must admit that for a moment I feared I might be losing my touch at directing a man's thoughts. He kept his gaze so assiduously upon my eyes, for the entire exchange.”

“Ah. That, you must forgive,” Amy conceded, a relieved smile breaking out across her face. “My husband suffers from a deplorable excess of manners.” The words drew an unladylike but hearty laugh from the older woman, whose irrepressibly personable attitude Amy was finding hard to resist. She felt her smile widening in response to the informality the Duchess displayed, and what seemed like genuine delight from the bat to have met her again. Their prior encounter, at Winter's End the year before, had been rather more public; perhaps it was the difference in setting that allowed Rouge Chiros to emerge from behind the Duchess' mask.

“I believe it, dear,” Rouge assured her, gesturing to the men speaking some thirty or forty feet away, seemingly immersed in conversation about some flowering bush or other near the wall of the little tea-garden. They were, remarkably, of a height, despite the echidna being far more solidly built than Shadow's lean, almost willowy form; next to them, the reasonably-sized young adult frame of Sonic Erin looked like a much younger boy. Sonic himself was engaged in what appeared to be a battle of wits with a tiny blue creature on the ambassador's shoulder, raising one hand and then another, watching it match his motions.

“His first words to the ambassador were Good afternoon, isn't the weather pleasant up here,” continued the bat. “I rather think they'll become fast friends, if only for the relief of speaking to someone their own height!” At her glance back, her gaze lingered on the red gentleman, and something in Amy sat up and began to take notice.

“I'm certainly grateful that you've invited us, Rouge,” she began, carefully. “If I were to guess, I should imagine that my blue in-law and Her Highness might be a topic worth some discussion. Is the ambassador a part of our efforts?” she asked sweetly, innocently, and the Duchess spent a second or two floundering before shaking her head.

“Ah, no,” she confessed. “He is largely without friends, in our Empire, and I've resolved to help him meet some. His presence will also help to defuse any rumours of collusion or foul play, should Her Highness marry someone that the other ducal Houses wish she hadn't.” The wink that followed this was even more flamboyant than the last one, and Amy impulsively decided to set her newly-formed plan aside for the moment. There would be time later, when she had her husband in on it.

“His little pet seems to be making as many friends as he does,” she observed impishly, as the tiny blue thing poked Sonic in the nose and made him reel backwards in theatrical surprise amid its giggles. Rouge took her arm with a smile, and began to lead her over.

“I think it's high time I made some introductions,” the bat declared, “and perhaps a confession, also. I was unable to tear Her Highness away from her duties for a light luncheon,” she added to Amy, under her breath, “but this will still serve a purpose: the young man needs friends of his own, and an established history inside the Palace. He's to be invited to the Summer Start ball, next week, after all!”

“So soon?” Amy asked, though the question felt like a betrayal of the youth. “Is it wise, to rush so?”

“Sonic is nobility now,” Rouge explained. “He will need to be known to the staff and the guards, as one who's been within the walls and caused no trouble. The word of a Duchess and a reputable foreign ambassador will go even farther than his own family's vouching for him; spending a little time together like this allows us to begin gently giving him a presence.” She gave a languid shrug, catching the eye of Amy's towering husband and shooting him a smile that Amy had to admit was entirely innocent; perhaps there was still more to the bat's façade than her formalities. “Gentlemen? Do come and have some tea, while it's nice and warm. We've a basket of fruit for little Vivid, too,” she added to the hulking echidna, gesturing to the punnet on the table.

Amy watched, with interest, how both of their smiles widened. Well, now. That must be an awkward position for them both; she hadn't yet spoken to the ambassador, but from his bearing and manner, he seemed a thoroughly upright and straight-laced gentleman. To be enamoured with a highly-placed widow in another nation's upper echelons...but perhaps Rouge had the worse position still, with so many eyes upon her, and so many misconceptions wreathing her due to her societal deceptions. What this situation needed, she decided privately, was a catalyst. With an intimidating but erudite and well-spoken husband.

Have no fear, she promised the pair silently. Amy Rose is here.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor. The Amber Suite.

“Morning, sir,” came a voice from the doorway, in his batman's accented brogue.

Silver Horizon turned to meet the pangolin's eyes, and raised a laconic brow at the wince. Padraig closed the door behind him, his heavy soldier's pack still on his shoulders – and his captain's own pack in one powerful hand, brought from the stables downstairs. It must have been; it had been in separate pieces on either side of Vista's saddle, when he'd dismounted and nearly run his cousin through.

“Morning, Padraig,” he replied simply, returning his sword to its scabbard and laying it by the bed out of long-ingrained, occasionally-vindicated soldierly habit. “What news from the village?”

“Like a kicked beehive they are, sir,” reported his aide with a grimace. “Near enough the whole staff here have their parents or their little ones in them streets. Or both. The lord and lady are loved, right enough, and more so now they've shed blood protecting the common folk. - ah, talking of which, sir,” he continued, catching Silver's attention with the change in his tone. “There's gossip of some beastie on the premises that makes meat pies out've intruders. Got a howl like a thing from Hell, I do hear, but the staff aren't hearing a word said against it, whatever it is. Black and red sort of a creature, they're saying,” the pangolin added with a meaningful little emphasis.

“I'm familiar with the stories, Sergeant,” replied Silver, after a moment to gather himself and steady his breathing. “I've encountered it myself.”

“Aye, so I've been hearing from a couple of nice ladies built like brick outhouses, sir,” agreed Padraig, without so much as missing a beat. “There's even word that it talked you down, though there's also some as says it had a young lady's help. Pardon my asking, sir, but what sort've fairytale is it we've stepped in, exactly?”

Silver's experience as an officer had its limits, as did his ability to dissemble or conceal his reactions. Both were reaching their boundaries now. But if he couldn't trust his batman, then he couldn't trust anyone in uniform, could he? He kept his bearing upright, and let out enough of a breath to at least get it across to Padraig that things were...complicated.

“We've little intelligence on the source of the attack,” he informed the pangolin, falling back on combat-report reflexes to share what he knew. “Things are under control; more information will surely be forthcoming, given time. The, ah, beast is a gifted individual connected to the household, who's now unconscious following the work he put in defending the staff...which was, I'm told, prodigious and savage. Likewise the daughter of the house, who only fell into a faint and should recover any time. Any questions?”

“Just one. Permission to speak freely again?”

“Yes?”

“Will you for Chaos' sake stand easy, sir?” Padraig almost pleaded, moving a little closer and placing Silver's travelling pack on the floor at the foot of the bed. “I've not seen you so tense since that little bugger from the cavalry was trying to get you to duel him in front've his mates.”

That, at least, gave Silver pause. The martinet in question, a mounted officer named Fillip Fingerton, had been a problem indeed; had put work into it, really. His cavalry group had spent a couple of weeks camped alongside Silver's regiment, the Fifth Speartip Infantry, some three months ago; he had picked a fight with Silver over the merits of their respective armed services, and tried all manner of goading to draw him into physical violence. To this day, Silver didn't know what devil Fingerton had had whispering in his ear; it hadn't mattered in the end. Honour had demanded satisfaction, and Silver had decided to give the fool his face-off just to shut him up. He'd drawn his blade, allowed the cavalry officer to assume his preferred guard against sword-work, and then made the one move Fingerton's duelling instructors hadn't prepared him for: the pale hedgehog had simply stalked across the room with his weapon and guard completely down, and broken the man's cheekbone with a quick smash of the pommel.

He looked as tense as when Fingerton had had something to prove? That didn't bode well. “Do you think so?” he asked Padraig hesitantly, glancing at the mirror on the wall to his right. He didn't seem all that different, at a glance. “I'm hardly facing an insult to my honour here, Padraig, I can't find a way someone might be goading me. Unless there are whispers downstairs I don't know of,” he added, meaningfully. His batman gave a single shake of his head.

“Not of that sort, sir. They've a few wondering who you might be, one or two whispering of a handsome soldier come to visit, the usual excitement. One fellow was worried about you drawing a blade on what they're calling the Rose Dragon, even if it did speak some peace into you. I told him meself, I says no, mate, I've known Captain Horizon a good five years, served under him personally for three, and he's never killed anyone who didn't need the killing. Though that Fingerton bugger's meaner than a sackful of serpents, if you'll heed me about him, sir,” he added almost reproachfully.

“Your own words, Padraig. He didn't need the killing.”

“You've too much mercy in you, sir, permission to speak freely.” Usually those phrases would come in the opposite order, but Padraig knew he could trust his commander – and Silver, in turn, trusted Padraig to be truthful when many others might nod along to an officer's whims without question. “For him and his mates. They've baited you into swinging for one of them, with live steel out, and you've let the little sod walk away on his own feet. They'll keep doing it until one sees real consequences. Even if that doesn't mean leaving one of them stuffed as well as mounted.”

“Padraig, if I were to kill every man of rank who fails to respect the rest of the Army the way it deserves, our officer corps would be seven or eight gracious and worthy gentlemen – each so busy, he would never sleep again.” They'd been over this before, of course, but it made for a refrain as familiar as a marching song; Silver could use some familiarity, at this moment. He needed to ground himself, in this strange place and among these strange events. To give himself something to do, he began unpacking his gear – stowed to regulation perfection, as he'd expect from an experienced sergeant even on short notice and working from saddlebags. It was comforting, and he let the busy-work envelop him.

“All I'm saying, sir, is there's likely not many who'd complain if you did that trick you did with that Spagonian officer when you let his horse run away without him.”

“Wrung him out like a towel soaked with raspberry juice, you mean?” smiled Silver, with an air of exhausted resignation. “Padraig, the man's a fool, and arrogant - but that's no capital crime, though he wished to make it one for me. If he's to die for his conceits and his hubris, let it be the enemy who kills him. Let his family have that comfort, and his men that excuse.” He glanced at Farsight, his family's hereditary shortsword, allowing its presence to likewise bring him some comfort. The two most solid supports of his soldiering life were with him. He had nothing to fear in Blumenheim, when he considered the place objectively. “There's a side room through there,” he added, gesturing to a less ornate door. “Place your pack and situate yourself, and if you'll do one more thing for me first: somewhere in this place, there's a young fox lad, darkish blue fur. Training to be the lord's valet, seems a talented boy.”

“Aye, sir, I've seen him about. Doing his best impression of a blue-arsed fly, keeping people informed. Not a drop've sweat on him for it, either, gods know how much time he spends running after the old boy – if you'll pardon the observation, sir,” added the pangolin at Silver's cool look, suddenly seeming to remember that he described his commanding officer's family. “Is there a message for him?”

“Yes. If you'll ask him to get word to the Amber Suite,” Silver glanced around pointedly at the early-sunset-coloured walls, “when Mr Erin is in a fit state to be visited. Then you can get your head down. Gaia knows I mean to spend some time impersonating a sandbag.”

The sergeant's pack, quickly shrugged off, landed on the carpet with a gentle thump. “Aye, sir, it's a lovely thing to be on leave, so it is. Messenger to the Amber Suite when Mr Erin's fit for speaking with,” Padraig repeated as he reopened the door, to be sure he had the message right.

“Good man.” Silver busied himself with laying out his effects, positioning them where he'd need them, from his timepiece to his spare gloves, to his grooming kit and the little flask that was an unspoken secret among so many officers – for small mouthfuls, but potent ones, at night when the memories of blood and horror and desperation came on in a tide together. Few other things worked so quickly, and so well; it was a good thing Silver was something of a lightweight, refusing to otherwise touch alcohol. Many of his men considered him something of a stick-in-the-mud when it came to his relationship with drink, but none bore him ill will or thought less of him for it. Privately, he allowed them to think the relationship had been rather too close in the past, leading to his current abstinence. In truth, he didn't want the secret midnight gulps of strong stuff to lose their potency at putting him into a few hours of nightmare-free oblivion.

Once the door had closed behind the departing batman, he let go the pretence; his soul felt rubbed raw from keeping up the appearance of steadiness as long as it had, in light of what he'd seen this morning. He knew that he had a few minutes; he would take them. He sat upon the bed, pressing his face into his hands and hissing out a silent scream.

Gaia, Chaos, please. One of you. Help me tell him I'm sorry.

=======>>>>=======

When Amy awoke, she was in a bed. The familiar ceiling of her room was absent; the scents in the air told her this was one of the smaller rooms used for treating the injured or sick, below stairs. Fatigue seemed to take all thought from her, and her mind drifted aimlessly in some strange inner fog. Memory seemed detached; she knew all of who she was, but where had she been before? What had her goal been, and how had she arrived here? She made to move, and winced at the ache of her arm from where she had struck the assassin-

The assassins. She made to sit upright, as awareness surged back into her and sent waves of feeling down her limbs – but not strength, and she flopped like a fish. Something flinched to her right, and so did she; her recent history with such things left her instantly wary of anyone present when she awoke. At least this time, she noted, someone – likely her mother or one of the maids – had dressed her in a robe that afforded basic decency.

Her father had dozed off, it seemed, next to her. A glance to her left, seeking her mother, showed her Shadow instead, likewise exhausted; a squeeze of her right hand drew her gaze back to a fatherly smile.

“Welcome back, dear one,” he whispered softly. “Did you have a good sleep?”

“Father,” she began, helplessly, but where could she start? Her questions were so numerous, each as urgent as the last, that they fought to be first from her lips. Her father clasped her hand just a little tighter, and shook his head.

“Best not, beloved, he's had even less rest than you,” he warned her under his breath, nodding toward the slumped, red-streaked form. “Your mother is organising the cleaning, I promised I'd stay with you. Shadow awoke an hour ago, driven to distraction, poor blighter. He couldn't rest until he knew you were all right; seemed to have had the most frightful dream. I can hardly blame him, what?”

“It was a close thing,” came that familiar smoky voice, as Shadow raised his head. Perhaps they hadn't been so quiet as they intended to be. But then, who knew how acute Shadow's senses were, given what he was capable of becoming? Amy turned her head to contemplate him owlishly for a moment, before firmly crushing her trepidation beneath a mental boot-heel. In his first week in their home, she had allowed herself to be briefly repelled by the changes wrought upon him against his will, and had never felt more sickened at herself for it. What I saw of him last night was more of the same, she declared firmly to herself. I shall not let a matter of degree change my opinion of him. His soul is his own, and regardless of his shape, he remains a fundamentally good man.

“Shadow,” she breathed aloud, having determined all this in only a moment's silence. “Thank you. For – everything.” It felt inadequate, laughably so, after what had taken place. He had been so ashamed, to be seen in that shape; further, on her word and then her mother's, he had shown it to the serving staff. But he had been saving lives, and she contented herself – and privately resolved she would make him do likewise – with the knowledge that he had placed their safety above this secret.

Shadow, for his part, still looked embarrassed. “I must apologise for placing my hand upon you. Ungloved, and bloodied. It isn't to be borne.”

“Under the circumstances, I can find no fault in it,” she told him, shooting a glance at her father – but the older man seemed likewise sanguine, and returned her look with a reassuring smile.

“I'll go and let your mother know you're awake,” the Baron stated, cutting into the conversation. “I'm sure things shall be fine for five minutes without a chaperone, what? - oof,” he added, having turned his head rather too sharply for a man suffering the characteristic misfortunes of the morning after a battle. Exhaustion invariably followed the rush of combat, and Aidan Rose was not a gentleman accustomed to feeling it; perhaps, thought Amy, the presence of her mother would bolster him the way Shadow seemed to have bolstered her.

But unchaperoned? She opened her mouth to question it, and was interrupted before she could begin by her father's further explanation. “Your pardon, both of you,” he explained blithely, as he drew himself carefully upright. “The perils of rashly pivoting the loaf when fatigue tugs at the muscles. I shan't be long,” he added – cautioned them? Offered them? - as he made for the door.

When it closed behind him, Amy huffed in resignation and turned to look at Shadow again. “I suppose I should warn you that I have no intention of besmirching your honour, Shadow Erin, for I know he couldn't have meant all that for me,” she told him tartly, and received a soft laugh, like smouldering black velvet in a lightless cellar, in response.

“I shouldn't dally, either,” began Shadow. “I'll be sought out, today. I want to meet my cousin...properly, this time. But I felt compelled to be certain,” he added, and glanced at her hand where it lay atop the sheets. “I recall only a little of last night. You...saw it. That much, I know. But I needed to be sure you were unharmed. That I wasn't too late, and that I hadn't...”

She saw him struggle, and shook her head – sitting up, slowly, carefully. “You didn't hurt me, Shadow,” she assured him, leaning closer to place herself within his vision while he stared seemingly at nothing. “I truly don't believe you ever could. I have never felt anything but safe around you, even when you were newly recovered to us. Perhaps that's foolish,” she added, tilting her head in consideration.

“You are no fool, Ammeline.” His voice was quiet. Certain. “I know you well enough to be sure. Any silliness from you is deliberate, and calculated. You are the most rational silly lady I ever met.”

She straightened where she sat, pulling some dignity to her. “And yet I let my temper flare, time after time, when you show me your sense of humour,” Amy huffed, exasperated with herself. “so easily provoked when all you do is demonstrate that you're a man who enjoys some quiet absurdity. I'm a fool sometimes. I know it, as certainly as I know the colour of my quills.”

“We are all of us fools, sometimes.” Shadow didn't have the fortitude for eye contact, at this moment. But his ears twitched, as though he felt her gaze burning into his cheek.

Amy would not be silenced. “I treat you so brutally. You respond to my pushes upon your person with wit, and with – with finesse, and...I only grow frustrated, when we fence so, because you wield your blade so much more sharply than I mine.”

Shadow was silent for a long moment. From what she had gleaned of his personal manner, even when he was silent and still, it appeared as if he were wrestling with a decision. “A man who cannot stand the prick of a thorn does not deserve to hold the rose,” he whispered quietly.

It hit the conversation like a boulder falling into a puddle. Amy stared at him, briefly silenced in the appalling revelation of what she had done all this time, and to whom. “Shadow,” she began, softly, as if the idea itself were a butterfly that she might blow away if she raised her voice. “You-”

“I conceal a great deal from a great many people, Ammeline. Little enough from you, save what would hurt you to no gain. And some things - some feelings are too vast to keep hidden for long.” Finally, as if it had taken a mighty effort, he dragged his gaze to meet hers. “And last night I might have lost the chance to give voice to this,” he added, and she realised with a shock that his eyes were wet. “I nearly lost you, before you ever knew. Not again. I shan't miss another chance, knowing how easily the future might be taken from me. Knowing I'm still hunted,” he hissed, casting his gaze aside for a moment. “I dare not conceal, not for a day longer, how deeply I have come to care for you. How fervently I've wished that you might return my regard.”

She tried to make herself say it. It wouldn't come, and with a pang she realised that this was the sensible outcome; she was not yet sure, and it pained her viciously that she could not return his feelings without making herself a liar. Shadow looked into her face as if he knew her every thought. He nodded in acceptance, his mouth a flat line.

“I know,” he supplied, in quiet resignation. “You do not. But I dare to hope that one day, you might. I may presume too much. But there are some flowers that will only sprout after their seeds have been touched by the heat of a forest fire,” he added, his hand daring to rest for one searing instant on her own. “And so I will continue to infuriate you, and love you, and be a fool along with you, and hope that the fires of your temper might cause something else to bloom.”

A tear threatened to spill. He caught it on his finger before it could escape down her cheek, moving with infinite tenderness. A gentle smile - great Gaia, where did he have the resources to pull a smile from, now of all moments? - crossed his face, and he placed his hand back upon hers for a heartbeat longer.

“Every young lady, I would think, cries over unrequited love at some point,” he murmured. “I dare not allow you to feel guilt over this. Consider, then, Ammeline: the kindness it must take, to cry over another's love because you are grieved you cannot return it.” He slowly pushed himself to his feet. “That, even more than your fire, is why I love you.”

He was gone in a moment, and left her to reel.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Rose Townhouse, Leon City

Amy Rose, it seemed to Sonic, had hidden depths.

Her initial impression upon him had been eminently reasonable, and this was to be expected; she stood in contrast, at the time, to the minor breakdown her husband had suffered upon first sight of him. In the days since that introductory display of level-headedness, he had glimpsed another lady behind the mask of calm, the mediating influence, she had become.

From her casual and good-natured ribbing of her husband, he saw a woman whose spirit rejoiced in being matched to a man who both suited her and respected her; from the ease of her acceptance and the welcome she had offered him, he saw a lady of warmth and kindness. From the gleaming head of the warhammer mounted within easy reach over the mantel, angled so that its shaft crossed the blade of a black-metal greatsword, he saw a fighter who remained ready to defend her home and her family, if need be. And from the delighted, hushed whispers over the breakfast table this morning, he saw a lady given to benevolent scheming and good deeds by stealth.

It had been two days since the tea party within the walls of the Imperial Palace; the lack of an appearance by Her Highness had been a disappointment, but Sonic had schooled himself to keep his expectations tempered. The fact was that the monarch of his nation had lit a fire within his soul, and he had come to terms with the new state of affairs for his heart extremely quickly. His natural impetuosity, however, meant he was obliged to remind himself that his sudden and devoted romantic blossoming was in no way an obligation on her part to drop her royal duties and appear before him at his convenience. Shadow and Amy had commended him, frankly and openly, upon this phlegmatic acceptance after some gentle queries on the carriage ride back to the Rose townhouse. Not all young men in love, he was told, were so understanding that a lady might have demands upon her time. This bodes well for you, Shadow had remarked, and he couldn't help a moment of pleased warmth at the relatively straightforward praise from a man so much more experienced with romance.

This had lingered on his mind somewhat, overnight; this morning, before Shadow had appeared among them for breakfast, he had made careful inquiries with Amy as to how, exactly, Shadow had wooed her. He sought only inspiration, he'd hurriedly assured her, but he hadn't been ready for the peal of laughter that spilled from Amy before he'd even finished saying so.

“Young man, I advise you not to attempt the methods your older cousin employed in his romantic dalliances,” she counselled him, once she had herself a little more under control.

“They seem to have worked all right for him.” Sonic shifted uneasily. “Also, Amy, you are eight years my senior. Hardly a dowager.”

“Yes, but he has had the great fortune of finding a partner in life whose capability for mayhem exceeds his own. I can't recommend you fish about for a woman like me, heir of House Erin. And I am a respectable married lady, and will address my juniors as I wish.” Her nose was in the air, but he knew his cousin's wife held few to no malicious bones in her body. He was safe to treat this as gentle verbal jousting over breakfast.

“Do you fear I'll fail, or that I'll succeed?” he asked playfully, as the doorway was darkened by a new arrival.

“She fears you'll chase an impossibility, cousin,” rumbled Shadow, that unearthly growl evident in his morning voice before he got himself more under control. “There are no women like my wife.”

“For all your work to render conversation labyrinthine, dear, you do occasionally let its wanderers find the gems of truth within it,” teased Amy, kissing his gloved hand when it came down lovingly on her shoulder.

“It'd be churlish not to reward their efforts,” the taller hedgehog smiled, taking his seat next to her. “Sonic, if you've – ah, thank you, Madeline,” he smiled, as the junior maid placed his meal before him. “Just the thing, to fortify a man for a day's standing still. We've preparations to make, Sonic,” he added, and Sonic blinked at the abrupt change of topic. “We have only four full days, before the Summer Start ball at the Palace. As we're all invited, we will all dazzle those who look on us.” Sonic cast a glance toward Amy, pleading silently for elaboration, but it was Shadow who showed mercy this time. “We have appointments with a tailor. One in whom I have faith,” he added, and Amy's ears perked up at a realisation. “She shall have outfits ready for us by the day of the ball, but first we must be measured and our preferences noted.”

“You didn't tell me you'd remained in contact with Miss Drift, Shadow,” smiled Amy, all warmth; Sonic had a moment of confusion, as surely a married man keeping unremarked contact with an unmarried lady would be a cause for concern, but it was Amy's turn to supply him with context. “A tailor we know from some years ago, dear,” she told him. “Shadow's first suits of proper clothing after he was recovered – rather pleasing ones, too – came from her hand. I can't imagine she's lost any of her skill since then.”

“On the contrary, angel,” Shadow noted, delivering a precise and fatal cut to a rasher of bacon. “Mrs Drift owns a shop in Leon now, and employs other seamstresses. Her wife is a skilled accountant, and so they can afford better fabrics, in better colours, than many others. I intend to ask her to work her will upon us all, and remind the world of a few things about hedgehogs.”

“Such as?” asked Sonic, beginning to eat rather more quickly. If they had an itinerary for today, he wouldn't be the one to delay them.

“That when we meet the world's gaze, it shan't be we who do the quailing,” Amy announced firmly, with some satisfaction.

“And that when we turn out to be seen,” added Shadow, “we strike awe.”

=======>>>>=======

The tailor, it seemed, remembered Shadow well. Their reunion was as warm as propriety allowed, and respectful on both sides; likewise, Amy had clasped the woman's hands in her own and expressed her joy at seeing the other's success. His own introduction had been rather more careful, at first, but the amber-gold otter had dropped into a brief but professional curtsey and let slip that she'd seen his presentation before the city by her Highness. She was as aware as anyone else as to his identity; for the first time, seeing the circumspect way Shadow and Amy broached the subject, Sonic began to wonder seriously as to what sort of danger he may have invited upon himself with his public announcement of his origins.

Nevertheless, with the niceties over, the particulars of their needs were explained; Shadow had merely explained that Sonic had had no experience having a formal outfit made or his colouring discussed, and Mrs Drift had turned a seasoned eye upon him.

“Then with your permission, I shall take personal charge of the affair,” she'd noted, and Shadow and Amy had seemed pleased. “Both of your own colour preferences, I remember; perhaps a deep red tone?”

“Superb,” Shadow had noted, and had sent Sonic off in the tailor's company with a good-natured I shouldn't arrange everything for you, cousin, these choices are your own before turning to speak with one of the junior seamstresses.

“Well, now,” remarked Mrs Drift in a pleasant, contralto voice once they were alone. “First, my lord, I shall measure your dimensions; as we go, we shall discuss what colours and types of fabric might suit your preferences. I hope I might add the voice of experience in these questions.”

“I'll be grateful to hear it,” replied Sonic, as she took his outer coat and hung it up, gesturing him onto a low stool in the centre of the room. It wasn't an overly spacious chamber, and the rolls of fabric around them deadened sound as she took a piece of knotted silken string from a vest pocket. “As my cousin said, this is my first time being measured for more than simple working clothes. I place my fate in your hands,” he added, in a self-effacing faux-plea.

“I pride myself on being trusted with many such fates,” she smiled back at him. “If you'd just raise your arms, I shall begin with the measurements of your arms and across your chest...there. And to continue around behind, the span over and beneath your – primary – quills-” she added as she went, working the cord swiftly above and below the roots of the spines at his upper back, checking the comparison of shoulder to torso and murmuring a few numbers to herself under her breath.

“I can't help but find it impressive, to be able to do all this on sight and memory,” remarked Sonic, and a soft chuff of laughter came from behind him.

“There are ways to simplify it, through habit and practice,” smiled Mrs Drift, beginning to measure his waist. “Now, if I might venture – is there a particular aversion to one colour or another?” her voice was dropping into the half-whisper of one focusing on their work to an almost trancelike extent, as she held onto the measurements she was taking.

“Yellow,” replied Sonic immediately, and she nodded with a faint grimace.

“Yes, that would do quite terrible things to your colouring,” she concurred, coming round to one side and measuring the length of his leg, tilting her head and muttering another number afterward. “I think the course of wisdom here is to choose a cooler option, something to complement your fur...your eyes are such an intense green,” she mused, “something to truly bring them out. A red, perhaps, but...am I very much mistaken that you'd like to stand slightly distinct from Lord and Lady Rose?” At his unhesitating agreement, she nodded to herself. “I suspected a newly-gifted gentleman might wish to make his own impression. Then, perhaps a deep, dark purple?” she suggested, gesturing to a particular roll of fabric on one wall. “With silver metallic elements in places, contrasted with dark greys or black, to keep the cool shades so your eyes remain the warmest parts of the ensemble...”

Sonic let the advice wash over him, and stared at the deep purple fabric. Yes. That would do nicely.

=======>>>>=======

The ball itself, when it came, was every bit the crowded, blaringly loud affair Shadow remembered.

The main ballroom of the Imperial Palace had been opened to the Empire's assembled nobility, each family having sent representatives – most of whom, this year, were young unmarried men with hopes of impressing Her Highness. For many, it hadn't worked out; fortunately, a number of families had brought their eligible daughters, fully aware of the number of bachelors who'd be in attendance. At this stage of the proceedings, there were plentiful excited little conversations going on around the edge of the main dance floor as gentlemen and ladies made introductions and found what intriguing or promising potential partners they may.

The first few dances had gone smoothly, and he and Ammeline had indulged themselves in a waltz or two – to throw off suspicion, and enjoy some simple time together as a married couple amid the turmoil and vexatious eventfulness that had entered their lives since their arrival in Leon at the beginning of the month. It could only have been a temporary reprieve, and so they enjoyed it to its fullest; after two dances, they had separated for Ammeline to 'mingle' – with Duchess Chiros, naturally, who had been carefully manoeuvring several other factors of the ball to ensure Her Highness would have an opening to speak with the Empire's newest gifted hero and invite him to dance. Shadow, for his part, had found himself directed by his wife's parting words to Speak with the Echidna ambassador again, my dear, he seems a good man in an awkward position. Never one to underestimate the planning behind cryptic wifely advice, he had engaged the mountainous envoy in a conversation that had quickly turned to frank and understanding cultural comparisons.

“There is so much...concealment, artifice, to speaking in this land,” explained Knuckles mournfully. “So much unsaid, like traps in long grass. You wield power as we do, but as if through a veil, or a thick blanket. Everything is...not hidden. Not subtle. Another word.”

“Oblique?” asked Shadow, tilting his head. The crimson ambassador nodded enthusiastically, his heavy gold-ringed dreads swaying just a little.

“Yes!...I suppose. So many unspoken rules as to when to say a thing, and ways in which a misstep may become a weapon for another. Without learning those, I am unlikely to succeed for long as a builder of bridges.” Knuckles seemed to deflate a little. “Or at anything else I wish to achieve here.”

Shadow gave the echidna a searching glance, then sent another over toward his cousin – currently attempting not to blush his way through a sentence, as the Princess looked on with tolerant affection blooming in her gaze. Yes. There it is. Nearly identical. This is a man beginning to fall in love. “Then in the spirit of friendship, I shall be as direct as an echidna for a short time,” he murmured cautiously, barely audible over the lip of his wineglass. “Does the lady stand in this room somewhere?”

“She speaks to your wife now.” Knuckles was kind enough to ignore the double take, though on a man of Shadow's reserve its presence at all spoke volumes. “Lord Rose, I have had time for only a little friendship with you so far, though I would like to grow more of it. But I am reduced to an abject plea, and I do not know when I shall see you next, with another chance to ask. I wish to know...how I might be to her, as you are to Lady Rose. You glow together, plain to see. You move around each other like two halves of the same flame. I would ask...how I can be like that, with Duchess Rouge.”

This was a development Shadow hadn't expected for this evening. Nevertheless, he rose to meet it; he had suffered this anguish himself, once. He would not see a decent man put through it if he could apply himself to catalyse matters instead. “Ambassador...” he paused, and shook his head. “Knuckles. I shall call you friend, if you like, and not make myself a liar. You have a good heart, and it seems a voluminous one. I think it only natural you should wish to share it with someone. And the Duchess is...she has a reputation gained by controlling the perceptions of men, but I believe you are not taken in. You admire her, more than you desire her. Am I mistaken in this?”

The burly crimson man relaxed, almost imperceptibly. “You are not...Shadow. My friend.”

Shadow nodded. “Then you are a man who stands alone among a thousand, to her. My advice to you is to let her come to see that, at her own pace. Give it no unnecessary pressure. But when you compliment her, do so with reference to what she has achieved. Her appearance is a shield, to deflect the scheming of those who look at her and think they see all that she is. Allowing it to come to her attention that you have so immediately looked beyond those distractions, and seen a capable and generous and dutiful woman, will set you above many hundreds in her esteem.”

“Could it be so simple?” wondered Knuckles, half to himself. “Her appearance, calculated to distract – I can see that she does it. But it would only fool...well, a fool.”

“Duchess Chiros is nothing if not an expert at turning men into fools,” noted Shadow. “Be sincere with her, say nothing that you do not feel. And if she doesn't show you that exact smile,” he added, pointing at the insincere simper Rouge had paused to give to some particularly ambitious lordling as she declined his request to dance, “then you are likely succeeding.”

“Is this how you drew your lady close to you?” asked Knuckles. Shadow gave a huff of laughter.

“Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. My wife I wooed by infuriating her at every turn, until she slipped a ring onto my finger so that she could spend the rest of our days avenging her scorched pride.”

“For example,” piped up Ammeline from Shadow's other side, “he has never once done me the courtesy of being so direct as he just was with you. He must always take the most roundabout route from the start of a statement to its centre. More than once he has taken a full half-minute to gently and lovingly inform me that I look like a fool when I wear some colour, or some style of dress.”

“But I always look her in the eye as I do it,” announced Shadow, somewhat proudly. “which allows me to spend a slight majority of my married life gazing on the most wondrous thing in the world.”

“Even when you think she looks a fool?” asked Knuckles, faintly but visibly bemused at this.

“Especially at those times. My wife's eyes flash most fetchingly when the urge comes upon her to call me names,” he proudly explained.

“I have it now. Speak of me as if I'm here, you towering gargoyle.”

“Yes, my buttercup. I see you're finished speaking with the Duchess.” Ammeline's face did something vaguely unladylike, and he rewarded her with her temper's favourite target: a smugly insouciant smile of gentle, almost beatific serenity and contentment.

“I have. We agreed that your cousin is thoroughly smitten, and the princess is thoroughly charmed by it,” she noted, keeping her voice low and pleasantly conversational – nearly convincing him he wouldn't have her most sarcastic barbs turned upon him later.

Shadow nodded, slowly, gravely, as Knuckles glanced back and forth between them. “I see. Knuckles, my friend, I apologise, but this may be the time to go and speak to the Duchess; my wife and I must discuss some family matters, during which it would perhaps not be seemly for an ambassador to be seen with us. Remember my advice, and put her people foremost in your mind, as she does.”

“I...will. Thank you, Shadow, and Lady Rose. Pleasant evening to you both.” The powerful foreigner inclined his head politely and turned, shoulders still stretching the seams of his Solar-style clothes, to leave them to plot together.

“What does the Duchess recommend?” asked Shadow, quietly.

Amy smiled – all affectionate rancour forgotten – and placed a hand over his, where it rested companionably upon her forearm. “That we recall how people loved our tale, in Blumenheim. A powerful and imposing but weakened and vulnerable man, rescued and nursed back to health; the core of so many classic romantic stories. So too is the other tale, a long-lost heir to a loyal and noble family, appearing when a princess needs him the most. Rescuing her, from persistently untenable circumstances.”

“Love stories?”

“The people adore them. Stories have power, my dear husband, and this one has a power we can wield to bring joy to everyone important to us.”

It sounded reasonable to Shadow...or, if he were honest with himself, it sounded precisely the sort of unreasonable plan that would succeed through its bare audacity.

“Excellent,” was all he said. “Then let us protect them, ourselves and Lady Chiros, while they inspire the poets of the Empire to ever greater heights of absolute sludge.”

“Oh, hush. There is some good love poetry in the world, you know.”

“Outrageous lies,” Shadow declared, but his smile could not be concealed. After all, he added inwardly, none of them have written of you.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor. Shadow's Room.

The knock at the door proved every bit as terrifying as the waiting that preceded it.

Shadow had known this would come; he welcomed it, but feared it. This would be painful, and open old wounds, and he worried that he might misstep. Might say something foolish, or painfully thoughtless, and irreparably harm his relationship with his cousin.

Intellectually, he knew there was little to no chance of it. They had already reunited, at least enough to be sure that if Silver wished to castigate him, the sword Farsight had had plenty of chances to find its way into his flesh. He remained whole and unblemished – or no further blemished than when he'd gone to bed the prior evening, at least. Shadow felt safe assuming that his cousin bore him no malice or rancour. Still, he knew also that what was coming would be harrowing.

“Enter,” he called, his voice carefully level as he drew himself to his feet from the chair before his writing-desk. His eyes stung as Silver stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. The two stared at each other, and something in Shadow was perversely glad to see no pity mingled with the grief in his cousin's gaze. He knew that his oldest, greatest friend was just as close to tears, and yet no singular set of words could fight their way free of the melee, the absolute brawl of apologies and commiserations and forgiveness and relief that struggled against one another within him.

“Oh, Shadow,” whispered Silver brokenly, and the problem went away. His sworn brother grieved, and here he stood. He crossed the room in a moment, and enfolded Silver in an embrace that – despite their difference in height since the last time – nevertheless felt like coming home. He wasn't certain which of them wept first; later, he would consider it a distinction without a difference.

“I thought you gone,” came the shattered whisper from the paler hedgehog, a little below his shoulder. “I had your letters – I replied to them, there was no doubt you lived, but it still felt...”

“Like the end of a nightmare,” supplied Shadow, and his cousin nodded against his chest. “But I'm real. I live, brother. I live, and I fight, and I smile...though perhaps not with the teeth you recall,” he added wryly. Silver looked up at him, opening the embrace so that they clasped one another's upper arms instead.

“...I hadn't thought it seemly to ask,” and the captain's tear-tracks creased around his bitter smile. “It seems there's much for us to catch up on. Your...captivity, your escape. Your rescue?” he added, nodding at the room around them. Shadow took a breath and gestured to the chair he'd vacated shortly beforehand; seating himself on the edge of his bed, he waited for his cousin to be situated.

“My captor,” he began, “was a lunatic. A jackal, obsessed with obtaining personal power of some form he never explained to me. Much of the time he had me in chains, he spent inflicting harm and measuring how long it took to heal. Then he...would do something, to me. Different things, each time, I think. And then he'd harm me again, to see if I recovered differently.”

“Tell me the filth lies dead,” was all Silver could drop into the silence that followed. Shadow nodded, slowly.

“My escape is a blur. He had placed...something within my body, beneath my heart. Something cold, I remember, like stones. I believe I adopted the shape you saw in the gardens, and he was unprepared. I do certainly recall the sensation of...him, beneath my hand. Dying.” He met Silver's eyes, firmly. “That much, I can promise. Of what followed, I remember nothing but fire. And then coldness, and the rest blurs again, until I awoke here in Blumenheim with an angel-”

“I beg your-” Silver bit back the rest of the visceral reaction, but Shadow had paused in his tale. He had to fill the gap with something. But an angel? Shadow had never been the devout sort, though all knew a terrible experience of helplessness could change a man. Unless – he glanced at the closed door. “Do you mean Ammeline?”

“She despises the full length of her name,” replied Shadow non-committally, and it was this that made Silver certain. A smile made of seven-tenths pure devilment stole across his face.

“Yes, and I'd wager my horse you call her nothing else,” he accused, earning a roll of Shadow's eyes that in turn brought a peal of laughter from the paler man.

“I'm glad you find my recovery so joyous an event, cousin,” remarked Shadow, all faux-affront. Silver only laughed harder, until tears started from his eyes again.

“Oh, Shadow,” he sighed at last, but there was relief in his voice, instead of the sorrow with which he'd spoken the words before. “I can't tell you of my joy. There aren't words in any language I know, for how it feels to see it's still you. Still the Shadow I ran with, whose darkest urge was to kick the world in the trousers and run away laughing.”

“Who else would I be, brother?” Shadow asked, but a little uncertainly. Silver's face fell, and he glanced at the window – and at the world outside, his gaze briefly focusing who knew how many years backward.

“I've seen men recovered from captivity, Shadow,” the gleaming hedgehog began, “and many are scarred by it. I'm sure the Baroness has seen it, herself. Some are changed, deeply, fundamentally, by the experience. Some are not,” he added, gesturing to Shadow, “but knowing that you'd been taken alive, the thought haunted me. It seems rather unreal, to see you before me, still yourself.”

“Not entirely,” groused Shadow, lifting a hand to one of the streaks in his quills. They both knew, from the encounter before sunrise, that they glowed faintly. Even while the light in the room dimmed it by comparison, there was no denying that whatever the jackal had inflicted upon him had altered some fundamental principle of his bodily functions; hedgehogs did not glow, after all. “Aside from all this, my gift...changed, or is gone. Taken. Removed. Now it's...as you saw, outside.”

Silver was having none of it. He stood, crossed to the bed, and sat by his cousin with a hand on his shoulder. “In the ways that count,” he announced. “A man who's lost a limb is the same man, grieved though he might be at the lack. A man losing an eye doesn't lose his soul with it. A man losing his gift? - So far as I can tell, brother, you remain yourself. This loss hasn't changed your humour, or your conscience. Or, perhaps, your ability to hope for better,” he added, and Shadow met his gaze at that.

“Do you suppose my dreams are unchanged, after the duchy fell?” he asked, nigh incredulous, and Silver shook his head patiently.

“Don't look at me, brother. My dreams died with my wife. You, on the other hand, seem to have found some new ones. Or so it seems, from the – angel you mentioned.” Shadow blinked, his thoughts stalling at the return to the topic of Ammeline, before narrowing his eyes. Silver had always been an observant one.

“And you naturally know all, having been at the manor fully half a morning,” he began archly, but Silver was having none of it, and nudged him amicably.

“I know that look, brother. I also know you never wore it around Miss Lydia Haestrom.”

“Miss Haestrom never wore it around me, either, Silver.”

“Thus, and so. But does anyone wear it around you now?”

Shadow was not impressed by his cousin's military standards of subtlety, and shot him a glance that said so. “The look she gives me, brother, might be given to a pet who's been instructed not to do it on the rug again, and has nevertheless put on a repeat performance.”

Silver laughed, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Shadow began to relax, some taut knot easing in his chest. What they'd both suffered would take more than one conversation to resolve, and to think otherwise would be absurd. But this was, at the least, proof enough that they remained friends. Other conversations would happen, in their time. But for now – oh. Shadow straightened where he sat, caught by a sudden realisation.

“Silver,” he began, cautiously, “I have two questions to ask. How long are you staying? And...what do you recall of our mythology lessons?”

The Springbloom Masquerade was only two days away, and it would not be cancelled over the events of last night; House Rose would never allow such an attack to make them look as if they'd faltered for a single moment. If Silver was to attend, they had work to do.

=======>>>>=======

Elsewhere, Amy's morning was taking something of a different turn. After Shadow had left her, with that confession scorching a hole into her thoughts, she had sat quite still for perhaps two or three minutes together as her thoughts raced, without a gear to catch and push them to motivate her limbs. When she'd felt her strength return to her at last, she had hurriedly dressed in the simplest decent clothing she could, and fled the little medical refuge to seek out the one she knew she could trust to speak to on this development.

When she'd found her mother, she had paused at the edge of the whirlwind of orders the Baroness was giving out. It had only taken a moment or two for the older woman to spot her, and she had asked Mr Thrace to take over organising things before leading her daughter into a smaller area near the back door, where no one currently passed.

“Now, my dear,” she smiled, turning to face Amy. “I'm glad you're up and-” she got no further, as Amy threw herself into her mother's arms and clung to her, tears starting from her eyes.

“Mother...he has told me he loves me. And for a moment I wished more than anything that I could say I love him too.” Amy didn't waste time with chit-chat; this was far too important. From the barely perceptible start the older woman gave, the opinion was unanimous.

“You didn't say it?” Amaranthine asked cautiously, as if careful to avoid assumptions.

“I wasn't sure I would be telling the truth,” Amy clarified, her voice cracking halfway through.

Her mother drew her into a closer embrace, after a moment of regarding her carefully, and squeezed her tightly. “Then my dear, I am truly proud of the woman you've become,” she declared, in a soft and confident whisper. “You've done him a great service, and shown him enormous respect, with that honesty; from what I know of that man, he'll see the gift you gave him, in your answer. A truth he can deal with, rather than a lie to throw him off, or a hasty decision to match some fantasy of a romantic moment.”

“Such a...” Amy sniffled. “Such a weak, wavering, unsure truth, though. Not even to tell him I don't know, while he sat there with his heart open before me, but to imply it with my silence.”

“Darling,” whispered her mother, “Shadow Erin is first and foremost a practical man. Truths are the stones from which such a man builds his life. And as well,” she added, pressing her lips softly to her daughter's brow, “your silence was no denial. It was the admission of potential. He will know that, I promise you. I have to confess," she added with a teasing smile, "I've long thought you two would make a beautiful couple.”

“Mother!” Amy's blush was as fearsome a crimson as the older woman's quills.

“Such pretty grandchildren I might yet dandle on my knee.”

It was at this point, true to form, that her father came in from the garden and spotted the embrace. “What ho, what ho,” he greeted them cheerfully. “Beg your pardon, my dears, didn't mean to interrupt the familial glow and all that. Anything afoot that a father should know?”

“Amy has had a romantic encounter, Aidan,” replied her mother, drawing back so that her fellow parent might see the blush on their daughter.

"Has she, by gods,” mused the lord of the manor, eyeing the tear-tracks on Amy's cheeks. “And, er – should I, um, fetch your rifle, darling?”

“You shall do nothing of the sort,” announced Amy, her voice suddenly strong for a moment. “It was I who - oh, for goodness' sake.” She rubbed at her eyes. Her father had left them alone for five minutes, and what a turn the morning had taken since! This was his fault, a part of her announced irrationally, but she quashed it and gave him the mercy of knowing what he'd stepped aside to permit. “You might as well know it, Father, but I beg you not to spread it about. Shadow Erin has confessed his love for me. And I – am not unhappy with it,” she added, drawing some strength to herself now that she had some hindsight with which to view the event. “I wept out of guilt, I believe. I'm not all that sure I love him back, you see.”

“Oh, well, that's all right,” beamed Lord Aidan. “Some days I can't quite believe your mother loves me. It's the nature of love, Amy dear - sometimes it sort of strikes you across the mazzard, even with years of practice at knowing it, and you stagger at the realisation that such a person can find you worth gluing themselves to for life.” He gave a self-effacing cough, and glanced at his wife. “On occasion, one can even find oneself wondering if one's even worthy to return the regard shown to one, by such a person. If you catch my meaning.”

“Aidan Rose,” began Amaranthine meaningfully, and Aidan let his arm fall to his side with a hopeless, resigned smile.

“Thankfully, in my case I was shown that regard by someone with rather less patience for my self-doubt than I myself possess,” he added belatedly, at his wife's return of the smile. “We've little enough time in life, to hesitate when a good thing's put in front of us, my darling. I shan't hurry you in either direction on a decision like this. But your loving father is asking you: when you do confirm with yourself what it is you want, then you reach out and take it, and then dig your heels in and don't let go. Or your mother may become short with you, what?”

“Yes, father,” sniffled Amy, through her gentle laughter.

=======>>>>=======

By the time Springbloom arrived, Shadow had become rather more stable in himself after the intrusion. The remaining intruders – of whom there were only two, one of the initial trio of survivors having succumbed to wounds inflicted by Miss Leslie Thrace (who had hurled herself into battle wielding a hatpin in each hand, and had displayed a kind of fury that left Shadow wondering just how much stress the Rose family accountant must be dealing with) – had been taken to the capital under heavy guard, and thus rather more slowly than a lighter, swifter carriage might make the trip. A trial was expected at some point, he understood.

The ball itself, when it commenced, held a quality that Shadow hadn't expected. A masquerade, of course, he had experienced; the sheer jollity of this occasion, though, caught him by surprise. Winter's End had been a ball without masks, but surely things weren't so different between the two celebrations? A few moments' thought, though, and the feel of Ammeline's hand upon his arm, made the conclusion obvious: the difference was in Shadow himself. At Winter's End, he had been predisposed to look upon nearly everyone present, including himself, as a judgemental pair of eyes. He had been ashamed of himself, from head to toe, and all bravado had been just that: empty defiance, flung in the face of a world that looked at him and whispered behind its hand. Ammeline's presence had changed things, then; now, even more so.

“When you've quite finished wool-gathering, Shadow Erin,” came the imperious voice of the very same young lady, “I should like to dance at least once this evening.” He shot a look to his left, where Ammeline herself stood – his partner to the ball, the arrangement confirmed between them both after a brief and horrendously awkward half-day in which they hadn't known what to say to one another. In the end, she had quietly admitted to him that she still wished to play the Persephone to his Hades for this party, and had briefly held his hand while she said it. Relief had flooded him, like the warmth of stepping from a snowstorm into a lounge with a lit fireplace; they had spoken no more on the matter of his confession since, and had settled happily back into their familiar verbal jousting.

Without a word, he took Ammeline's hand and led her to the edge of the dancing, beginning to turn her about the floor before he felt comfortable enough to put his voice to work. In the end, she won that race.

“When you turn all your attention inward like that, it makes me think you're ruminating on things that can be safely left alone for later,” she whispered softly, pitching her voice to carry only so far as it must, to reach the ears of a man so much taller than herself.

That wouldn't do. He leaned down, very close. “Come now, Dread One,” he murmured by her ear, causing her eyes to widen and her cheeks to flame crimson. “This evening is already perfectly ridiculous, thanks to the masques. If we're to treat it as farce, let us at least be among those finding sport in it.” They arced between two other pairs of dancers, Shadow's much longer legs nevertheless keeping his movements limited to match what Ammeline's shorter frame did. Their voices must stay low, for propriety's sake in this public setting; they were obliged to match one another's pace.

“We also have entertainment of our own to enjoy,” he added, as her father fought to stay upright in the sandals of his Patroclus costume, in which he looked every bit the historic love of his wife's Achilles ensemble. There wasn't much of it, and every so often the older hedgehog was obliged to surreptitiously glance down at himself to ensure everything remained as it should.

“Why, Shadow Erin,” she whispered back, glancing at him from the corner of her eye - was that a hint of affection in her gaze? - “I had not thought you so plebeian as to find amusement in pratfalls.”

“There are many things you have not thought about me, Dread Queen,” he murmured, “which remain true even without the light of your contemplation.”

“Must you attach such epithets to me?” she added, in something she would never admit had even approached a whine. “At this rate, I shall be carrying them like wishes hung from a First Fall branch.”

“Positively festooned,” he agreed, without inflection.

“Then why must you torment me with them?” she added, keeping her pleasant party-countenance only with some effort.

Unfortunately, this could not go unnoticed by her dance partner. “The epithets of divinity, in particular? Or using them in general?”

“Let us have one answer first, then another.” She was positively pouting now, but managing to do it with only her eyes.

“Then I should clarify,” he murmured, as the music swept them round – long-trained muscle memory enabling him to lead her even after so long without a dance – “that the divine epithets were those truly attached to the goddess whose aspect you wear. Though given your self-control where others might see your expression change, there is some dread to be found in you even without the aid of mythology.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, just a little – enough to wish that her gaze could singe the fur off his cheek, perhaps. “And the...more general aspect?”

Shadow raised what was, for him, a jocular eyebrow. “Are we to suppose my pale attempts at describing you have reached past your personal poise, Ammeline?” he teased gently. At her eyes' further narrowing, his own gaze softened a little. “Moonlight is pale also, and can only begin to describe what it illuminates. Yet the moon reflects what light the sun pours upon it. If you prefer, I might call you Sunshine,” and she fought down an urge to reel back from him at the nickname.

“You – it makes me sound like a horse,” she retorted, after a brief and desperate battle for self-control.

“And no rider could do you justice, nor could a saddle be anything but a cruelty to you,” he agreed. “Very well. Not Sunshine. I shall meditate upon it.”

“Kindly do not,” she half-groaned, as the music drew to a close. He bowed and she curtsied, and with a glance around her indicated that she should mingle. He was disinclined to stand in her way; monopolising a lady like Ammeline Rose was a sure way to earn less affectionate ire, even if he held any desire or power to take that freedom from her. Instead, he glanced around to see what social ventures he might make for himself.

Silver had agreed to join the celebration, and as the masquerade was to be themed around certain old mythology, had chosen to don the trappings of the ancient hero Odysseus. While it'd been widely agreed that he was welcome, Baron Rose had been approached quietly by the hedgehog's batman; Padraig had intimated, as gently as he could, that his captain would have a much better time following all the week's upheaval if someone familiar to him could be visible close by. The pangolin had asked to be included in the serving staff for the ball, but Aidan Rose was a man for whom the goal of universal joy at a party was sacrosanct. He had extended a formal invitation, then and there, and promised to assist the good sergeant in any cover story he cared to make up – should he be asked about his ostensibly noble family connections at all. Padraig now ruled a corner of the ballroom as a very passable Orpheus, teaching Emerald Hills drinking songs to an impromptu audience with the most charming aspect he could lay on. To one side of the little crowd stood Silver, watching the pangolin lead his new friends in a rousing round of If I Had To Do It All Over Again, I'd Do It All Over You. There was a gentle, almost exasperated smile upon Silver's face as he watched the sergeant's antics, and as Shadow shimmered up next to him, he turned and inclined his head in silent greeting.

“Enjoying yourself, cousin?” Shadow asked, and Silver shot him a slightly wider and sadder smile.

“Honey would have loved this sort of party,” he remarked, glancing about the room. “Look at it. None of Erin's formality, none of Horizon's...hierarchical restraint. Simple joy in meeting and dancing and singing. She would adore it.”

“I believe you're right,” began Shadow, but was interrupted by Silver's hand on his shoulder.

“Never mind her. I'll tell her all about it when I say my prayers tonight. More immediate is this matter of you and your spring-goddess, and how close you were for that last dance,” his cousin smiled, his tone already making sport of Shadow. It was a peculiar kind of smile; it looked like it rested on river banks, waiting for incautious swimmers to smile at.

Shadow swallowed nervously.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Imperial Palace, Leon City. The Grand Ballroom.

Sonic was beginning to rethink his joy at being surrounded by people.

The streets of Leon were one thing, all markets and friendly, hopeful passers-by. An Imperial ball, he was finding, was quite another: he had been here only five minutes, but already he felt eyes upon him as if he were a hunted animal.

Not that there was an overt action that could be taken here, Shadow and Amy had counselled him. There were only so many hours of preparation that could have been squeezed into the time between Sonic's declaration and the evening of the Summer Start ball itself; Shadow had taken it upon himself to coach Sonic in what statecraft he could fit, from among the lessons that were most immediately urgent and relevant. The rest of his time had been Amy helping him to polish his dancing skills.

He had expressed relief that Shadow hadn't taken this task on, as well. Amy had stifled a rather unladylike snort. “Dancing with that man is an entirely different endeavour,” she'd explained simply, while leading him through steps to help his muscles remember them. “At his height, you would be forced to unlearn half of what you'd made into habit, while dancing with Her Highness.”

“You truly think she'll dance with me?” he'd asked, surprising even himself with the vulnerability in his voice when he voiced that doubt.

Amy had shot him a smile that told him exactly what she thought, before she even put it into words. “She's no fool. Why would she avoid it?” she'd pointed out, and he'd relaxed a little. Why indeed?

Perhaps the sheer number of outright predatory gazes in this place, he suggested to himself, now that he was here. He felt as if he were being judged, weighed, and found wanting. As if he had no right to be there. It was simultaneously intimidating and infuriating – the latter at least partly because of the former.

He certainly looked like he belonged. Mrs Drift had done a magnificent job; Sonic's coat was a deep, dark purple – almost the colour of an eggplant, he'd noted, just right for bringing out his blue and contrasting the green of his eyes. Its lining and cuffs were perfect night-black, as were the waistcoat and trousers beneath; the high boots were of supple black leather, gleaming like oil in the chandeliers' light. Across his lapels, cuffs, and waistcoat danced curlicues of silver embroidery, to brighten the ensemble without overcrowding it, and at his breast gleamed the gold Headwater Medallion that was his proof of admittance and invitation. He had considered tying his quills into a warrior's tail, but decided against it; he would need to feel as natural as possible tonight, to help his balance while he danced.

Not that he was guaranteed to get the chance. The crowd of men around Her Highness was four or five deep, in a constant state of argumentative jostling with a thin veil of politeness almost as an afterthought. It was closer to a scrum than anything, and while Sonic certainly had acceleration, he lacked the physical heft it would take to shoulder his way through. He was reduced to hovering at the edges, craning to see over the shoulders of those in his path; he saw a lavender ear twitch, somewhere beyond the throng, and his heart warmed a little just knowing she was close.

“Hopeful, eh?” came a voice from his right. He turned and beheld an older gentleman, a large grey wolf; portly, moustached, with a bearing and tone of voice Sonic couldn't place, but that instantly struck dislike within him. There was a sort of know-it-all condescension to it, and Sonic felt the coals of his temper start to glow, very faintly.

“I was invited, sir, by Her Highness personally,” he replied, as Shadow had coached him. If another is rude to you, your goal becomes to maintain your own decorum, his cousin had said emphatically. Your standards are not about who the other man is. They're about who you are. The Empire watches. Show it cleverness, and show it self-control. But never, ever show it a weakling.

“As were many, my boy, as were many,” agreed the older man, in a patronising voice that said he would be slapping Sonic on the back in false camaraderie if he weren't busy hooking his thumbs behind his lapels to look authoritative. “One wonders what the reason might be. Her consort shall have to be one of the ducal sons, after all, eh?” He disengaged one hand from his jacket and smoothed that side of his moustache, gazing over the heads of the crowd with his taller stature. This man is not as wise as he thinks he is, realised Sonic, watching the wolf's eyes searching as if seeking out something else upon which he could pontificate. But from his tone, it's likely no one is as wise as he thinks he is. The thought galvanised him, and he felt somewhat steadier as the older man drew in another breath to speak again.

“Woman is the unfathomable, incalculable mystery, the problem that we men can never hope to solve.” The old wolf clasped his hands behind his back, looking thoroughly satisfied with himself after dropping such a warm, fresh sludge of complete nonsense into the conversation. Sonic ran out of reasons not to speak up; he knew this man's type. The worst possible thing he could do in the stranger's eyes was to disagree with him, politely or otherwise; doubly so, if he did so in a way that made sense.

“Unless, of course, we ask them what they think,” he said simply, keeping his voice level and amicable. There was no need to be uncivilised about what was going to happen here, he decided.

“Oh? Think you'll hear their real opinions, do you, m'boy?” chuckled the old-timer. Shadow's eyes flickered to him for a moment; further condescension had certainly been on the list of expected responses, and so he responded with the obvious: ignoring it.

“The lady I admire has never spoken anything but truths to me,” he explained, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I confess I'm not certain where I'm going wrong, there. Perhaps if I wish to be lied to, I should treat her as a problem to be solved, and that will correct the situation.”

The tolerant chuckle was gone. There was a general narrowing of eyes, and one or two of the louder voices near them had quieted. Sonic supposed that perhaps someone might be watching the conversation, but he found he was enjoying himself too much to break eye contact. Some little light in him was brighter at the unspoken challenge; Sonic had learned to thrive when the odds were against him, and he stood amid his first Imperial Ball with the glare of a much older and – theoretically – more established noble gentleman upon him. But he knew he was right, and that knowledge gave him the confidence to stand tall.

“Hm, and you're experienced with the ladies, are you, boy?” the wolf asked him. The jocular condescension was gone. This was all disdain, now. Sonic's smile widened.

“Perhaps not with the ladies,” he began, “given the implications of those words. I do like to think that I've had the benefit of a number of good and respectable women present in my life, teaching me to watch my manners and conduct .” He tugged gently at his lapels, to pull his jacket forward on his shoulders just a little. “Their lessons have grounded me, I think, so my first ball shall be one where I behave myself.”

“First ball, indeed,” rumbled his interlocutor, with a note of triumph – as if he'd found something he could grip in the conversation. “Have you danced before, then, young man?”

Sonic's smile only widened. “Not in a formal setting, no, sir. But I've been learning, for nearly half a year now.” A white lie, perhaps, given Sanctuary's goal of preparing its charges for noble life. But it'd get him underestimated, and Shadow had told him to be underestimated wherever it wouldn't make him look a fool. “I believe I have the knack of it.”

“Half a year! And he has the knack,” smiled the wolf nastily. The patronising tone had returned. “Do you dance as well as a man of Canis, then, boy?”

“I used to,” replied Sonic, brightly and guilelessly. There was a second or so of blankness before the barb registered, and open anger lit the wolf's face – only to turn to something more abject, as his gaze drifted over Sonic's shoulder.

“Well, now, gentlemen,” came the voice of Duchess Chiros, and something within Sonic hove a sigh of relief. “Here we are, talking of dancing, and yet so few here doing it! Look, now, my lord Erin,” she added, gesturing toward the dance floor, “your cousin and his wife look so lovely together in red. Surely you've a will to look so fine as he, taking a lady for a turn about the floor?”

For an instant, Sonic wondered if she intended to ask him to dance herself. The second or so of raw panic led his gaze to ricochet from dancer to dancer – and then, through a brief gap in the crowd, he caught sight of the enormous figure of the echidna ambassador, looking right back at him...no, at the duchess. He swallowed hard, and began to fervently hope he'd misinterpreted her.

“Perhaps there should be introductions, for a newcomer at our court,” she continued in that honeyed voice. “Do forgive us, my lord Montague, there are some people our dashing young firefighting hero simply must meet...” She rested a hand briefly on Sonic's arm – in the manner the etiquette teachers at Sanctuary had told him was strictly for polite association for a lady and gentleman in social circumstances, but he still found himself fighting the urge to flinch – and ushered him from the older man's company.

“Rather deftly handled, young man,” she remarked, with what sounded like genuine praise. “That old blowhard has yet to encounter a topic of conversation in which he didn't consider himself the leading expert. You couldn't see, but I wasn't the only one watching you make a fool of him.”

“I hate to correct you, Your Grace, but he hardly needed my help. I only held up a mirror to him,” Sonic demurred, and the bat brought a hand up to conceal her laugh. So engrossing did she make herself, so expertly did she wield her presence even toward a man who actively avoided looking directly at her, that it took a second or so longer for Sonic to realise she was moving him straight through the pack of men who'd surrounded the Princess. They parted before her like – well, not like a sea, he noted absently. But Miles had once shown him a fascinating trick with iron filings and some mineral or other, that pushed or pulled iron without touching it. He hadn't paid much attention, at the time...and he had no time to begin missing his greatest friend at the thought, for he had passed through the last layer of the crowd as Rouge ushered him forward.

She had been pretty, when she'd first appeared to him; her grace and the alluring contralto of her voice had left him distracted for days afterward. She'd been beautiful, when she had called him up before the people of Leon and thanked him for his water-carrying, when her eyes had shone with fierce pride in her people's courage and selflessness, and when they'd landed on him and lost none of it. He'd fallen in love with her when he beheld that expression; it was likely irrational to be so quickly and easily smitten by a lady, but everything he had seen in her gaze had made him want to spend his life making her look like that.

Tonight, she was magnificent, lovely in ways he hadn't imagined a woman could be. The radiance of her, in the bright gold light of the chandeliers and against the deep blue-purple of her dress, struck his thoughts like a fist against a child's wall of wooden bricks. He stood demolished before her, and when the amber of her gaze met the cool green of his own, some quirk in her smile tempted him – dared him – to hope that she might like what she saw in his face. That she might witness how utterly she had captivated him, and made him helpless for her.

The dress itself was a slightly more daring one than he'd have expected from a lady in her position, on a night like tonight; off-the-shoulder and parted at the knee, the indigo velvet gown had a single strap over one shoulder, worked into the shape of a wreath of iris blooms. It was close-fitting, and yet tastefully done; certainly Sonic only saw it as a secondary concern to the resplendence of her face, and the glorious smile with which she blessed him now.

“Our newest gifted man,” she greeted him, taking a step toward him; he found himself mirroring it, knowing there was a protocol for greeting royalty and fully aware that he was failing spectacularly to follow it. There were eyes on him, some part of his brain stubbornly insisted, but the rest of the room was steadily fading as everything in him drew closer to her. That same fragment of his rational mind noted the briefest flick of her gaze toward the others around and behind him; he clung desperately to the knowledge that they were there, with that warning.

“Our hero of the hour, Your Highness,” agreed Rouge, all coquettish artifice once again. “If I may make a suggestion? - a young man so brave as to unveil his gift in service of others might be a sterling partner for a princess' first dance of the evening.” Sonic's heart leapt – this part he absolutely remembered, from Shadow's coaching. It is one of the greatest missteps one can make, to ask a reigning monarch to dance. Never do this. If she wishes to dance, she will ask you. She knows the rules as well as anyone, and won't be offended at your forbearance, or take it as disinterest. He silently and fervently thanked his cousin as the princess turned her head toward Rouge, her eyes never leaving his; she appeared to consider the words briefly, and then nodded.

“I believe you're right, Duchess Chiros,” she mused. “Well, sir? Will you dance?” she added, to him – addressing him directly and searing his heart with the incandescence of her attention once more. She raised her hand toward him, fingers down, and on muscle memory drilled into him by Amy's relentless lessons, he brought his lips to within a quarter-inch of her knuckles; as close as he dared, and (Amy had assured him) a silent, subtle statement in itself to bring himself so near. Her smile softened, and the embers of her eyes brightened as he straightened up.

“There can be no greater honour,” he replied simply, at least having the presence of mind to flick his gaze toward the quieted crowd – a number of whom now looked disheartened or had begun openly glowering at the interloper.

“Then you had best ensure you deserve it, Lord Sonic Erin,” she pronounced, leading him toward the dance floor. A space cleared around them, growing slowly until they were alone together, and as he laid a hand upon her waist and brought the other up to take hers, the music from the evening's little orchestra softened into a gentle, almost chiming waltz. This, he could do; his body took over the steps, and he began to move with the Princess. Their eyes hadn't left one another, the entire journey to this place. It felt like a metaphor, he noted, even as he absently fought to keep his mind within his head. He had certainly been looking toward her, in a way, since their first meeting. He had longed to meet this gaze again, with a depth and intensity to the feeling that had shocked him. Now that he was here, he wanted to stay here, stay near her.

“So silent a stare,” whispered the Princess softly, her eyes still upon his. “I wonder, what might prompt such stoicism?” He realised, with a surprise that almost gave him a physical start, that he had danced with her wordlessly for nearly a full minute. He would reflect later that he should probably be grateful for the near-catatonic state he was in, as the first thing out of his mouth came from his heart, without his head's interference.

“I never want to look away from you,” he whispered, softly and honestly, and her eyes widened – a faint pink colouring her cheeks briefly, before she mastered herself.

“Such a thing to say to one's princess,” she half-scolded, through her smile.

“Especially when one's princess is a dead shot with a thrown rock,” he agreed, and the way those eyes danced with her quiet laughter made him more certain than ever.

“I wonder if it isn't too forward,” she murmured as they turned about the floor, “for a princess to tell a gentleman he's dwelt often on her mind, of late.”

Sonic reflexively reached for something self-effacing to say, but that one rational part of his mind smacked his wrist away from it. Lost for anything else to say, he defaulted to the truth once again. “A princess can tell anyone anything she likes,” he replied mildly, but had to wrestle with the impulse to freeze when she laid her head on his shoulder.

“Every blue sky I've gazed upon has made me think of you,” she whispered to him, and Sonic Erin walked on air.

=======>>>>=======

Rouge had only just finished instructing the orchestra when a man cleared his throat behind her. She carefully avoided rolling her eyes; two brave little lordlings in one evening? My word, they're biting tonight. She turned with her most charming faux-smile plastered on – and it slipped off her face to shatter at her feet, as she tilted her head up and up to meet the purple gaze of the crimson ambassador.

“My Lady – I beg your pardon. Duchess Chiros,” he fumbled, his posture all tension and nerves. “May I speak with you, somewhere with fewer ears to hear?”

Rouge nodded dumbly, but recovered and cleared her throat in turn, suddenly feeling much more understanding toward his opening the conversation with it. “Of course you may, ambassador,” she replied, in a soft half-whisper that departed completely from her usual cooing, practised delivery toward a man who asked a moment of her time. His eyes lit up at the change, and she offered him a gentle smile. He'd seen the facade fall, then, as easily as he'd seen past it so many other times. “I believe there's a balcony just over this way, where no one might hear us speak...”

She led him away, and her heart sang.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor. The ballroom.

While Silver could accept Shadow's will to escape mischievous scrutiny of his love life, the method by which he changed the subject perhaps left something to be desired. Though, if he were honest with himself, Silver knew it wasn't his cousin's doing; a lifeline had swung by at just the right moment, in the form of Baron Rose desiring five minutes' quiet conversation. A brief reconnaissance of the older hedgehog left Silver firmly on board with granting his request and letting the two men have some privacy, on the grounds that the Baron's evening was already enough of a strain on his sensibilities. Silver had studied military history, including the more ancient methods of protecting oneself in the havoc of a melee; whichever mythic war hero Aidan Rose wore as his masque tonight, he had likely only been one for a short while if he'd worn that outfit. Protection was not at the forefront of its designer's mind.

Stepping away to allow them some space, he suddenly found himself fighting the urge to scan the room for hostile presence. Some honed combat instinct had chimed at him, and a rush of adrenaline sang along his nerves. He stepped along the wall, slowly and calmly, giving in to the impulse and allowing his eyes to drift over the attendees of the Springbloom ball; drifting past the corner where Padraig was congenially holding court, he met the pangolin's eye and flicked his gaze around. To his credit, the sergeant barely even paused for breath in his recitation of the words to another Emerald Hills song (in this case the old classic She Says She's Aromantic, But I Can't Smell A Thing) while his gaze sharpened infinitesimally. He could rely on his batman to keep watch, even if no one else – he froze for a moment, and clenched his teeth.

Fool. You stand in the home of another experienced soldier. He began to make his way through the party, seeking out any glimpse of his hostess' crimson colouring, but hadn't gone more than eight or ten paces before a trio of young ladies emerged from the throng like petite, expectant icebergs looming out of a fog bank before a ship. They were dressed in draped robes, in vaguely different shades of deep blue, and with accoutrements that took a moment to register with him: tonight, these three were the Fates.

“Good evening, sir,” greeted the foremost, a white-fleeced girl with muscles like one or two dabbling boxers Silver had known. He bowed formally, schooling himself to patience; whatever his instincts had noticed, it didn't seem urgent, and certainly unlikely to go off within the next few minutes. He certainly had time to represent himself decently.

“Ladies,” he greeted them together, “A pleasure. Captain Silver Horizon, at your service.” Each of them curtseyed, and introduced herself in turn; he wondered if they had a sort of natural hierarchy to them, or if they had merely rehearsed how they might make themselves known based on the order of their costumed personae.

“We're good friends with Miss Rose,” began Miss Rakoto, her striped tail waving gamely at her back. “Invested in her happiness, one might say.” Silver began to understand, and a smile started to curl his lips.

“And I am cousin to Mr Shadow Erin, and find myself in much the same position,” he noted, clasping his hands amicably behind his back. “Ladies, I think we may share a common goal.”

“You're much more succinct than your cousin, sir," observed the ewe, tartly but with a genuine smile. "Miss Rose warned us once that if he speaks for ten seconds altogether, we're to assume a carefully-buried insult in it somewhere.”

“Ah, yes,” Silver replied, glancing at where he'd parted from Shadow, a flicker of mischief crossing his face in response. "He likes to lose someone in the torrent now and then, just to see if they can swim well enough to spot the joke."

“Then you'd say that he does this because he thinks himself a wit?” asked the lemur, with an intent stare. Were they trying to discern Shadow's motives in how he comported himself?

“Yes, and he's half right,” agreed Silver, his grin widening. The red wolf lady to Miss Evart's left coughed suddenly, covering her mouth rather longer than it'd require.

“But would you say that he is sincere, in his intentions toward her? Are they good?” Whatever Lanolin Evart's family life might be, she had evidently learned to keep digging until she had pinned the truth to the table. Silver ensured that she would have the answer she deserved; he certainly approved of her concern for her friend. He looked her dead in the eye to reply.

“I see the thrust of your concerns, Miss Evart, and I give my word as an officer – should it carry weight with you – that my cousin is both deeply devoted to Miss Amy Rose, and constitutionally incapable of treating her with malice aforethought.”

There was a pause, as she measured him up. “Thank you, sir,” the sheep said simply, after that moment's relative silence. “I believe we are answered.”

“But if I may importune,” began the lemur again, glancing at her friends and then at him once more – and, he couldn't fail to notice, with a coquettish expression that began when her gaze was upon Miss Whisper Bastien, and was gone without trace when she looked at Silver Horizon. “You must know of some secret silliness of his? Come, sir,” she implored, at his hesitant expression, “we are all friends of theirs in one way or another, and Miss Rose thrives on knowing the secret foolishness of a person. Mr Erin has had, is it some twenty-eight summers of life to gather a secret indignity or two?”

“He looks as if he's had at least that many very hard winters,” objected Miss Bastien, almost inaudibly over the party around them. Silver shot her a grateful look, but her friend was unswayed, and her expectant look was joined by a speculative one from Miss Evart. Silver gave in to an unkind impulse.

“I must confess that my cousin does occasionally employ the use of a pun, or play on words, when there is little or no need for it,” he began, as if the secret were being wrenched slowly from him with pliers. “He believes no one, anywhere, gains anything from taking themselves too seriously; thus he will engage in small foolishnesses, or even understated pranks, if he feels there are no harmful consequences to anyone. He may even take action to dent the self-importance of those who become overly pompous.”

“He sounds rather as if he takes himself more seriously than others,” sniffed the lemur, with a hint of disapproval. Silver shook his head, gently.

“My cousin has had the dubious advantage of spending a great many years of his life with absolutely nothing to laugh about,” he explained, softly and as diplomatically as he could. “and such a thing can give a man its own sort of wisdom. I believe he may never again let a day go by without looking for some quiet mirth in it somewhere. If your goal is to assist him in drawing closer with Miss Rose, then I must beg you, my lady: allow them to find their own laughter, together. If you must laugh at him, then allow Miss Rose herself to guide you in it.”

“He's so delicate as that?”

“Oh, no,” smiled Silver, shaking his head again. “But having been married, I can be confident that she will soar to his defence if you tease or make sport of him without her taking the lead in the matter.”

“She certainly had some words about him the last time we all met,” mused Miss Bastien, and Miss Rakoto relented at last.

“Then I shall go and speak to Amy,” she declared, all resolve again within a moment. Silver could only huff out a laugh, but carefully thanked her for her forbearance – and shot Miss Bastien a grateful and understanding look, for helping to rein in the young lady he was starting to realise was more than a friend to her.

The more allies he had in securing his cousin's happiness, the better. As the ladies left him, he shot a glance back toward Shadow – to find him gone, along with Lord Rose. Well, this was still a rather crowded situation, and they'd wanted privacy. He'd find them later.

With a lighter heart, he resumed his search for the Baroness.

=======>>>>=======

Aidan Rose had had much worse evenings, even with the delay of dinner for the Springbloom banquet.

Tonight was rather mellow, even after dark; Spring had certainly timed its arrival nicely, this year. The bracing chill of a cold, clear February night was no more, and it was all to the better, since Aidan wasn't truly certain how much more braced a gent could become in this costume before something gave way. (Tomorrow, he vowed to himself, he would look up these Achilles and Patroclus chaps, and find out why the latter had dressed as if on a beachside holiday in a land where spare leather belts were the wise choice in fabrics.) It was one of those nights where Nature seemed to unbutton its waistcoat and put its feet up, and the gentle stars gleamed through gaps in the clouds as if to say, Aidan, old egg, there's a wisdom at work, and if you'd take the time to simply exist beautifully like us, you'd see it plain.

“Well now, my lad,” he began, after a deep and appreciative breath of what the sky had for him, “Rather a shaky start to the week, but we seem to have pulled it out all right, what?”

Beside him on the balcony, Shadow stared mutely upward for a moment or two. It was rather reminiscent of the way Amara might plead with Heaven for patience when Aidan had made a more serious chump of himself than usual, but he knew better than to expect that of the young Erin. Poor blighter must still sometimes find starlight somewhat riveting, after a decade of stone walls and ceiling. “Yes,” he agreed at length, which Aidan supposed might break some sort of personal record for condensing his language.

“I meant to thank you, before,” he forged on, cleaving belatedly to his own inner advice and refusing to beat about the bush. Gaia knew the gentleman before him spent enough time belabouring the unfortunate shrub, and this once, Aidan knew he'd better stay close to the root of the matter. “When it all began, I mean. I'm told that your first action after throwing the immediate threat off your balcony was to make your way to Amy's room, with an eye to her safety.” He shuffled his feet, just briefly – even now unsure how to phrase what came next. “With the, ah, state in which you found yourself...to trust us that much, I mean. To show it to us. Putting Amy's safety ahead of it, I should say. Well, I mean, dash it all,” he added, plaintively, “it's not as if a man airs what – I would hazard – he considers his nastiest personal secret every day, and that you did it for us, for her.” He gestured with illustrative vagueness, hoping his gist was thoroughly communicated.

“You all deserve better from me than to selfishly keep my monstrosity secret and put your lives at risk, my lord,” replied Shadow, in a hollow voice that hinted he either didn't fully believe what he was saying, or that he was downplaying the percentages when it came to personal motives. Aidan gave him a look that very clearly indicated he knew which of the two was the issue, and Shadow slumped a little. “I couldn't risk her. Any of you, but I'm afraid in the moment my mind was filled only with preserving her.” He gripped the stone balustrade that ran at waist height – normal waist height, at least – around the edge of the balcony.

“Shadow, old fruit, I promise you, the one thing you should not be feeling in the matter is guilt,” began Aidan, stepping a little closer. This called, perhaps, for a little of the conciliatory hand-on-shoulder business. He had to reach up for it, though. “You placed my daughter first, threw secrecy out of the window, and didn't dive after it when our staff remained in peril, either. I don't know if you've realised, but it made quite the impression. You've gained a reputation for selflessness there.” He offered a gentle smile. “And with Amy herself, as well. I think she sees you in rather a new light, and before that blasted self-esteem of yours can get its hooks in, I've certainly not seen any pity in how she looks at you since that night.”

“I believe she's threatened to kick my shin less often lately, certainly,” agreed Shadow, somewhat more lightly than he had spoken a moment ago. A good start, Aidan decided. More levity, I should think.

“Well, then it's all over but the wedding bells, what?” Lord Aidan chuckled, and Shadow gave a start as if prodded with an ice cube in the region of the third waistcoat button. “Slightly similar order to events with Amara and myself, funnily enough. Not that I threw an attacker off a balcony, or anything like that,” he amended, swiftly. “There was a moment, rather, where I found myself alone on a balcony with her father. Rigid old buffer, seemed taller the angrier he got, and I'd seen him looking fairly lofty on more than one occasion, I'll tell you. But he sidles up to me and he tells me, Boy - I was rather younger than you are now, at the time, y'see - Boy, I don't know why, but she seems to be settling on you. Now, I'll be frank, because I must be respectful to you: you wouldn't be my first choice, but dash it, you've a heart in your chest. Even if you do conceal it beneath six layers of damn fool. Well, I wasn't keen to argue.”

Shadow made a noncommittal noise, leaving a gap in the discussion. Aidan felt obliged to fill it, but he found little issue with the task. He had plenty of memories to share on this topic.

“Not that we didn't have the odd fight sometimes, in the early days,” he continued, leaning on the balcony and deciding to fail to notice the warring alarm and hope on Shadow's face, as the younger hedgehog realised where the conversation was going. “I remember old Hambone Hutchinson - Spiffle's brother, don't you know – said to me once when under the influence of love, or possibly just under the influence, Bunches, he said – my nickname back then was Bunches, y'see – Bunches, there is no love without perfect trust. I was on the verge of asking him which dashed fool told him that, but he went on to detail some difficulty he'd been having with a lady whom he should have trusted a good deal less than he did, and my grievances with Amara began to seem rather pale by comparison...”

All right, he reasoned with himself, so the conversation was taking a roundabout route. Shadow seemed a little lost in it, so he brought himself back to the point as swiftly as he could. “Shadow, old lad, there's nothing more tragic than the desire of the moth for the star. Take it from a moth who thought his star would never be reached. But yours is - dash it, that wasn't helpful. What I mean to say is that after everything that's happened, and all the good you've done this family, trust you've shown and earned in return and whatnot, with one thing and another, taking it all on balance...well, regarding Amy, old chap. Regarding my...my daughter.” There was a brief, tense silence. “Go to it. That is, if you feel you need my blessing, you have it. Though Amara's rather more the one who gave her her strength, she's the one to speak to about permission...”

“My lord. Aidan.” Shadow took his hand in a firm grip, eyes shining with something he couldn't quite identify just at this moment. “The man who gave Ammeline her kindness has judged me worthy of her. There is no greater compliment.”

Aidan smiled, perhaps a little bashfully, and shook the hand of the man he'd grown certain would be his son-in-law.

=======>>>>=======

“But I must admit, I've no imagination,” Silver was saying at that exact moment. “I can't imagine Blumenheim's accounts provide all that much excitement.”

Silver had found Baroness Rose, eventually. She'd been deep in conversation with a vixen about Amy's age, wearing steel-framed glasses and an intense expression. Upon his joining them, Amaranthine had introduced her as Miss Leslie Thrace, the family's accountant; a talented young woman with a pencil and a set of numbers, she had greeted him with good manners – and without deference to his nobility. It was a combination he'd come to appreciate in his time in the army, and it was true here too. At the Baroness' suggestion (and after consulting her concerning his instincts pulling alarm bells, which she had suggested were likely down to the thwarted urge to action from the night he'd arrived), he had invited the young lady to dance; she had accepted, with a cautious disclaimer that she lacked practice at it, and they had struck up an easy conversation as they turned one another politely about. It had taken most of the dance so far, and even knowing the music would soon draw to a close, Silver was enjoying himself.

"Oh, Miss Rose provides plenty of entertainment most of the time," smiled Miss Thrace tolerantly, as he moved her with him. He was content to lead, though he wouldn't use his gift to smooth her movements; she might see it as improper contact, given that his thoughts would quite literally be upon her body. He certainly had no intentions of that sort, still considering himself married.

“Does she, indeed,” he replied, with amusement free in his tone. “I've heard a few things about the lady, certainly. Something of a lightning-rod for the local mayhem, by all accounts. And I suppose all accounts are the operative term here.”

She giggled at that, and nodded gently as she drew herself outward into a slightly imprecise but perfectly enthusiastic twirl, coming back in to take his other hand again. “Lord Rose always says,” she intoned proudly, “that if we are to prevent trouble with the tax collector, we are to employ rigorous accounting.”

“And that quells a taxman's insatiable wrath?” asked Silver, spotting a flash of familiar pink from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, no, sir. Merely sidesteps it. If we must resolve trouble with the tax collector, we are to employ Miss Rose.”

Silver shot a mischievous smile over her shoulder, to where the lady herself had paused on their periphery to give them time to dance. “What on earth can she do in such a situation?” he invited, feeling his eyes start to dance with glee as they hadn't in many a year. He'd missed this sort of harmless devilment, and only now did he begin to know it.

“Four laps around the house, hot on his heels, the last time,” the accountant reported idly. Silver almost choked, battling intently with himself to avoid making a spectacle of them both as the dance came to a close. “At close to thirty miles an hour, all told. I've never seen an agent of the Crown climb a tree so swiftly, before or since.” She turned at the sound of a throat being cleared behind her, and gave the unimpressed Amy a sheepish smile. “Good evening, Miss Rose! Are you looking for the Baroness?” she asked with frankly brazen cheer, while an incredulous and vastly amused Silver looked back and forth between the two.

“No, I am not,” replied Amy, tersely. “I'm looking for my father. Have either of you seen him, in between sharing our financial secrets?” she added to Leslie, with the slightest flicker in her gaze that said she wasn't truly upset. Silver took the chance to redirect some of that heat from his new acquaintance.

“He drew Shadow aside perhaps ten minutes ago,” he volunteered. “They wanted some space, whatever their topic. Probably wisest to wait for them to reappear on their own.”

“Oh. Bother,” remarked Amy, phlegmatically clasping her hands behind her back and walking with them as they left the dance floor. “What shall I do until then?”

“I must decline any offers of being chased up a tree,” smiled Silver brightly. “If you can even find one on the grounds without a tax officer roosting in it.” She gave him a cross look, and another to Miss Thrace at the vixen's barely-stifled snort of laughter.

“You are just like your long-shanked fathead of a cousin, Captain Horizon,” Amy announced primly, and a guffaw broke from Silver's lips that turned a couple of heads near them. He found he didn't care.

Shadow, he decided, had found a good home.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Angel Island. The Hidden Palace.

Her Gleaming Majesty Tikal had barely settled upon her throne to hold court, when the news arrived.

The messenger had burst into the throneroom of the Hidden Palace, breathless and with his all-weather poncho still settling around him from his sprint. In one hand – causing the guards to relax from their reflexive reach toward their weapons – he held a ceremonial baton, of the type only given as signs of great and urgent import for a courier. His eyes were wild with exertion; clearly, if he had slowed at all on his way here, it had only been a little, and not for long.

Tikal wasted no time. “What news?” she asked, rising from her seat. Was the Island attacked somehow? Some disaster with the levitation?

Messengers themselves had a protocol for moments like this, and it was to avoid formality in favour of the bare facts at hand. “Assassination plot, Majesty,” the runner gasped out, staggering a step or two further in before resting a hand on his knee, his coppery-brown dreads swinging about his shoulders. “In the Sol Empire. The scouts whispered to our scryers not two hours ago. Our ambassador may be in peril.”

Tikal's eyes narrowed. The reports from her envoy had been good ones, speaking of a polite and reasonable ruler with the respect and love of her people. Neither Princess Blaze Felis nor the echidna oath-named Knuckles deserved the fate implied by these tidings, or the troubles brought on by an attempt at it. It would also be helpful for their relationship as sister nations, of course, if she were to pass a discreet warning along concerning this discovery. Really, there was no other wise course.

“Clear the room,” she told the guards, and the filing-out began as she nodded to the courier and took her seat once more. “Now, approach, man. Gather your breath. Tell me everything.”

=======>>>>=======

"Sonic," greeted Shadow contentedly the next morning, over his breakfast. The speedster appeared harried, as if he had slept poorly. Well, and that may be a good thing. A man in the throes of his first love can be driven to distraction with it sometimes. "Good morning. Quickly, man to man, before Ammeline arrives: how did last night go?" he added, setting aside his pen to continue his letter later.

Sonic flushed, but held his own rather well, all things considered. "Must you pry so?"

"If I do not, Ammeline will. But if you leave the salient points with me, you may eat quickly and make your escape, and I can ensure she won't follow you for them. But we have only minutes, she has gone to harass a flicky which insists on singing outside our window in the morning."

His blue cousin conceded this, and sat down to accept a plate from Madeline the maid with a grateful nod and whisper of thanks. When she had moved on, he began listing his troubles. "I don't think it went well, Shadow. She didn't...you know, want to kiss me or anything of the sort."

"You didn't try to kiss her, did you?" asked Shadow, sitting up in alarm. Sonic shook his head immediately, too quickly for the denial to be a falsehood.

"No! No, nothing of the kind. I wouldn't dare unless she...invited it, I suppose. And she didn't."

"After one dance, I should think not," smiled Shadow, relieved. "But all reports from those who paid attention have been positive. These things take time, cousin. Let your goodness dwell in her thoughts. Don't push too hard or too quickly, or you shall shatter her trust in you before it grows beyond a seedling's size."

Sonic looked up at him, his face worried even while wrapped around a large slice of fried bread. "Did this take so long for you, cousin?" he asked plaintively, once he had won a brief but intense battle with the mouthful.

"Rather longer. My shins must have borne the mark of every pair of shoes she owned, over the course of perhaps a year or two."

"A year!" Sonic looked poleaxed.

"Yes indeed, a year. The Princess will by necessity be moving rather quickly, but find a husband she must, and if she feels she cannot trust you, then she will be forced to settle for a lesser man." Shadow put down his fork. "So be the greater man of the bunch. The whole congregation of carefully-steered noble fools who watched you with her last night: each of them has an agenda. Each of them wishes to control her for their family, or for someone else's. What you can offer her is a simple thing, but one which I understand Duchess Rouge also offers. She treasures it from the lady, and she will treasure it from you - with the addendum that you are a candidate for her hand in marriage."

"Tell me."

"Of them all, you and only you have nothing you intend to push upon her. You have one wish: her happiness. Correct?"

"Absolutely."

"Then, cousin, you are the best man for her. Allow that to dwell in her thoughts for a while. Let it sink nice and deep, so that she thinks of the fact whenever she hears your name. She will associate you with freedom, and with the feeling of being respected. If you do not bother her, or push her."

Sonic swallowed hard. Encouragement though it may be, praise though it certainly was, he couldn't help but find it an intimidating challenge when it was so plainly laid out.

What else to do with a challenge, but rise to meet it?

=======>>>>=======

"When you hears me saying FIRE, what that means is that you will already have located some bugger in a different uniform, and have your sights upon him, and you will take that word, private, as your permission to pull your TRIGGER, and blast him so firmly his backside flies back home and lands on his feckin' doorstep! It does NOT mean that it's time to stick your head out of cover and see if anyone feels like comin' out to play!"

Sergeant Jute was in fine voice this morning, Silver noted. One of their drill sergeants – the squirrel usually tasked with putting this particular group of recruits through their paces – had been shot through the ear in their last engagement with the enemy, and was undergoing a brief recuperation in a field hospital behind the lines. He was already slated to receive a Cloudburst (generally referred to among the soldiery as a Silver Lining) – the usual medal for being wounded in the line of duty. Silver's brief visit with the man had found him in good cheer, and he'd left after being reassured that I'll be back soon enough, Captain, the worst this can do is make me a bit deafer to them lazy buggers complaining I work them too hard from the sergeant himself. While they were down an NCO, it did at least give Padraig a chance to exercise his recruit-frightening skills a bit. He'd slipped into a harsher version of his usual accent, and was letting his grammar slip a little bit; presumably it was how he handled the new ones. Silver's time as a sergeant had been largely desk work, but he'd cracked enough heads and saved enough troopers to be noticed and promoted quickly. Padraig had no intention of rising in the ranks, being happy where he was.

He fingered the letter in his hand, as the pangolin turned to address the rest of the recruits. "Bein' a soldier is not complicated, lads, on account of it being very simple instead. There is three things that come down to you: orders, shite, and the enemy. You will obey the first, fight through the second, and put holes in the third! I will teach you what you need to know to survive, and hot on the heels of Salute Captain Horizon upon that list, we finds Item Two: Do not get killed! Does this sound like a fun lesson to learn, lads?"

At their raggedy chorus in the affirmative, he smiled warmly. "Yes it does, indeed it does. Not gettin' killed is my favourite lesson to teach, because it means we all get a good night's sleep! Now, attend and listen close, lads, for I shall only tell you this once: a battle is always going one of two ways. Either we are winnin', or the enemy is temporarily inconveniencin' us. In the latter case it is occasionally necessary to withdraw to a private conference and discuss how that battle went, meanin' we runs split-arse out of there and they chases us. In your case, you are VERY lucky lads, because when they chase us they meet Captain Horizon comin' the other way, and there, lads, is an officer for whom the ground trembles with every step. So we is goin' to go to the courtyard now, and take turns advancin' and retreatin'! Those who advance shout Hooray, and those who retreat shout Oh No, and we shall get you in good practice for both before we see the sun go down! WELL NOW WHAT ARE WE WAITIN' FOR GET THEM DAMN BOOTS ON PRIVATE-"

He'd have them running in circles all afternoon, Silver knew. He hoped his batman would break for water; part of the goal of drill-sergeanting was to make himself seem utterly impossible to please, so that his recognition when they'd reached a workable standard meant all the more to them. If he were to appear in two or three hours, and grant them a water break, then the contrast between himself and Padraig – as well as the loyalty it would help instil toward him – could only help the effect.

Time enough to read, then. He'd put off opening this for long enough. A flick of his thumb opened the deep-pink sealing wax House Rose used for letters, and he unfolded the paper within.

From the hand of Lord Shadow Rose:

Silver. Cousin. Brother. I write in haste, and you must forgive my omission of the usual pleasantries. Suffice to say that all continues well in the usual matters. The roses (the actual roses!) at Blumenheim seem to glow brighter every year, and the Roses likewise.

The truly urgent and salient matter is one that we had both thought impossible. I beg you to seat yourself before reading further.

Ammeline and myself are currently in Leon for the Summer Start festival. While there, we were accosted by a young man, furious with me and spoiling for an altercation. A hedgehog, with blue quills and the remnants of a Green Hills accent, from the last time he spoke with us. It only took a moment to recognise him: we had thought him dead, and his gift has manifested (and thus, he has taken a gift-name) – but my brother, our youngest cousin is alive.

He appears to have been spirited away somehow, prior to the attack we thought had claimed him; he was raised in secrecy and safety, and to his credit he is close-lipped concerning the particulars. I believe he has been treated well, and is in good health. Such was his isolation that the first hint he had of any of our continued existence was a newspaper page, announcing my marriage to Ammeline. This came to him only a few months ago, and it had not occurred to him that his salvation might have been kept secret from us also. He believed himself abandoned, and my tears upon seeing him standing before me came as something of a shock to him.

Fortunately, Ammeline was present to act as a voice of reason (a series of words that startle me, even as I write them) and prevented either of us from acting on foolish impulse. Sonic (as he is to be known now, in respect to his gift of incredibly swift motion and what he says it does to the sound of the world around him) has become a well-mannered young man, and is now at the age we were when we believed we lost him. I have assured him that you live also, but have not delved into those specifics which so pained you to discuss when first we reunited. Those are your sorrows to tell, and family or not, they are to be respected.

But I must plead with you to visit Blumenheim again, as soon as you may, for there is further news: he has become (I shall call it) romantically entangled with a lady of extremely high station. I have guided him away from social missteps and common failures of etiquette as best I can, and yet he is a young man of free spirit and independent mind, and will surely begin to chafe if I watch him like a hawk for every step of this journey. Even if it must be brief, I believe he will welcome you back into his life, as (albeit initially with reluctance and truculence) he did me.

We return to Blumenheim tomorrow (it is the morning after the Summer Start ball as I write) and I worry that our coach will drive Sonic mad, pleased as he is with his newfound speed – truly prodigious from his descriptions, perhaps over a hundred miles in an hour, though I have yet to see it first-hand. Regardless, I shall write again upon our arrival (I have no illusions about the army handing you a week of immediate leave upon your asking for it!) and include any new developments.

Rejoice, cousin. We are not two. We are three.

Shadow

Silver sat for a long time, remaining very still. There was total silence in his office, other than the sounds of Padraig's drills drifting in through the window – and the occasional creak of protesting metal, from behind him. When he finally stood, it was with a slow, calm, deliberate air; he had reached a decision, and as he walked past the buckled, ruined musket now barely remaining mounted upon the wall and strode through the door, he had already begun one of two letters in his head. He must write to Shadow, of course. Before that, he must write to his commanding officer, Colonel Verity.

Dear Sir, he began internally, It is with solemn sincerity and firm resolve that I declare the resignation of my commission...

=======>>>>=======

When Duchess Chiros received notice from a page that the Echidna ambassador had asked that she visit their chambers urgently, she had found herself caught between reactions. Even as her chambermaid helped her to prepare for the impromptu meeting, she vacillated between hope, alarm, flattery, and dismay. On the one hand, it was a sign of a clingy man to wish to see her so soon after their conversation the night before. She had hoped the ambassador might have the sense to avoid giving this impression – as well as avoiding another concern, that of what might be bandied about if word of such a meeting got out. Scandal was always a looming threat, whether or not its core held any truth. In the battlefield of courtly reputations, facts were more often a redundancy than a necessity.

Equally, she felt a flutter in her chest that she hurried to stifle. Their gentle meeting at the ball had been one that turned her head far more than any other attempt at romance had achieved; the ambassador – Knuckles, he had warmly insisted she call him when they were alone – had expressed his admiration with what she could only describe as a characteristically direct laying-out of why he felt it. And it was, truly, admiration; his references to her aesthetic attractiveness had come so late in the business that she had briefly wondered if he did find her alluring.

“I have known only a few people so accomplished,” he had told her, “and many who reached the pinnacle of their achievements from far richer beginnings. Your duchy was...I need not describe it to you, of course. But to revive its fortunes as you have, to take it from that to this – I can only stand in awe. Little wonder your people love you. Truly, who could not?”

Who could not? The question had rung in her head all the way home, after the ball had finished. She had lain in her bed that night, staring at the fabric of its ceiling with the words consuming her thoughts. Was it the confession it sounded like? Was it rhetorical? - No. She had known the look of a smitten man before, and Knuckles had worn it. He had meant what he said. The questions before her were clear: did he mean what she thought he meant? And if so, was her own burgeoning attraction – almost infatuation, some days – a requital of his feelings?

The conundrum had circled in her brain until she felt she would rattle, and this morning had brought with it a new urgency. As she strode the halls, dressed in something relatively demure and conservative for the morning, she found herself rapidly assessing potential outcomes to toss aside the unlikely, in hopes of winnowing a successful path from the less favourable ones. But what would success even be? Did she wish it? Did she dream of it, from a position that could not countenance it? Could his position support it? If they pursued it, what response might his own monarch have? There were too many unknowns. She feared the consequences of leaving the response to her instincts to decide, but she knew that thinking too hard and in too much detail would leave her swamped with what-ifs, and paralysed with indecision.

Arrival at the ambassadorial chambers was swifter than she should have liked; she could have had another mile to walk, and still would have arrived too soon for her tastes. Rouge thought on that fact for a moment, and then set her jaw. To perdition with my cowardice, she decided. She would act as she always had: toward those goals that brought her people the greatest advantage, and after that the greatest happiness to herself. In this case, surely only the latter was a factor.

One of the ambassador's retinue answered the door – a lithely built misty-magenta woman, with what seemed to be ivory in the decorations of her dreads, whose name Rouge believed was Zhol. She smiled warmly, and ushered the duchess inside without hesitation.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she greeted, in the accented contralto that seemed common to echidna women speaking Solar. “Ambassador Knuckles waits, with fruit and water and gentle wine. May we assist with anything before you speak with him?”

Rouge took a breath to decline, but paused. There was absolutely no way for an ambassadorial staff, who would be hand-picked for their ability to deal with people, to miss the burgeoning (and, she was beginning to admit to herself, quite mutual) attraction blossoming between their leader and the widowed duchess who came to speak with him so often. She knew that she would have seen it in another, and she had certainly never been chosen to represent her Empire abroad. These people knew, and welcomed her still, with no signs of disapproval. She could, in all likelihood, trust them to an extent.

“My hair,” she began, softly, conspiratorially. “I hastened here. Is it disarrayed?”

Zhol shook her head, her smile widening. “No, duchess. It seems unharmed from your journey. Do you wish an apple, to treat Vivid?” At Rouge's acceptance, she moved to a fruit basket by the window and took a ripe, red one to give to her; they had been placed out of easy reach of the chao, by the look of things. A treat indeed, then.

With quick word of gratitude, she was shown into the familiar meeting-room of Knuckles' guest suite...and immediately spotted that he had not slept easily, if at all. Anxiety showed in the lines of his face, in his posture, and even in Solar clothing his intimidating size was only emphasised by the almost threatening aspect that his fraught state placed upon him.

“Duchess,” he greeted her, as if relieved, and started toward her before catching himself half a step later. Rouge favoured him with a warm, gentle smile – not a shy one, goodness no, that was a trick of the light – and moved to the table where Vivid had been watching its warden wear a hole in the carpeting.

“Vivid,” she half-whispered to it, offering the fruit from outside. “Bapple?”

“Bapu,” cooed the tiny thing, reaching up with both little paws for the delicacy. She handed it the fruit, to a squeak of delight, and gently petted it while it got down to business. Only then, with her gift given, did she turn to Knuckles and meet his gaze again.

“Ambassador,” she returned his greeting, maintaining the formality with which he'd begun things. “You asked to see me. Urgently,” she added, in a softer tone that came from somewhere deep. His expression turned pained for a moment, and he stepped slowly closer.

“I did,” he hedged, pressing his hands together in an uncharacteristic sign of nervousness. “I must make a confession. I wish I were more confident that it would not change how we treat one another.”

She felt those butterflies start up within her once more. “I am sure, sir,” she began, closing the distance by another step or two, “that any change between us could only be for the better, so long as we remain honest with ourselves and one another...?” It was an open invitation, as direct as Rouge tended to get – certainly with a man who had shown interest in her. But then, few or none had ever shown such interest as this one did.

He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I shall not play games with you,” he forced out. “You must know, politics being what it is, that my nation has eyes within yours. To watch without interfering – with a strict policy against harmful or thwarting actions,” he added hurriedly, to the blank, stunned stare she was giving him. “And this morning I received a message from my Empress. She feared for my safety at first, but further refining of our information-”

“You called me here to confess that your nation has agents within mine?” she interrupted, incredulous enough for her manners to briefly forsake her. He blinked owlishly at her, then shook his head.

“That...is only an aside to what I must impart. I hope that the practicalities of politics are obvious enough that-”

“I had assumed as much already, since you speak our language, you silly man,” she half-whispered, affection in her tone even as she addressed him so informally – and yet there was disappointment, too. But if he would not bandy words, then nor would she conceal her thoughts. “I had...believed you called me here to confess your love.” She cast her eyes aside. “I must apologise for my foolishness.”

He was silent for a long, torturous moment, during which she berated herself for uttering the words, before closing the gap and daring to take her hand in his own. Her breath hitched in surprise – he hadn't been so forward last night, when those sentiments had flowed so freely from him. “I believed I had been appropriately subtle,” he whispered to her, “when I confessed it to you last night. I had attempted to match the manner in which the Sol Empire conducts its courtships. I seem to have missed the mark.” He squeezed her fingers, to draw her eyes back to his. “But my oath to you, duchess, the ardency of my feelings must make way for the news I bear. I called you here as an ambassador, not as a man in love, though you can be sure I am both.”

She swallowed hard, feeling her wings spread just a little in her light-headedness. It had been so easy. So simple, to draw the confession from him. Her heart glowed, and a smile fought its way to her lips, but it struggled against the solemn and worried expression he showed her. “...What tidings do your agents have?” she whispered softly, squeezing his fingers back. Forgiving him for whatever slight he might think the revelation of his nation's eyes might have been, and acknowledging his quiet declaration even as she accepted his insistence that this other matter precede it.

“We have news of a plot to murder a noble of your Empire,” he explained, as swiftly as he could. “The most detail we have is that a person of great power and influence, or at least a well-connected one, is casting about for those willing to strike at a much less noteworthy noble.”

She floundered for a moment, shocked into silence all over again at the threat he described. “And – and that's truly all?” she asked softly, and he nodded once, his eyes never leaving hers. “Then we must speak to Her Highness immediately. If you'll have a page – no,” she interrupted herself, “my word will be enough. Will you wait here, while I go to her and urge her to send for you?”

“I will,” he conceded. “If any other details come to us in between, you will know them when you see me next.”

“Then I'll hurry,” Rouge promised him, stepping back – her hand leaving his only reluctantly, and feeling a smile blossom on her face as she moved to the door. Even with all else on his mind, his conscience had insisted on this. A dutiful man, indeed. A dear, dear man, she thought fondly to herself, before taking a breath to ruthlessly push aside the warmth inside her – a warmth she began to think might be love. There would be time to feel it, later.

They had a plot to crush.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor. Breakfast.

There were times, reflected Miss Amy Rose, when a life of mischief had its drawbacks.

Her reputation, she knew well; her immediate family (and the manor staff, and now Shadow) were accustomed to her occasionally taking the word demure out to some lonely place and burying it in a shallow grave. Her more distant relatives, conversely, proved rather more recalcitrant when it came to accepting the inevitability of her inherent small-scale mayhem. For example, she mused – brushing a large leaf out of her face and adjusting her weight to stay hidden – there were now two recent moments in which she'd been obliged to conceal herself behind a plant, and the first had been infinitely preferable to this.

Amy never lost an opportunity to read a compromising letter. She enjoyed them as literature, and there was never any knowing if one of them might come in useful. But the last time she'd tried, Shadow had been behind it all from the start. He'd gone for a walk! And absolutely nothing had happened! She had stolen after him like – like she was the assignation he was out there to make, tiptoeing away from her family's eyes for some – some romantic nonsense in the woods with him like some feeble-minded romance-novel damsel bewitched by height and power and skill and burning crimson eyes and height and – focus, she reprimanded herself. Be angry for his actions, not his attractiveness.

He had sent her on that wild flicky chase into the dark, with only the two of them scuttling about beneath the moonlight, and had looked so perfectly at peace with it all while she crouched behind a hedge like an inept bandit! And she could nevertake him to task about it, for that would be admitting that she had read a letter addressed to him; even if they both knew it, she would never confess that aloud. She had made a fool of herself in the manner of the classic myths of hubris; her fate was everything that she had, herself, invited. And, if she knew her Aunt Filaurel, the older lady had been party to the scheme.

Compare that harmless prank – and it was a harmless prank, she recognised, though she'd inwardly vowed never to tell him the truth of how he'd impressed her with it – to this morning, when their arrivals from the evening before had made the table – her own home's breakfast table! – an untenable option. Aunt Filaurel had felt like an intrusion, certainly at first, but Amy would take another month of such presence ahead of a single morning of this: her other two aunts had arrived, to see for themselves that Blumenheim was safe with all hands – and in the case of her Aunt Vithica, probably to try to place some blame upon Amy herself for it. Worst of all was that Aunt Destra had brought her children, a pair of free-range arguments for celibacy known as Stanford and Cholmondley; the latter was pronounced Chumley, but the name stood as evidence that certain people should have their children named by some neutral third party with a background in sensible, honest toil.

The word party brought her attention once again to something Tangle Rakoto had told her, at the Springbloom ball the week before. Reverend Smunt, she'd mentioned, was receiving rather more visitors than one would expect – and at strange hours, too, noticed only by those whose work made them unnoticeable. Tangle had enough of a way with people that she'd gained this information, but the Reverend was clearly going out of his way to ensure that these meetings remain as secret as possible – and given that his vicarage sat within Blumenheim, Amy was the best placed to investigate it. There was no question of leaving such an intriguing stone unturned.

The sound of footsteps in the hall brought her back to more immediate concerns, and she crouched once more behind the philodendron in its waist-high pot, safely concealed from anyone leaving the dining room. After a few heartbeats she relaxed, recognising the smooth, almost stalking gait of Shadow Erin assuming a leisurely pace. He would provide valuable intelligence, and it was with this in mind that Amy issued a fierce “Pssst!”

The towering hedgehog paused, glancing around. “I beg your pardon?” he asked seemingly-empty air, in a quiet and faintly suspicious voice.

“Psssst!”

“I haven't touched a drop,” came the affronted protest.

Amy gave up. “Shadow! Shadow, it's me,” she whispered, finally drawing his attention and allowing him to pinpoint her voice amid the broad leaves of her hiding place.

“Oh. Good morning, Ammeline.” He looked her up and down – or at least, the plant in which she concealed herself. “I understand the health benefits, but surely there's such a thing as eating too many greens...”

“If I thought it'd conceal me better, I'd be in the garden chewing the shrubs. Be direct: has my Aunt Vithica stopped looking upset?”

“She...has not ceased to remind me of a basilisk,” Shadow hedged, “but she certainly begins to resemble a basilisk whose glare has been blunted by a good breakfast.”

“Shadow. I asked you to be direct. You may now consider it an order to speak plainly,” she told him primly, uncomfortably aware of the exact amount of dignity she could bring to bear when her face was framed by the foliage of her father's favourite and most ostentatious indoor plant.

“I did. Were I being circuitous, we should still be here when breakfast comes to an end. I'm disinclined to beat around the bush when a lady is wearing it,” Shadow replied, equally haughty and equally absurd. An exasperated sigh threatened to escape her, but she fought it back with the might of a heroine of old. She would not allow this lanky, facetious bundle of smugness to know that he had scored such a hit. Nor would she permit her face to show the entertained smile it kept attempting to grant him.

“For heaven's sake, be appropriately insulting with me this once: how did she look?”

“Like a well-bred gargoyle, perched atop some cautionary tale of a tombstone,” came the immediate and obediently succinct reply.

“Blast. We'll have to try charm. Well, then get back in there and begin slinging compliments, at least. Lighten her mood.”

“One wagonload of outrageous flattery, to table eight, courtesy of the pretty young lady with the outsize corsage,” Shadow agreed as readily as if he were a maître d'hôtel, happily wandering off back toward the meal – leaving Amy stewing in her plant pot, and wondering if those hermits who vanished to live on mountaintops hadn't had something of a point. She blinked as he paused, and turned to point a playful finger at her. “But I shall have the origin of this avoidance tactic from you, Ammeline. Or I'll be forced to hear her side of it, and draw my own conclusions.”

“Very well,” she groused theatrically, as if she hadn't planned to explain it to him already. It was the least she could do, if he planned to throw himself back into the path of that thunderstorm on her request alone. And it hadn't been all that much of a request, had it? More of an instruction to a minion, her conscience noted disapprovingly. Fathead though he might be when he decided he was funny, he did deserve better from her than that. “Thank you,” she added belatedly, and felt her face heat up at the soft light in his eyes when he smiled a wordless reply. Then he was gone, and she sat back to marinate further in her embarrassment and a warm glow she couldn't mistake for anything but growing affection.

That man is going to be the death of me.

=======>>>>=======

“Very well,” began Shadow some time later, over a pot of tea and a couple of hasty sandwiches Cook had thrown together. The gifted quokka had understood the assignment perfectly, and ensured there was plenty of filling to each of their creations; Ammeline had lit up at the sight of the plate, and his heart had glowed in response. “At your leisure, Miss Rose.”

She gave him a brief quizzical look over the top of her late breakfast, and then her eyes widened as she remembered her promise. Hastily swallowing, she nodded. “All right. So, to begin: my aunt Vithica has a son-” she paused at the pained sound he made. “Shadow?”

“Of course she has a son,” he sighed, shaking his head dismissively. “The other spent most of breakfast describing how she raised her two boys. Three quarters of an hour, without cease, describing the exact components and method of their upbringing. A simple apology would have sufficed.” He gestured encouragingly. “But please, continue.”

“Aunt Vithica has a son,” she repeated, a little more firmly, “whose name is Vico. When I was a little girl, Vico – he'd be perhaps thirty-four, now – fell in love with a chorus-girl named Tess. I think it was Tess,” she added, a little uncertainly. “We haven't spoken since this all took place. Aunt Vithica, of course, wished for her son to marry among nobility. She recruited me, with my reputation for ruining a good thing, as she saw it; sent me to stay with him for three weeks on some feeble pretence, and insisted that I get in the way of the romance as much as possible.”

The incredulity on Shadow's face was subtle, but he knew she was learning to read the tiny flickers of expression that managed to get past his composure; she'd responded to such glimpses before, to show him she'd spotted them. She wouldn't miss that one. “She sent you at her son's love life like a cannonball, to try to ruin his chances with this girl?” he asked, past an upraised, disbelieving eyebrow.

“I think she saw it as ruining the girl's chances with him,” Ammeline clarified, with a shrug and another mouthful of sandwich. When she had dealt with it, she continued. “I'd only met my cousin a few times; he's even older than you, and so we never had much of anything in common to talk about. But when I saw him with that girl, I could only see one thing: he was happy. Perhaps it stood out because he hadn't been, when I'd met him before. But he was happier with this Tess than without her, and so my course was clear.”

“You didn't,” began Shadow, a slow smile curling his lips as the realisation began to dawn upon him.

“Oh, I did,” she assured him. “I spent two weeks in their midst, being the sweetest and most encouraging help I could be for their love to blossom, and when the time came to return I told my aunt that all was well. And it was!” she added gleefully. “I hadn't done as she asked, and thus all was well. I hadn't broken two hearts, only enraged one misguided sense of propriety. I bore the brunt of her wrath over it while they stayed away, and I called it a bargain. Besides,” she added brightly, “he'd taken to treading the boards himself, and he turned out to have quite the voice. So it all worked out nicely for everyone except Aunt Vithica, who has never forgiven me.”

“Facing it all for love,” Shadow remarked, and she blushed brightly at his expression.

“Chump,” she declared him, averting her eyes but unable to conceal her own little smile. “Don't think that it goes unappreciated, is all I'm saying. Distracting my aunt, I mean,” she added.

“As long as I can be of assistance,” Shadow assured her, with an expansive shrug. “With any luck, we can reassure them all is well with the barony, and be rid of them before the Baroness and I go to Leon.”

Ammeline nodded, a little more soberly. Their attackers were even now in dungeons beneath the Palace, having been interrogated and their statements recorded under truthspell. Soon, Blumenheim would need to be represented in court. Baroness Rose had chosen to go due to her military experience; she was practiced at giving concise reports and separating known facts from her own impressions of events. Shadow would accompany, as they had concluded he was likely the true target of the attack; it would hardly be implausible for someone to have attempted to put a final end to the Erin name, as those responsible for the Duchy's fall had never been conclusively identified. Ammeline would be staying at home, and taking the chance to experience the tasks of running the barony personally, as she one day must. Her father would likewise be remaining; in his own words, Shadow, old egg, I've my skills at this and that, but none of them would be of use – I mean to say, can you imagine me trying to testify in a court of law? He'd been forced to agree, after a moment's awestruck and dreadful reflection on the idea.

“If we've any fortune at all, they might be gone sooner than-” Ammeline paused, frozen in a moment's shock. Her eyes flicked from side to side, as if trying to take in details; she stood up after a moment. “The southern drawing-room, Shadow,” she told him, urgently, as he practically threw himself to his feet in consternation. “Quickly!”

“Ammeline, what – why-” She was already gone, and he hurried after her as she flitted across the hall and entryway to disappear behind one of the manor's heavy oaken doors.

“...fortuitous moment to join us, my girl,” came Lady Amaranthine's voice, as Shadow caught up and entered the room in her wake. She was not alone; as well as Ammeline, there was a young lad in commoner's clothing standing on the carpet, looking miserable. “And Mr Erin! Excellent timing indeed,” she added. Shadow drew himself up; the baroness would not have addressed him so without a purpose, not as familiar as they had become in recent weeks. If she wished this to look official or serious, he would play the part.

“What have we here?” he asked, with something of a growl to his voice. Ammeline rolled her eyes as the boy – a pig, someone Shadow couldn't recall seeing before - took in the sight of them both.

“Something of an accusation...or a confession,” noted the older lady. “Or both. Go on, young man,” she prompted the porcine youth. “Repeat yourself, if you'd be so good. And let's perhaps have some details afterward.” The boy drew himself up, taking a deep, anxious breath, and surprised Shadow with the determination in his voice, quaver though it might.

“My lord, my ladies,” he began inexpertly, “I'm come from the inn. There are smugglers there, awaiting the Sunday sermon, when your parson Mr Smunt will advise them in how best to move stolen goods through your village. A whole wagon's worth, this coming Monday.”

Ammeline had sat up like a hound hearing the hunting-horn. “Reverend Smunt?” she asked, sharply. “How could he direct such a thing in a sermon?”

“And how is it you know this?” asked Shadow, rather more prosaically.

The pig swallowed hard, daring a glance up at Shadow before looking back to Ammeline. “His choices in chapter and verse are a code, to tell which paths or hiding places to use,” he explained, before forcing himself to meet the towering hedgehog's eyes. “And I know it, sir, because I'm turning traitor on them. My name's Lewis Beaqi, and I can't do it any more. They're smuggling things away from the supplies for the army, sir, and I can't make myself part of it another day.”

There was a shocked silence, lasting all of six or seven seconds under the weight of Ammeline's urge for intrigue.

“Then I shall call for tea,” she announced firmly, taking matters into her own hands – her mother looking on with affected tolerance. Shadow believed he could see the pride beneath. “and ensure our father keeps my aunts' attention a while longer. And you, young man, shall speak of this further when all four of us have a cup in our hands,” she added, to young Lewis.

Shadow felt a smile begin to cross his face. Ammeline Rose's soul had just ignited, and he couldn't wait to find it some fuel.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Leon City. Rooftop height.

Sonic Erin rechecked his shoes, and made certain his Headwater Medallion gleamed bright on his breast. He'd taken Shadow's advice seriously, and it had seen him right so far.

It wasn't that late in the morning, but he knew that – a few days before – the main scent in the air would have been the morning's loaves from the bakeries. Warm air rising from the ovens and chimneys would have brought it to him on the breeze, and delighted him.

He could still smell it, of course; mingled in with it, though, was the faint scent of ash from the one that had burned down. It had tainted every breath he took in the streets of Leon since that day, and the fire was still recent enough that the stink of burned, wet wood hadn't fully gone away. He wasn't sure how to feel about it; someone's livelihood had suffered, and possibly been destroyed completely – there had been injuries that would take a long time to heal, likewise – and yet the day held bright and glorious memories for him, too.

He shook his head, to cast the confusion away. Give it time, Sonic. You have plenty, to decide how you feel about a memory. The sky's bright, the way's clear. Run. He was off, feeling the air whistle past him, then roar, then sing as he pushed himself up into his higher gears. From roof to roof, never heavy enough to dislodge tiles, his steps swift and light enough that no one within even knew he was there – and he wasn't. He was already gone, his speed bringing a new building under his tread with each bound, every step hurling further, faster, the joy and exhilaration of it pouring through him along with his power. A lopsided smile began to cross his face as he made the morning his own, a smile that part of him knew he shared with his cousin. Probably with Silver, too, if it ran in the family – and it widened now as he reached a different district of the city and felt the energy surge within him anew. More than his lightning, something flickered in the air around him like half-visible blue flame, like the flames around a shooting star's leading end as it fell through the sky. He felt downward pressure against him, the backswept shape of his spines pushing him against the surface he ran on as he parted the air like the prow of a ship through water.

But if it pushed him against a surface...Sonic's smile turned into a fierce grin. He changed his course, moving for a church and taking the relatively long straightaway of its rooftop as a run-up before planting a foot against the side of its steeple tower – and releasing a delighted whoop as the air pressure kept him pressed against the wall on his way up, running vertically toward the pinnacle. So long as he didn't lose speed, he wouldn't fall – and then he was soaring past the tip of the steeple itself, throwing his arms wide in the joy of sunlight and warmth and speed and fresh air and life. He had his family back, he was in love with a beautiful lady who shared his regard, and he was the swiftest living thing on the face of the world. Sonic felt nothing but liberation in this moment, and felt himself turn a carefree somersault in the air before he angled himself – feeling the push of the wind against him once more, and riding it – to touch his feet to the other side of the church tower and hurl himself back downward again. He was running once more, downward this time, and the ground flashed up at him before he rode his own momentum to throw himself across the empty street and up the opposite wall. Free and swift, unleashed, Sonic Erin hurled himself head-first into the future as the stopped clock of his life began to move forward once more.

=======>>>>=======

It wasn't that late in the morning, but Princess Blaze Felis was already tired.

Her first audience for the day had been with Danica Avis, the matriarch of her ducal House, who had arrived to waste her time with yet another attempt to advertise some pudding-witted and safely-tractable Avis relative as husband material. It had become more difficult to deal with these intercessions from her Council's various schemers since meeting Sonic Erin, she'd found; her patience had been the first victim, now that beyond all their 'suggestions' stood a man she could see herself marrying for her own happiness. That had been bad enough, but the Summer Start festival had been a tipping point. She could already tell that the reappearance – and acceptance as gifted – of a scion of House Erin had rattled at least a couple of them, and that she'd then danced with him at the ball last night? There must have been quiet desperation around every ducal breakfast table in the city, this morning. Requests for audiences had come in at first light, by all accounts. Blaze had resigned herself to a day of listening to these entreaties, which she couldn't help but imagine as the betrothal equivalent of small wooden boxes propped up with sticks over some ostensibly-enticing piece of bait.

It had been a welcome relief, therefore, to have the guards bring an urgent interruption. The mice and rats of the Felis family's household guard were the Imperial Army's most loyal and unrelentingly-trained regiment, and undertook extensive training in courtly etiquette and political strategy so as to have an edge in how to deal with potential trouble within the Palace before it began. When a soldier of the Royal Murines interrupted an audience, there was no question that the reason was valid.

Duchess Avis looked ready to defy that convention, when the heavyset rat strode in. Princess Blaze made a point of knowing the name and face of every guard stationed at Leon Palace, to ensure no infiltrator would catch her unawares; it only took a moment for her thoughts to accelerate from the half-stupor of the past ten minutes, hushing the puffin with an abrupt “A moment, Danica,” before rising from her throne to address the newcomer. “Sergeant Lonergan. What news?”

Ezekyle Lonergan was a veteran who'd trained many of the others in his regiment, including one or two who'd risen past him in the ranks. He was a steady and reliable man, and when he came to an almost unrealistically perfect parade-rest to speak, his experience showed well enough to silence any protest at his intrusion. “Beg pardon, ma'am, Duchess Chiros brings news of a potential assassination plot at work within the Empire, against another noble. Wishes to share all details in private.”

“Send her in. And escort Duchess Avis out. Danica, I will listen later,” she added, raising her voice over the puffin's abortive, outraged spluttering. “You will be heard, in full, and your advice taken under consideration. But I will not place a potential marriage discussion above saving a life. I have my priorities.” She returned to her throne, keeping the relief from her face at the chance to put the conversation off until later, and kept her countenance as blank as she could while the – hah – the huffing puffin was escorted from the throne room. When Duchess Chiros was shown in, she released her grip on herself and allowed her friend to see her mood.

Half a minute later, Sergeant Lonergan left the throne room at a dead run, moving for the ambassadorial quarters.

=======>>>>=======

Sonic's arrival back at the Rose townhouse was timely indeed. Not five minutes before, a runner had arrived from the Palace with a hastily written note from Duchess Chiros; Shadow explained to him, amid the hubbub of the packing, that they were moving up their schedule and leaving Leon that afternoon.

“If you've a message to pass to Her Highness before we leave, then now's the time,” Amy advised him in passing. “You have perhaps half an hour. But our staff will deliver it. You're not to leave these walls unless it's to get into that carriage.”

Sonic bridled at that, pausing on his way along the hall. “Amy, I grew up confined for my safety. I have my gift now, you couldn't-”

“Duchess Chiros' message informed us that someone in this city – someone anonymous but highly-placed – is attempting to hire professional killers, for a strike at a lesser noble,” Amy interrupted him, with a meaningful I-have-this glance at her husband to send him about his packing. “Nothing is certain, but given the impact of your arrival and announcement, and what's been seen as your success in capturing the Princess' attention, we may safely assume someone is arranging to have your head taken. We shall be gone, on the road to the West and to Blumenheim, before they have found their killers and delivered their instructions.”

Sonic bristled. “I don't fear them, Amy! They can't catch up to-”

“Do you care for Maude's life?” she snapped back, bluntly. “Or Madeline's? Lewis'? We gifted are not the only people at risk if they strike here, Sonic! Oh, blast,” she added, throwing up her hands half-heartedly at the way he'd recoiled from her. “I won't treat you as a child, you know that. But we're leaving so that we can be seen to leave, so any attempt to harm us will be on the road instead of here, and so risk only us. Lewis is driving our coach, and he's had some experience at rough business; he knows to get out of the way if your cousin and I are forced to defend ourselves. I don't doubt he understands the same of you. This is not cowardice, Sonic,” she added, more softly. “This is a removal of our serving-staff from danger.”

Sonic let out a slow breath, and dropped his head in a defeated nod. Amy placed a comforting hand on his forearm, and smiled when he raised his gaze to hers again. “We still have a little time. Write to her. Be brief, be honest, and be brave. Shadow has written a note to the Duchess, and we can conceal yours inside it. But go to the study, now, and begin. We'll handle the rest, and meet you here in half an hour.”

Without another word, Sonic went. The sudden nervous energy coming upon him was easily spent, up until he reached the study a second or so later and was obliged to move at walking pace for the sake of the papers therein. Gathering a pen and ink, and a blank sheet with an envelope, was the work of a moment; the first word took him nearly a minute. Brief, honest, brave. Amy had chosen those words with a purpose. He wouldn't speak to her as a hopeful suitor, then. Formality had its place, but he was in love with her and had no intention of implying otherwise; he knew that she felt, or was beginning to feel, the same. He would be open with his love, he decided – and, galvanised, he placed ink to paper.

From the hand of Lord Sonic Erin, bearer of the Headwater Medallion, to Her Imperial Highness Princess Blaze Felis.

Your Highness,

I must write quickly. We are safe, but we are leaving the capital with half an hour's notice so that if certain suspicions are correct, the staff of the Rose townhouse will not be placed in harm's way. It aches, to leave so soon after finding you again be forced to set aside what I wish to do now, after having spent so long waiting for it. I had not known, in all my years hidden, that what I sought in life had a name, or so warm a smile.

I know you are no fool, and that you know my feelings. Indeed, half of the city must know them by now, fully half a day after the dance that taught me what joy truly is...

=======>>>>=======

When Knuckles bowed his head in respect and gratitude for the Princess' attention, and made his way from the throne room, his heart felt lighter than it had all morning. The likely target had been identified – the young man he had met some days ago, who reminded him of Vivid – and a message had been quickly dispatched. All that could be done, for now, had been done; when events caught up with their actions, they could make further decisions, and he would gladly assist in any way possible if he were asked. For now, he knew his own next step must be a report to the scryers via his whisper-token, to pass the latest news to Her Gleaming Majesty. He retired to the palace's gardens, where a man might be seen wandering alone and thought only to be taking a morning constitutional. Passing on the relevant details was a matter of a minute or two, and receipt was swiftly confirmed.

It was on his way back through the gardens, taking his time to enjoy the sights and scents, that he heard weeping. He slowed his movements, and paced around a topiary bush to investigate – and found a small child, a rabbit, huddled upon a stone bench with her head in her hands.

At a loss for the etiquette of approaching an unaccompanied little girl in distress, Knuckles vacillated just a short span too long – some small hint of his presence made itself known, and she glanced up and froze at the sight of him.

Nothing for it now. Son of the Island, you are chosen by a chao. Live up to it. He ensured his posture was open, as unthreatening as he could make it, and sank slowly to one knee where he was. “I beg your pardon,” he began carefully. “I didn't mean to interrupt you. I shall leave you be, if you wish, but I must ask – is there something the matter?” A foolish question, and an adult would treat it so with tear-tracks still down their cheeks. The little one was young and gentle enough to take it as an invitation, though, and after a moment she shook her head. “Has someone hurt you?” he asked next, and this returned a more immediate negative response. Very well. He moved just a little closer, slowly, and took the end of the bench farthest from her. Vivid peeked from behind his dreads, and the girl's nervous sidelong glances swiftly became a fascinated gaze at the chao; without a word, he took it from his shoulder and placed it on the bench, where it toddled carefully toward her.

After a moment or two of staring raptly at it, the little rabbit seemed to remember herself. “I'm only sad,” she managed, in a shaky voice. “Everyone is sad sometimes.”

“Everyone is,” agreed Knuckles gently, softly. “From warlords to washerwomen, from kings to carpenters. Though if you don't mind me saying...this seems a very strong sort of sadness, to bring such tears.”

The tiny girl shook her head. “It's because of my Papa,” she quavered softly. “Mama told me last night. I won't ever meet him. There was a boat with bad people, they tried to bring sickness and he stopped them...but it meant he could never come back.”

Knuckles paused for a moment at that. The description rang some distant bell in his memory; something he'd picked up on when reading the stored knowledge about the Sol Empire's recent history. Chasing such a memory was futile, for him. He would have to wait for it to approach on its own, and then catch it up gently when it drifted close enough.

“To sacrifice oneself like that is very brave,” he noted. “But very sad. It always comes from love and kindness, even though it hurts to think about.”

The rabbit-girl squeezed her hands together, fingers interlacing as she fought back another little wave of sobs. Knuckles felt a lump in his own throat, to see it. No child this young should have to learn of such true, deep loss. Though there was truly nothing he could do to assist her, nothing he could...no. There was something he could do, he realised after a moment, as Vivid cooed softly for her attention and was hesitantly petted after an inquisitive glance up at him.

He could tell her a story. Such things helped, with children, didn't they? His own father had not been perfect, he understood with an adult's hindsight, but the man had never hurt him, and had often used the old stories to let a lesson form inside his son's head. He took a deep, slow breath.

“We know of the courage of rabbits, in my lands,” he began. “When the Island was still new, only just risen from the waters, there was a famine; not enough food to go around. One of our old heroes, Feather-Serpent, had given up his own food supplies to others, and was wandering and hungry. Weakened, he fell to the ground, and a small rabbit eating grass nearby saw him – not a rabbit-person, like you or your Papa, but a little animal. It helped him gather dry twigs for a fire, and then threw itself into the flames so that he could eat it.”

The little girl didn't move, staring out at the late-afternoon clouds in a melancholy even his might couldn't hope to lift. The echidna paused, taking another slow breath in a silence that was broken only by tiny lapine sniffles. “Feather-Serpent was stricken with grief and awe, at the selflessness and nobility of the rabbit,” he continued. “Before he ate it – because he would not dishonour its sacrifice – he offered its body to the sky, and raised it up to the Moon. Though you are small, he told it, your greatness of spirit will never be forgotten. You will be a symbol to all of my people. And the rabbit's image remains in the Moon, where he placed it. Remembered forever, for courage and for kindness.” He looked sidelong at the child, his voice lowering a little. “Perhaps there are two brave rabbits there, now. Looking down at a good girl, and smiling.”

There was a busy little pause, as the little girl gathered herself and swallowed hard, glancing briefly up at him with huge, gleaming eyes. “Mama s-says I'm a good girl,” she whispered, barely audible. Knuckles glanced down into her lap, where his tiny sapphire-blue companion had rested its paw on the back of her hand and gazed up at her in turn. The creatures could see a person's worth, he knew. A chao would not approach the unworthy.

“I know you are,” was all he said, turning to look at the faintly-pink clouds of the western sky.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor. The southern drawing-room.

The plan had formed quickly, and with an ease that left Shadow stunned. His awareness of Ammeline's reputation went without saying; nonetheless, it had somehow never occurred to him how exactly it might have come about. Or at least, that the process of it might have left her with experience to draw upon for the quick formulation of effective and flexible plans.

“So we're agreed,” she was saying now, to the drawing-room over tea – including a nervous but unexpectedly rapt young pig. “The goal is twofold: to have the smugglers caught, and to expose the parson.”

“All presuming that we find evidence of it,” added Shadow, conscientiously. The boy Lewis gave him a hurt look, and he returned one with a hint of apology to it. He would not allow the Rose family to be led blindly into making public fools of themselves. He owed them too much, and would willingly appear the villain in this situation if the moment required it of him.

“All presuming,” agreed Lady Amaranthine, in a conciliatory tone. “Then we must time it carefully. If we're to do it right, then the aim is to give these men no warning, no time to clear out and scatter into the woods. That, in turn, means bringing the parson to justice at the same time, or afterward. Otherwise, they shall know they're hunted.”

“What proof would satisfy you, sir?” asked the youth, and Shadow felt the stirrings of pity at the quaver in his voice. He quashed them with what ruthlessness he could muster, but part of him couldn't help finding a little respect for the lad in how he wrestled with his fear in such circumstances, and committed to his goal.

“Reverend Smunt would have some token or document,” he began, carefully. “If there are truly are coded references in his sermons, then there must be a cipher, for choosing the correct passages. We must inspect the parsonage, and do so without him having time to conceal such a thing.”

Ammeline nodded slowly, while the lad looked at least somewhat mollified at receiving a direct and reasonable answer. “Then it ought to be done on Saturday evening,” she noted, “while his preparation is either underway or just completed.”

“Should he be drawn away?” asked Shadow, and Amy shook her head.

“No, he might be in the habit of hiding things whenever he leaves,” she replied simply, staring at nothing for a moment – whether watching some inner branching set of possibilities and outcomes, or seeking to invoke her gift. She'd confided in him that it seemed to come and go as it pleased, but she was considering commissioning a set of fortune-teller's cards tailored to herself, in hopes of better results.

“I can speak to his superior, but he wouldn't take my word on it alone,” noted her mother. “There would need to be some public disgrace, something that risks scandal.” Shadow nodded to this. The gods were one thing, but their more organised servants tended toward placing the institution as their first priority; the hierarchy would need to find itself at risk of losing face, for anything to really be done.

“Can he be framed for something?” he asked, causing Lady Amaranthine to place a knuckle to her chin in thought. Ammeline was still lost among the myriad branching futures of the whole enterprise, so Shadow decided to elaborate and hope to jog a thought or two. “Something public, not harmful, but – public drunkenness, perhaps?”

“Difficult to achieve,” mused the Baroness, but Ammeline was looking at him with a glimmer of realisation in her eyes. He held her gaze, projecting as much faith in her as he could; if he were to vocally encourage her, he felt, he would likely stymie whatever she was concocting.

“We can do both at once,” she whispered, and a smile spread across her face, with Shadow mirroring it as it came. “If we find the evidence, we can do something to his water-flask. - You know, Mother, the one he wears at his belt. A gift to me from Bishop Lionel Wirth, he always says, to allow me to wet my whistle with a little weak honey-wine before my sermons. If we drop a cupful of the good stuff into it, and ensure that Bishop Wirth is present for the results, I think we might consider the problem solved. Then, all we need to do is have Constable Lightfoot locate the smugglers themselves while the sermon is still going on, so that they're gathered around the goods they stole. They'll – they'll likely be waiting for directions, from whomever's coming back from the church with the information.” Her gaze darted aside briefly; Shadow wondered if he had just seen her correct a prediction to an educated guess in mid-sentence, to avoid giving away that her gift had dropped some future memory in her lap.

“That's to be me,” came Lewis' voice, a little more firmly than before. “They're expecting me to return after the sermon's done. I can show the exact place they'll wait, if there's a map, or give directions to it. There's only three. There'd be more, but old Clutch wouldn't know trust if it bit him in the trousers,” he added confidently – and flinched as Lady Amaranthine shot up out of her seat.

“Clutch!” she barked, her voice filled with vindication. “I might have known! Of all the creeping cretins to have darkened the doors of Rose Manor, I should have seen him coming! That grimy-souled, swivel-eyed, greasy-tongued son of a silverware-snatcher! Who else, young man?” she added, turning on Lewis, who froze as if she'd pointed her rifle at him. “Come, now, let's hear it-”

Shadow found himself, strangely, compelled to interject here. While naming the smugglers was crucial to the endeavour, frightening the boy into the frozen state old rabbit folklore called tharn was less than productive. Whatever could be said of the possibility of love at first sight, in which theory Shadow was now a confirmed believer, there could be no doubt that an exactly opposite phenomenon was of frequent occurrence. After one look at some people, even friendship swiftly became impossible. Such a one, in Shadow's opinion, was the sniffing, self-important excrescence he'd seen eyeing the furniture like an auctioneer's assayer at Winter's End. Perhaps that was the man's best defence: the fact that he looked so much the part, people presumed that they were mistaken in their first impressions – that he couldn't possibly be as bad as he looked.

Well, Shadow was going to assume nothing about Mr Clutch, from this moment on. But there was also a matter of cooperation, to be offered and earned. His parents' leadership lessons had helped him understand loyalty, and there was a mutual opportunity here.

“If I may, Baroness,” he began, raising a placating hand, “this young man has provided us with – so far – nothing but reasons to trust his word. This does seem unlikely to be some entrapment into scandal, and few would be willing to attempt it so soon after watching us tear apart a group of armed killers.” The lad flinched at that, and Shadow forged ahead in the knowledge that he had Lewis' attention as well as that of both ladies. “That being the case, young Master Beaqi has placed himself in some considerable personal danger, in service of his conscience. It behoves us to find some way to protect him, in turn. Not only from his prior confederates in crime, but also from any particularly zealous application of the law. Would Constable Lightfoot be amenable to allowing him to turn King's Evidence, kept quiet to avoid repercussions?”

The lady of the house looked thoughtful at this, while Shadow carefully avoided meeting the grateful gaze of the boy across the room. “We should certainly ensure what we can,” she agreed after a breath or two. “To begin with, young man, will you have been missed? If your role is to listen to the sermon, should we assume they expect to see you between now and then?”

“...Yes, ma'am,” replied young Lewis after a moment. “I've some time. They expect me to be mooning over some girl in the village, I've been hinting about it so they would assume that reason for me being gone. But that shan't last long.”

“Intelligent,” noted Ammeline, and Shadow agreed with a slow nod. “A forward-thinking young fellow. The kind of boy to whom second chances sometimes come,” she added, looking at her mother again – and then at Shadow, for some reason. He raised a quizzical brow, and then fought back a smile at her offended look. Not all of us plan as swiftly as you do, dear Ammeline.

“Then we shall guarantee it however we may,” Lady Amaranthine resolved, resting one gloved hand upon the boy's head. “Go back to them now, my boy, and endeavour to make your way here instead of toward the church, when Sunday morning comes. I shall protect you, if you should need it, but the Constable is a fair-minded man and King's Evidence is a solid and purpose-built pillar of the law. I believe you have nothing to fear. And when all is done...perhaps we may find an apprenticeship or similar, for a quick-thinking young lad,” she added, glancing at her daughter. Ammeline's determined expression never wavered.

“With a sound and well-formed conscience, when he listens to it,” she noted firmly, and both Lewis and her mother visibly stifled a grimace each.

“Yes, very well, very well,” sighed the Baroness. “Then finish your tea and be off, young man; we don't want to ruin Mr Clutch's surprise. You've done Blumenheim a service today – and the Empire, too, if they're stealing from the army's supplies. Leave the rest of the planning to us, and be ready to guide the Constable and his men to them.” A gleam had entered her eyes, of a kind Shadow had never seen in them before, and she clapped her hands together firmly. “The hunt begins.”

=======>>>>=======

As the week drew to a close, Shadow had largely managed to avoid Ammeline's aunts and cousins; Vithica Rose was one thing, being to all appearances the sort of lady who breakfasted on broken bottles, and her disapproval had been easy to gain; all he'd had to do was mention that Ammeline's judgement had been sound in every instance he'd witnessed. Having taken a side concerning the lingering grudge the older lady held, he was therefore granted the greatest gift it was currently in her power to bestow: she'd begun pretending he wasn't there.

Destra Rose, on the other hand, had been both easier and more difficult to deal with. One showing of what had been his most charming smile, ten years ago, had seen to that. The changes wrought upon his teeth had left such an expression rather more predatory than it had been, no matter how much warmth he put into his eyes. She had quickly ceased gossiping at him, on all topics but that of her sons; they were the centre of her world, it seemed, and so it was remarkable how often they escaped her sight. Until now, he had avoided them, too; unfortunately, Aidan had located him after lunch and asked him diplomatically for some help. It appeared that Lady Destra's son had disappeared, and was at present nowhere to be found. All hands were being enlisted to locate the child...which naturally, in line with Shadow's luck, meant that he was the first to lay eyes on a wayward young hedgehog.

Worse still, it seemed that this one had at some point ceased talking long enough to hear some absurd rumours. “Sir, is it true you become a monster at night?”

Shadow gave the child a long, cold-burning stare. The youth was undeterred. “Is it true you were cursed? Is it true you devour your enemies? Is it true you turn to solid silver if you see your reflection? Is it true you eat-”

“-Importunate children? Quite possibly,” he ground out, holding the young boy's gaze. There was a brief pause, presumably while this walking game of Chun-nan Whispers reloaded whatever magazine of personal questions he carried with him.

“Sir, what does importunate mean?”

Great Gaia, I liked this child better when he was missing. “Perhaps we might return to your mother and ask her,” was all he said, smiling at the boy. It was like a smile, anyway. The corners of his mouth went upward, and his teeth were bared. Some three and a half minutes later – a hastily-snaffled piece of Ammeline's prized, extra-sticky Whale Point-imported toffee having bought him a brief but blessed period of relative silence while the boy's jaw struggled to open – Shadow opened the door to the Western drawing room.

“I have returned the child,” he declared, and turned to leave.

“Stanford!” honked his mother. The hedgehog froze, and slowly – glacially – turned his head to regard her over his shoulder.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, in a low, dangerous voice.

“Stanford is my elder son,” warbled the oblivious matron, gesturing to the muffled youth before her. "The missing boy is his baby brother, Cholmondley."

“Will you excuse me, please,” was all Shadow said, striding out of the room and closing the door behind him. What would follow was bound to harm his reputation if it were witnessed; before he could do more than fill his lungs in preparation to scream into the hand he'd pressed across his own mouth, however, he found himself in rather more agreeable company. Immediately, on reflex alone, he straightened up and mastered himself.

"Ammeline," he addressed the young lady abruptly, when she came into view. "Please, I must beg you - tell me that the boy Cholmondley is too young to speak."

“I beg your pardon?”

“His older brother is with their mother now, and will remain silent until he finishes his toffee. We must be away before then.”

“His toffee?” asked Ammeline dangerously, narrowing her eyes. Shadow glanced aside.

“I promise, you don't want it back,” was his only clarification. She stared coolly for a moment longer, but his unease with being so close to the garrulous child was clear; she began to walk along the hallway in silent invitation, and he accepted and kept pace with her.

“Cholmondley is too young to talk,” she assured him, “but not to cry.”

“I rather empathise with that, just now. We must find him and return him to his inept mother before the other one regains the power of speech.”

“Shadow!” she protested, shocked.

“Yes?”

“Aunt Destra is not an inept mother.”

“Repeatedly discarding her offspring is deliberate, then?” he asked waspishly, and she rolled her eyes.

“No, and kindly cease to be cruel to her. Even in her absence.”

Even as he marvelled at her kindness and dedication to correctness of action, he felt worse rise within him. “Cruel? Quite the contrary. I judge it the most sensible decision I've yet seen from the lady...”

“Shadow Erin, I shall kick your shin...”

=======>>>>=======

Saturday night, when it arrived, had Amy Rose in a frenzy of excitement. It had been so long since she had last been given a chance at genuine, earnest mayhem in the service of Good. All had gone according to plan: her father had written to the bishop of the diocese, and invited him to come and see all the improvement Reverend Smunt had shown in his sermons lately. She rather suspected it was the implicit promise of a famous Rose Manor supper and Sunday luncheon that had convinced Bishop Lionel Wirth to come along. He had arrived earlier this evening, and after one of the more landmark suppers Cook could put on their résumé, he had spent some twenty minutes singing the praises of the gifted quokka before the party had broken up for the evening.

While most had gone to bed, Amy did not sleep. She waited. Come eleven o'clock, she had swiftly slid out of her bedroom and down the hall to meet Shadow at the foot of the stairs. Both wore dark, simple clothing that would not rustle or impede their motions; Amy had donned the same padded training outfit in which she'd attempted to – hah – shadow the taller hedgehog through the garden. Shadow had dressed in simple, lightweight black linen with a rather thicker hood; the dim glow of his streaks was thoroughly obscured, and she felt her heart skip a beat when those lambent crimson eyes meet her own.

With nothing more than a whispered lovely in moonlight from her companion, they had set off, keeping away from the roads and pathways – flitting through the woods as best they could. Shadow was eerie when he crept, those long limbs nearly spiderlike when he dropped into a crouch to avoid touching a low branch, or clambered over a fence without breaking his stride; he did at least have the consideration to hold his position while Amy's more reasonable stature handled the same obstacles. The first couple of times, she gave him a defiant look after scrambling through whatever stood in her path; after the second consecutive hot blush at the undisguised affection in his eyes, though, she reluctantly resolved to keep her eyes to herself as much as was feasible. Blossoming feelings were beautiful, but unwieldy for skulduggery.

The parsonage was quiet, and no candle lit the upper window; this at least told them that they had no need to avoid the attention of a man awake. The door was latched, of course; a window rather higher than their heads remained ajar, and Amy was obliged to ask Shadow to lace his hands for her to step into, and hoist her upward.

Covered streaks or no , she thought to herself as she clambered carefully through the window and down from the little stairway next to the parsonage's scullery to open the door for him, if I blush any brighter I'll have us found just as surely. Words were barely murmured, rather than forcefully whispered, and after closing the door to prevent the cool air giving them away, the pair made their way carefully into Reverend Smunt's study.

“Here,” came Shadow's low rumble after a moment, lighting a candle and beginning to search one side of the writing-desk, while Amy quickly interfered with the Reverend's water-flask and then searched the other. It didn't take long for evidence to come to light; shortly after locating a list of locations matched with numbers, Shadow reached for the soft-bound Book of Gaia and began carefully leafing through it.

“These are chapters and verses,” he noted, after a couple of pages.

“And this list doesn't match the handwriting on his own notes,” whispered Amy triumphantly. “We should keep this, it incriminates the blighter thoroughly. Wait a moment. I've always wanted to do something.”

“I beg you to make it something silent.” Shadow was already folding the list one-handed, to tuck it into his clothing.

“It won't be, when he reads it out. Bring that candle closer, all I see in the dark are your eyes - ah! There.” She began to carefully copy a page of the parson's sermon notes, from a thick bundle usually wrapped in what looked like fine, soft leather. “Look at this. Expensive stuff, at this quality.”

“Mm?”

“Skateskin-bound. This is imported. Beautifully worked, too. The hypocrite - you'd think a man of the cloth would wrap his notes in a spare shirt or something, and give the difference to the poor. - But then, I suppose with the funds he has coming in from his criminal friends, he must find quiet ways of enjoying it. Well, then he deserves this as much as I do.” She finished writing, and slid it back into the sheaf. “There we go. Now let's be off, we have what we need,” she added, conscious of the need for their intrusion to remain brief.

“What did you put in there?” murmured Shadow as they moved back through the kitchen. Holding a single wait-a-moment index finger up for him, she ushered the taller man out, closed the scullery door behind him – latched it, and carefully worked her way back out of the window.

“The hand that counteth its chickens ere they be hatched, oft-times doth but step upon the banana skin,” she declared with a fierce grin, as he offered her a hand down and moved the window back into its barely-open place with the other.

Shadow looked askance at her, as she recited her addition with fiendish satisfaction. “Will that work?”

She batted her eyelashes at him, shamelessly aware of the effect such a sight had on the taller hedgehog; she had asked a lot of him, to accompany her on such an outing as this. The least she could do was improve his mood a little. “With what I put in his water bottle? He'll be exactly as drunk as this will make him sound. Absolutely blotto. What?” she asked, some certainty fading from her voice as Shadow stared at her in horror.

“You...put something in - what did you put in his water bottle?” asked Shadow, as if skirting the edge of a deep hole with his voice.

Amy's ears flicked back, but she didn't stop moving for the fence bounding the property. “Only a cup of my mother's rum. The good stuff, it should render him amenable to every suggestion that comes from a smiling face. Why?”

Shadow's head turned as if on a swivel, to stare at the darkened house behind them. “...because I thought that was my role. He has two cups of your father's best brandy in there.”

There was a brief, but decidedly busy silence as they contemplated tomorrow's sermon. “He's not going to know when to stop pronouncing banana,” concluded Amy, quietly reopening the gate to let them both out past the fence.

“On the bright side, we may only need to wait until he wakes up the day after,” Shadow posited as they made their escape, staying on paved stone to avoid footprints in the grass.

Once they were on the road back up to the estate, Amy caught her breath enough to ask, “Why's that?”

“I consulted with your father, and he tells me the parson is generally an abstemious man. One cup of rum and two of brandy...will be quite the shock to his system. His head will feel like an anvil in the morning, possibly one still being used. If we command him in what to say, with a sufficiently deep voice, he will hear the thunderous tones of God himself...”

Amy giggled and smacked his arm with the back of her hand, affection in every note of her laugh. “Fool.”

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Blumenheim.

The arrival of Sonic Erin in Blumenheim was an occasion for joy, for bright eyes and broad smiles, and for merriment. Rose Manor had not seen such a day since the wedding of Shadow and Amy, some four years prior; the Baron and Baroness had prepared for the return of their daughter and son-in-law, but hastily added more welcome still for their long-lost nephew.

“Oh, my boy,” greeted Aidan, embracing Sonic tightly and firmly as soon as they'd alighted. Behind him, Amy and her mother likewise enfolded one another in their arms for a heartfelt reunion, before the older lady went up on her toes to repeat it with Shadow. “My boy, it's so good beyond words to see you. I'd thought you lost, and here you are after all. And a grown man, and with a Headwater!” he added, releasing Sonic enough to hold him at arm's length by the shoulders, beaming at the bewildered youth. “Dashed proud of you, lad, welcome to Blumenheim. You've little baggage, I'd imagine, going from Amy's letter?”

Sonic allowed the dust to settle from all that, for just a moment, before nodding carefully once he was sure he'd caught up. “Little enough, sir,” he replied, and Aidan gave him a delighted clap on the shoulder.

“For goodness' sake, don't call me sir, my boy, we're family,” the older hedgehog assured him cheerily. “Call me Aidan, at the least. To say nothing of where things may be in a year or – ah, I'm getting ahead of myself,” he added with a shamelessly cheerful broadening of his smile, as both his wife and daughter gave him looks over each of Sonic's shoulders that could juice an orange from forty paces. “Come along inside, young lord, and we'll see about a bit of something to eat. It's nearly lunchtime...”

Shadow shared a meaningful look with his mother-in-law, as the Baron led Sonic inside. “Has he caught on yet?” murmured the older woman, and Shadow gave one of those shrugs that seemed all the more expansive from his height.

“I don't believe so, but it's impossible to be certain,” he replied, his voice rising to a conversational norm as his cousin travelled beyond easy earshot. “The law is clear. The question is whether it'll be fought. The news preceded us home?”

“By half a day,” replied Amara grimly. “Difficult to disagree with the Duchess' conclusions. Someone, somewhere, sees the boy as an obstacle. Whether to their own offspring's marriage chances, or...”

“...or the final end of House Erin, so it gets none of its lands back,” agreed Shadow. “Still, there's good news concerning Her Highness, all told. And he was able to pen a swift letter to her, which I concealed within a letter to Duchess Chiros. That avenue of communication remains undiscovered.”

“And better news for you, Mother,” chirped Amy, stepping out from behind Shadow after ensuring the carriage contained no leftover small items of theirs. “He's trained in fencing.”

“Is he, by gods,” was Amara's immediate response, a gleam entering her eye. “How trained, exactly?”

“Longsword,” supplied Shadow. “Single and dual-handed techniques, though neither to any real extent. He's sloppy; his footwork is perhaps passable, but I faced him with staves and he barely planted one on me in two and a half hours. He lets his feelings make his decisions. All in all, practically a blank slate.”

“Hmm,” mused the older woman, rubbing her chin thoughtfully before shooting a glance at Amy from the corner of her eye. “He'll do, in lieu of grandchildren,” she conceded. “For now, at least. And it certainly gives me hope that he won't end up gaining five or six sizes in clothing from Aidan feeding him,” she added, pretending not to notice Shadow's abashed but amused expression and Amy's flaming crimson cheeks. “I shall have to train him daily. Come along, you two, before my husband drives our new arrival to distraction trying to show him the whole manor at once.” Head high, the very picture of a happy sergeant with some corrective shouting in her near future, she strode into the house.

=======>>>>=======

The weeks that followed seemed, frankly, idyllic. Sonic had imagined what a peaceful home life might be, anticipating the day he retook his nobility in the eyes of society; Rose Manor was a delight he would have hoped to echo in his own eventual home, he quickly decided. While an oasis of tranquillity compared to the bustle of Leon City, there was always something happening, largely due to the antics of the family with which he now found himself surrounded. When Amy and Shadow weren't playing an odd sort of back-and-forth badminton with a mix of affectionate insults and overly-syrupy forms of loving address, Lady Amara was drilling him in proper sword forms for his chosen weapon – something which she'd almost gleefully explained was a preference she shared, and in which she would thus show him no mercy. He was rapidly catching up with the Baroness' definition of proficiency.

In between all of this, Aidan Rose delighted in introducing him to new dishes – generally with reassurances that Cook hasn't had a new family member to stretch their wings for in years, old egg, you can expect another month of culinary showing-off, just consider it a welcome – and regaling him with stories of noble follies from years past. He wasn't sure if the latter was an attempt to teach him anything, but if it was, Aidan was being more subtle about it than his son-in-law. All he was learning was that nobles could be damn fools like anyone else, anyway.

It was on a Sunday-afternoon picnic outing at the edge of the Great Turquoise, that Sonic got his first hint of the next change to come. Shadow had brought some unread letters with him, while Amy and her father had been timing Sonic on runs across the plains. Amy had been right, the day they met; these grasslands were superb for him to really test himself, and he felt his strides must be landing dozens, perhaps hundreds of feet apart on the flattest and fastest runs. He wasn't sure about the precision of their timing method, but they seemed confident; they'd chosen to sing a song together, repeatedly, as each verse apparently lasted about a minute.

“...and if Fate fails I'll trip on a tail, and douse you in my drink – and take your hand and promise you smell better than you think – ah, he's back,” announced the Baron with a broad smile. “I call that about ten and a half minutes, lad, sit down and have yourself a Squamis Revenge. Where did you make your turn?”

“I found a pond of sorts, with a great brown boulder in the middle, and came back – ah, thank you – came back from there,” replied Sonic, taking the spicy pasty Amy proffered him.

“Good lord, the rockpool! That must be nearly thirty miles from here,” marvelled his cousin's wife. Her father nodded enthusiastically.

“Certainly more than twenty-five,” he noted. “And to get there and back in ten minutes? Sonic, m'boy, if my arithmetic's right you're approaching three hundred miles in an hour – I say, if the nobility scheme doesn't come along the way you want it, you'll have a smashing career option as the greatest postman who ever lived, what?”

Behind them, Shadow stalked over and sat down. “I've just opened a letter,” he began, succinctly. All eyes were immediately upon him. “From Silver. He's coming back to Blumenheim.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” chimed Lady Amara, uncorking a ceramic bottle of raspberry cordial. “I shall have the Amber Suite aired, it does fit him and dear Padraig well. How long shall he be staying?”

“No,” replied Shadow, simply. “Silver is coming back. He's coming home. He's resigned his commission.”

“I say, what in the world for? – well, I mean, he seemed the sort of chap who wouldn't haul himself out of the infantry if you dangled a cake before him on a string,” Aidan remarked, as his wife gave him a cool look. “Quite plainly, my dear, I thought we'd have to employ a crowbar to lever him out of it. But to down tools and come home?”

“Home it shall be,” declared Lady Amara, decisively. “We promised him once that we would welcome him, and we shall. He's fought long enough. Longer than anyone should have to.”

“Oh, and he'll be riding dear Vista,” smiled Amy. “Shadow, we should see about getting Sonic a horse! We can all go riding together.”

“I fear any horse of mine would be the most underworked beast in the barony,” smiled Sonic. “I could outpace any horse alive, hopping on one foot.”

“It's rather the done thing to own one, though,” replied Amy. “And we really should anyway, Shadow dear. It's been so long since you took Velvet anywhere.” Sonic nearly choked on his pasty.

“Your horse is called Velvet?” he asked incredulously, and gave Amy a pleading look for clarity at Shadow's grave, wordless nod.

“Your cousin is far too practically-minded a man to name anything beautifully,” was the prim explanation. “Or nearly anything, anyway. He only achieved it once. The task requires whimsy, and it's in whimsy that Shadow falls down.”

“I wouldn't quite say that,” replied Shadow, raising a brow. “The favour was quite handily returned, angel.”

“Yes, it was, you abandoned windmill of a man-” Amy caught herself, and rearranged her bearing into something less comically outraged. “Silver's horse is named Vista. He sired a colt on one of our mares during a prior visit,” she explained to Sonic. “I was without a horse of my own at the time – my darling Pearl had passed, the autumn before – and Shadow saw fit to name the foal for me with the stablehands, before I could hear of it.”

“What did he name it?”

“Yes, dearest, what did I name it?” smiled Shadow, as if he weren't going to suffer for this later.

Amy drew herself up regally, meeting Sonic's gaze. “Arson,” she announced. Sonic doubled over in a coughing fit, as she rolled her eyes. “So yes, Shadow, you may consider the favour returned.” So long as it stops you naming anything else of mine, her expression added before she handed her husband a pasty. “Now, for goodness' sake, eat something. If you're going to sit there staring at your letter and looking like you have indigestion, you might as well actually have it.”

“Mm,” agreed Shadow, his eyes locked to the paper. Sonic and Amy exchanged a glance, and he relaxed as she shook her head almost infinitesimally. She'd get the truth from him later. For now, Sonic applied himself to his lunch.

=======>>>>=======

Strange, thought Silver, what a fellow can forget.

His wedding ring had spent more time – far more time – with its chain around his neck than worn in the more traditional way. He had only been married a month and a half before he had gone off to war, and promised his wife he would return; not even enough time to grow used to the feeling of the band around his finger, before he'd had to take it off. A ring in combat was a liability; snagging on the pommel of a sword, or some desperate melee grapple, could lead to his whole finger being torn off. Like so many soldiers, he had chosen the safer route.

Now, ten years after losing her, he picked up where he left off. It still felt unfamiliar, a strange weight and presence on his hand. He knew that eventually it would become second nature. Until then, he would relish the bittersweet newness of the feeling. He would never hold her hand again, while awake. This would have to do.

Blumenheim remained as he'd remembered it. Stately in its way, not one of the vaster manor-houses he'd seen as a boy – Silver shuddered to think what the remains of the Erin ducal house looked like now, nearly fifteen years after it burned. The ivy climbing the southern side of the house, where it got the most sun, had been trimmed back; the late-afternoon sunshine of midsummer made the whole building gleam a bright, nearly impossible white. Atop the roof sat the glimmering bronze dot that was Baroness Rose's emplaced artillery piece – he'd found that hilarious the first time she fired it, amid the stresses and horrors of that morning. He had to admit, as an alternative to a warning bell, it certainly had character.

Character was a word that fit the whole place, really. He had, in his few-and-far-between visits to see Shadow since their reunion, seen Rose Manor – and its gardens and environs – at just about every possible time of day it was possible to witness the place; before dawn, a rosy glow lit the rear of the house where Cook and their crack team prepared the day's fresh bread, while the windows at the front of the building still reflected diamond-cold starlight. Dawn turned the white stones pink, and the sound of the house waking up was usually followed by the sound of the Baroness leading the gardening staff in their morning stretches, to keep them fit and ready for the day along with herself. The sunset, by contrast, painted the manor with soft, comfortable warm gold that tugged at Silver's heartstrings – nearly the exact hue of Honey's fur, as it had gleamed on their wedding day and in his dreams just about every night since. His usual room during a visit, the Amber Suite, was responsible for some of the happier and more peaceful dreams he'd had since he had first gone off to war. He didn't consider it a coincidence.

At this point in the day, the sunshine bleached the walls white, but the gardens were a riot of colour; its characteristic roses were, of course, perennially in bloom (a feat of nature-magic Silver understood to have been achieved by commissioning a gifted individual who could do such things with plants, as a wedding present from Duke Finn Erin shortly before Shadow's birth). Other flowers gleamed here and there; hollyhock joined its own notes to the chorus of pinks and reds the rosebushes had begun, as well as phlox and peonies. Further out from the house, the cooler purples of lavender and delphiniums made themselves known, the borders fading into one another thanks to the mingled pinks and blues of hydrangea bushes. The outermost edge of the flowerbeds' pattern was a vivid ring of daylilies in bright yellows and reds with the occasional fiery orange, likewise enchanted so their namesake short blooms would extend and repeat themselves through most of the year. Little wonder they named the place so. Home of the Flowers was apt indeed, dead language or no.

Now, he decided, gazing at the splendour, and the gleaming white stone of the manor house rising from it all. Now, I'm safe. Now, I can be a husband. He took the ring from its chain, and slid it slowly and carefully onto his finger. It felt strange; it felt complete, somehow, too. I'm sorry it took me so long, Honey. But I can wear it now.

When Vista reached the gravel path leading to the manor's front door, a footman came forward to take the rein – Silver nodded a mix of greeting and gratitude to the man, having seen his face before. They were engaged in a brief, quiet, amicable catch-up concerning the health and goings-on of the stablemaster, Cuthbert, when he heard the door open. He looked up.

His heart nearly stopped at the sight of the family waiting for him at the entrance. Jovial Aidan and cheery, gleefully waving Amy, the knowing smile of Amaranthine, the muted but genuine warmth in Shadow's towering aspect. And among them, a hesitant glance and flash of blue in a shade he never thought he'd see again.

You look so much like your parents, came the first thought. Earl Josephus Erin had been a compact and muscular hedgehog of a darker blue than his son's, given to demonstrations of kindness and charity that had left his wife Lilian quietly but affectionately despairing of ever raising a son firm-handed enough to manage their household. Silver's own parents, Dionyse and Terra Horizon, had been the greatest of friends with them; he'd heard their stories many times as a youth. He didn't know how the boy's character – the young man's character, he hastily and inwardly corrected himself – had turned out, but physically it was undeniable. The rest of the world fell away; he felt, rather than saw, the footman take a respectful step back in recognition of the moment. He was already dismounting Vista and running a brief hand down the steed's neck in gratitude, before beginning to move half-numb toward the door.

The youth met him halfway. The embrace was strong, if almost imperceptibly shaky; it wasn't just his own heart pounding, then. How many such reunions would he have, now that he was home? Surely this would be the last. He couldn't be that fortunate. No one could.

“You're so tall,” were the first words that escaped him, in a disbelieving laugh. “I thought – Gaia, if I'd known-”

“Don't feel guilty,” replied his cousin, in a softened, almost choked voice. “Don't. I understand it now, Silver, no one knew. For Chaos' sake, don't begin torturing yourself the way Shadow has.”

Silver was already shaking his head. “To have left you there, among strangers...”

“They weren't strangers for long,” the boy smiled. “My greatest friend in all the world is there still, and he'll be old enough to leave before midwinter. I can't wait for you all to meet him. But if you're resolved that you have amends to make, then address me with my giftname from now on.”

Silver fought past the fog of emotion for it, delving into his recall of Shadow's letter, and smiled after a second. “Sonic,” he greeted his cousin, back from the dead, grown tall and strong. “Sonic Erin, there aren't words.”

“There don't need to be,” the younger man smiled damply. “There can be, later, if we want them. But we're together again, cousin, and that's all the foundation we need for now.”

“Of course we're together,” Silver retorted with a soft laugh. “I couldn't be anywhere else. My highest responsibility is here, now.” Behind Sonic, the rest of the family were keeping a few feet's distance, but from a glance at Shadow's face, it was clear he'd expected this.

“Responsibility? You can't be here because you want to be?” asked Sonic, with an almost unnoticeable fall in his face. Silver shook his head emphatically.

“No! I mean – yes. I'm here because I want to be, Sonic. Never, ever doubt that. I've wanted to come home...longer than I think I allowed myself to acknowledge it. But despite the wonderful offer the Roses made to welcome me here, I couldn't make the idea sound like home itself. I couldn't force myself to think it...well. Our married cousin and his in-laws, in their house, and me joining them. I'm sure you understand.” Sonic was likely in a similar position himself, lately. The feeling of being a hanger-on, the fifth wheel of a wagon...made homeliness difficult to fit into his head.

“So what changed? Be direct,” added Sonic, and Silver nodded.

“You,” he replied, succinctly. “You turned up, and my longing to see you made it clear that I'd been away too long. Pride had ruled me on the matter, and perhaps responsibility was the needle that punctured it. By tradition, Sonic, I should be here now. And so while I do deeply wish to be here, it's not the only reason I've come.”

“Tradition?” Sonic's tone was all confusion now, but Silver only gestured to himself.

“I'm the last son of House Horizon, the guardian family of twelve generations. We never coddled, never stifled, but when there was a threat, we stood, and we shielded, and we fought it to a standstill. After what happened to us all, I believed my duty discharged, and it was no relief at all to know that I would never fulfil it. But now,” Silver couldn't keep the joy from his voice, “There is an heir to House Erin. Now, my duty stands renewed, and so do both my oldest friend and my youngest cousin.” His glance to Shadow as he spoke showed him the taller hedgehog understood completely. “Now, Sonic Erin, you have my word: you'll never feel abandoned again.”

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Rose Manor. The Northern Drawing-Room.

The truest benefit of waiting until Saturday night to – as Amy's father had put it – personalise the pitcher of the preacher, perhaps even greater than the timing of the Sunday-morning sermon, was that Amy's aunt Destra had also taken her leave of Blumenheim on the Saturday afternoon. With her two ongoing genealogical misdemeanours in tow, the walrus had announced her intent to flee the premises with many a querulous announcement that she missed her dear husband. Amy, who knew Alvin Rose to be a kindly but slightly-distant father and spouse (wrapped up as he was in the couriering business he had started, and which took up a rather solid majority of his waking thoughts) knew that her reasons were not quite so homely as all that.

After a number of encounters with Shadow, Destra Rose had quite simply settled into a low-intensity terror at the sight or thought of the man. He had never failed to be polite with her, but his aspect alone was unearthly enough to sow reservations in the mind of a lady whose nervous disposition was amplified by the anarchy her two sons wrought upon the world with their mere existence. The combination had proven too potent for her nerves to withstand; a swift letter had gone from Rose Manor to Uncle Alvin – upon whom Amy was minded to look rather more kindly than before, for the swiftness of his response.

Said response had been to immediately send the escort his wife had asked for her return (at the obliging and helpful suggestion of Baron Aidan himself) and instruct them to make themselves generally available to the family. The two men were even now being taken aside, shortly after luncheon, and introduced to Amy for the first time in her father's company. Her mother had gone to speak with the lady of the trio, who described themselves as siblings; they claimed to have been raised as a single family, before finding employment with Alvin Rose as his most skilled and wily couriers. Shadow had volunteered to handle the terrifying Aunt Vithica, whose absence had been less easy to guarantee before the scheduled mischief began. She would be staying until Sunday evening; Shadow had squared his shoulders and marched into battle once more, to go and exist in the same room as the older lady while she silently and venomously disapproved of him as emphatically as she could. It kept her entertained, at least, while the necessary introductions took place.

“Why does my uncle Alvin call you his rogues?” had been the first question from Amy's mouth, and its directness had been met with blasé cheeriness. These two birds were definitely of the working class, but had an intriguing lack of deference to them – they were polite enough, and addressed her as one would expect toward a noble-born young lady, but it was clear in their tone that they saw nothing in her as superior to themselves. Not that this was any kind of active disrespect on their part, she was rapidly discovering.

“Why, because we're cheeky blighters, Miss, at heart,” replied the smaller of the brothers, a tweed-suited hawk with grass-green plumage and clever eyes that never stayed upon one thing for long. They darted, constantly, here and there as if he were constantly examining his surroundings. Amy decided not to speak on it; she didn't know if this might be something particular to the man's heritage, or some characteristic of his own. She was certain, though, that she had just been presented with an evasive answer.

“But why really?” she pressed, leaning forward conspiratorially, her own gaze flicking between the hawk and the much larger, similarly-suited man beside him. The only difference in their dress was that the smaller man wore a flat cloth cap, perched neatly on the crest of feathers topping his head; the larger wore a bowler hat that looked like it might protect from a building falling on him.

“Oh, we've a smart one here, Storm!” remarked the hawk, in sincere delight. “Saw right through that, she did.”

“Perceptive young lady, Jet,” agreed the hulking albatross, in a deep but amicable baritone. His smaller brother turned to her with the kind of smile that likely haunted the nightmares of someone, somewhere - a smile that made her glad he was loyal to her fundamentally-decent uncle.

“Well, Miss - and don't spread it about, eh? - there's been times, once or twice, when strict laws of border or trespass or property have been something of an impediment to the swift and accurate completion of our duty, so to speak. And so on those occasions, we and them laws just sort of don't pay attention to each other.” He certainly had the vocabulary of an educated man; perhaps it was an affectation, to get on better with her uncle's clientele on those occasions where conversation was an incidental part of his work. Perhaps he had goals above his current station in life, and hoped to become a man of means in his own right at some point. What some called new money, with varying degrees of dismissiveness or outright contempt.

Amy's interest was further piqued by the visitors with every minute she thought about them. Her grounding in adventure and mystery novels had primed her to find such charming-thug sorts thoroughly captivating, though purely from a narrative perspective. Her excitement for the weekend's enterprise only grew when her father leaned in and interjected. “Regarding that, actually, gentlemen – there's a series of events planned over the weekend which we believe might require a smidge of your particular expertise, what?” The sparkle in his eyes matched Amy's, and Jet's own began to gleam as he likewise leaned forward.

“Then, your lordship, you have two capable lads and a thoroughly intelligent and strategically-brained lady at your disposal,” he assured the Baron, smiling that smile once again. “Whatever it is that needs doing, the Rogues will deliver.”

=======>>>>=======

Sunday morning arrived, its glacial approach having left Amy nearly exhausted with the work she'd put into the anticipation.

The excitement was at once contagious and incongruous. It was a warm midsummer morning; bees from the village hives droned among Rose Manor's riotously coloured gardens, doing their part to ensure the kaleidoscopic beauty would continue another year. The air felt warm and close enough, even this early, that a moment's swell in the breeze was a brief and blissful relief. It was the sort of morning that on some level made a person feel as if they were more closely connected with the world, more aware of their role as a small and beloved part of something greater – something inconceivably massive, and mighty, and wondrous. “The kind of morning,” remarked Amy's father as the family all strolled down toward the church together, “that can make a chap very nearly feel grateful for a diet.”

“Are you on a diet, Father?” Amy asked him, tilting her head. He coughed sheepishly, and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, visibly grateful that her aunt Vithica had gone down to the church early, and ruled out the idea of joining them for this stroll.

“Ah, well, there's the rub of the matter,” he began. “Your dear mother has noticed I've been inhaling rather more pie than usual; she thinks it might be a nervous reaction to all that happened before Springbloom. As a result, I've had some difficulty fitting into my deep-green cummerbund, and you know how I love the thing. She issued an ultimatum: I must rid myself of five pounds of my average mass, or of the sash I adore. So here I am, glad of a warm day and a morning's gentle exercise.”

“Poor Father,” she sympathised, while Shadow slid past her to speak quietly with the Baroness. “I shall try to remove as many calories as I can from your sight, to help your morale as you remove them from your person. All that stress upon you from that fighting, and here you are again, battling your waistline.”

“You'll lead a one-woman crusade against every scrap of pastry to fall under your eye, don't sugar-coat it, dear,” her father retorted, with a knowing smile that turned into a grimace. “Ah! Sugar-coating. I shall have to watch Cook's wonderful sugar-coated almonds pass beneath my gaze and wrestle heroically against the urge to take up a handful. That'll be a blow.”

“At least we'll have some entertainment before lunch,” Amy reassured him, in a low whisper. She must be quiet, after all; on the other side of her mother strolled Bishop Lionel Wirth, Reverend Smunt's direct superior. Blumenheim, once a component of House Erin's territories, lay in his diocese; it was not the only parish he oversaw, but as the last remaining landed hedgehog nobility, they had held enough sentimental sway to convince him to visit. Cook's widely-known skills hadn't hurt, either, as the Bishop had cheerfully remarked his own self. Having spent the evening and morning breakfasting at Rose Manor (and unwittingly providing Amy and Shadow with an alibi, as he could comfortably and genuinely say that he'd seen them both at the table that very night) he now accompanied them to the church to see how the parson handled things these days. Amy's mother had compared it to a snap inspection by a superior officer in a military setting, and he had readily agreed.

“Do we think he might surprise our dear Reverend into sobering up a bit, when he spots him?” asked her father, his lowered voice masking the question but not the concern in his tone.

“I shouldn't think so, Father,” Amy replied. “By all accounts, he's got a mixture of Mother's rum and your brandy in his flask, at a ratio of one to two. And that's before whatever weak wine he keeps in there in the first place, to get the oratory flowing. I shall be genuinely surprised if he even notices the man.”

“Ah, well. As long as I do my part, what? We'll make sure things are properly perceived,” winked Aidan, as his wife called his name conversationally. He shot Amy a smile, and moved to confer with her mother. Amy drifted contentedly closer to Shadow and the Bishop, taking her time in the beautiful, gleaming morning.

Shadow's appearance had shocked the Bishop, when he'd arrived; he had heard of the lost son of Erin reappearing, of course, and of the intrusion upon their home. This morning was the first chance he'd had to speak directly with the black hedgehog, and Amy had no intention of interrupting whatever he might have to say, so she hung back and listened while admiring the play of light upon Shadow's quills. His streaks' faint but undeniable glow gave him an oddly unworldly presence, when the white-gold sunshine turned the leaves above them into stained glass in deep greens and nearly-blue shades. Tall and rangy though he was, his poise and the grace of his movements had been completely recovered; all of his physical faculties were returned to him, after the privations he had suffered. She felt a surge of warmth, to be privileged to see such a man, on such a morning. Both were truly beautiful, and something within her gave way at the insistence of it. She was tired of pretending to herself that he wasn't thoroughly attractive, though his aspect was all imposing and severe until he smiled. Truthfully, Aunt Destra had feared his smiles as much as anything else about him, because whenever he did it, she invariably looked at his teeth. Amy, for her part, looked at his eyes. And perhaps there lay the crux of it, for when he smiled at her aunt, it was all teeth. He could smile at Amy using his eyes alone, and often did. Privilege wasn't the word, she decided. It wasn't strong enough for the feeling of being the only person he looked at in such a way.

“...hasn't been a day gone by when I didn't wonder, you know,” the Bishop was sighing, as she blinked her way out of the heart-warmed, sunlight-dappled reverie that had briefly overcome her. “I know poor young Silver threw himself into his soldiering, and I could hardly blame him – it was I who stood officiant at your parents' wedding, did you know that? Yes, a wonderful day, that was,” he went on, at Shadow's genially surprised look. “Later in summer than this, but a lovely afternoon wedding with the manor's doors thrown wide, and half the big banquet tables moved into the gardens for people to enjoy their food beneath Gaia's clean sunshine. Thunderstorms on the horizon, you could see the sky looking like a bruise off in the distance, but they never came to us that day. Those clouds knew better than to antagonise Finn and Ginger. I was fortunate to be considered a friend to them, in the years after that. Such a terrible thing to happen, we were all so horrified to...well, I won't tread ground you've undoubtedly walked before,” the older lion stopped himself, with an apologetic smile. “Suffice to say, I'm deeply grateful to see you returned to us, my boy. Gods willing, perhaps I may live to see another Erin speak his vows to a lady. I hope I'm in proper condition to officiate that day, too,” he added, with a sly smile. Shadow's return of it looked rather more bittersweet.

“I'm rather grateful to be able to hope, too,” he replied, as the soft peals of the church bell began to drift through the trees ahead of them. “For a number of things, to be honest. But mainly, just to be able to hope at all. I intend to enjoy the feeling where I can.”

They came out onto the green, Amy's blush at the results of her half-hearted eavesdropping only leaving her the more determined to see justice done in other matters today. No blushing damsel she! No, she was Amy Rose, the Powder-Keg of Blumenheim, and her fuse had burned long enough for these criminals.

The curtain rises, she thought with fierce satisfaction as they moved into the church grounds.

=======>>>>=======

Lewis Beaqi's certainty in himself was fading by the minute.

His journey to the church had only lasted until he was certain the others could no longer see him. Clutch wasn't with them, of course; the trio were alone with the cart, and had settled to wait for him to come back with the information the Reverend would provide him. All he'd needed to do was avoid being seen by Clutch himself, and that had been easy enough – making a swift half-circle around the village had brought him to the grounds of Rose Manor, where that fox fellow Thrace had made it clear he'd be met.

Constable Jonathan Lightfoot was a lean, determined-looking rabbit with grey fur and a furrow in his brow that spoke of serious intent. Flanking him were two birds, a similarly-spry hawk and an enormously built albatross. Each wore a tough-looking tweed suit with the leather joint patches of a groundskeeper, or some other profession that involved both outdoor work with a chance of violence, and dealing with the people Lewis' dad used to call the Quality.

“Looks like our lad, Jet,” noted the towering bird simply, in a deep, thudding voice with the hard accent of a bigger city. Corvid, perhaps...Lewis recognised that his mind was trying to examine little details to avoid looking at the great big frightening thing in front of him. Again. He shoved his focus back onto the rabbit in uniform as the smaller bird spoke.

“Seems to be, Storm. Constable?”

“You'd be Lewis?” asked the policeman, wasting no time. Lewis swallowed and nodded.

“Lewis Beaqi, sir. I've – I've come to turn King's Evidence, as I promised I would.”

“Have you, indeed,” came the reply. “And do you intend to cooperate, young man? To the fullest extent of your capability and the law's requirements?”

“I do, sir. Constable.” He could have kicked himself for stammering and correcting himself so. “I can lead you to them if you wish, I left them not twenty minutes ago. They're waiting behind the trees south of the village.” The officer was already shaking his head.

“No, lad. Commendable, but you're to stay out of sight of them from here on. If they see you with us, and we fail to capture one, you become a target. Stay here at the Manor, for now, and I shall trust the Roses to make sure you remain until we can speak further. We'll discuss what comes next once we have them. Can you describe them?”

Lewis nodded. “Yes, sir. There's a jerboa with a horse he calls Queen – he never calls her anything different, though he seems to have a different name in every town I've seen him enter. A duck, sir, who's frankly a bit mad. Calls himself Bean. He sometimes carries blasting powder with him, like they use in quarries, and I've seen him give it longing looks once or twice. He's the most frightening one. And there's a white bear, sir, a great big fellow called Bark. Never says a word. They're the only ones I'd expect there, old Clutch doesn't want to be seen nearby if they're around the village.”

The Constable nodded and turned smartly to the others – and for the first time, Lewis noticed the quarterstaff harnessed at the rabbit's back, and the tough footwear he bore. Lightfoot he may be, but those boots were very heavy indeed. “Good lad,” he said over his shoulder. “Now. Gents, do you have some means of protection on you? - good gods, man, are those what I think they are?”

“Sharpened pennies, sir,” grinned the hawk, Jet, as he tipped the brim of his cap and exposed a gleam almost as dangerous as his smile.

“You could blind a fellow with that!”

“If I'm obliged to, yes. But don't worry, Constable, this is largely for show. I'll put the boot in should I need to, but if they plan to take off with whatever's in that wagon, well. This hat's cut leather straps before, I'd give fair odds it can get through the harness on that horse. Stop the mugs from going anywhere with it. My sister's idea, sir, and you know she's the brains of the three of us.”

“Right. See that you don't get enthusiastic with the bloody thing, then, we need these filth alive and intact. And – Storm, was it?”

“Got a bit of lead pipe, sir,” volunteered the bowler-hatted monolith. He proffered it helpfully, in one huge leather-gloved hand.

“And what will we avoid doing with that, my man?” prompted Lightfoot.

“Makin' someone die of lead poisonin', sir,” came the reply. “Don't worry, sir, I ain't a fool. I only finds it helpful to look like one. I shall wield this with discretion and discernment, and aim for the knees if I has to hit a fellow properly hard.”

Lewis felt a little sick, despite himself.

=======>>>>=======

“Do you know, I feel a little sick, despite myself?” slurred Reverend Smunt, through an off-centre smile. He was met with dead, appalled silence, and appeared not to notice it.

There was a world of difference, thought Aidan Rose, between the anticipation of a well-executed scheme and seeing the results of it. This, undoubtedly, was a sterling bit of proof: the good Reverend was so completely sozzled that Aidan couldn't swear the skunk's eyes were even pointing in the same direction. It was hard to tell; from the pulpit to Aidan's seat was a good fifteen or twenty feet, and a really good doctor would likely know at a glance, but Aidan was no doctor at all. He resolved to ask Herman Bauer later, and see if the physician had made a mental note. Though the odds are so slim I should use them as a role model, he noted wryly.

The inner joke drew a smile to his lips, but it was shoved away before arrival by the presence to his left. Dear Amara was seated to his right today; on the other side of him (and with the silent, increasingly outraged form of Bishop Lionel beyond her) loomed the gaunt and terrible presence of a disapproving in-law. Not that Vithica disapproved of him, specifically, or at least not all that much (though he knew that she had taken it awfully personally when he laughed uproariously at Amy's solution to young Vico's situation, long ago). It was more that disapproval was the resting state of the lady, the reason she had such a fearsome reputation. Nothing ever seemed to meet with her standards; the Roses as a couple had long since privately concluded that either she had no real standards to meet and merely allowed the illusion so as to terrorise people, or she should be treated as though the former were true regardless.

It wasn't as if they, as Baron and Baroness, were under any obligation to strive for her approval in the first place – and if she truly withheld that approval solely to make people tie themselves in knots seeking it, then they wouldn't begin that game at all. So Aidan resolved to take a leaf from his sister-in-law's own book, and treat her the way she'd begun treating Shadow. She may have her terrifying-but-lamented father's burnt-umber fur, and a voice like one of those blizzards of the Holoskan Steppes into which fellows were always disappearing with a remark that they were just going out and might be some time, but a Rose had his pride, and he could show some iron in his stem as well as anyone at Blumenheim. He returned his focus to the front of the church.

“And as we all kno – know,” Reverend Smunt was saying, “while it was in his letters to the Bats that Saint Bernard said Find solace in your flight, for so few are grated so grant a joy, it was a theme. Thing. Theme. With him, d'you see. When he wrote to the Serpents, after all, he said The hand that counteth its chickens ere they be hatched, oft-times doth but step upon the banana skin. And I suppose he knew what he was talking about,” added the skunk, glancing down in honest if bleary confusion at the notes before him. “Though I'm dashed if I do.”

Aidan decided now was probably as close to perfect timing as he could ask for. He knew his lines, and Amy and Shadow's gentle sabotage had ensured he had plenty of justification for them. He turned to Amara, and in the loudest stage-whisper he could make plausible, announced for the whole church: “I say, he's boiled! - no, dear, look at him! He's tight as an owl! Fairly coming out of his ears, the blighter's been doing the water-into-wine trick without applying for the patent!”

That, the parson couldn't fail to hear. He broke off his recitation and wagged an unsteady finger some twelve degrees Westward of Aidan's general direction, holding onto the lectern to stay upright. “Ah, I'm not so think as you drunk I am-” His hand slipped, and he measured himself nose-to-tail upon the tiles.

The congregation broke up.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Rose Manor. The Gardens.

The week since Silver's return had been filled with a peculiar kind of muted, careful joy.

There were moments when Amaranthine Rose felt as if she knew all that transpired beneath her roof, as the lady of the house should; there were, conversely, moments when it seemed as if she knew nothing. Some things weren't hers to know, if she were honest with herself.

Young Sonic had been coming on in leaps and bounds. When she had begun training him, he had told her every strike he would attempt, fully half a second in advance; the preparatory motions of his hands, shifts in his stance, the direction of his eyes told her exactly where he would be next. She was grateful that Shadow had at least impressed upon the young man that he must refrain from using his gift when training. Not only would his particular abilities make it impossible to properly teach him by demonstrating flaws in his technique (for there was, after all, a level of blinding speed against which no amount of practice could provide a defence) but they would likely lead to his feeling invulnerable. And as a great writer had once said, describing oneself as invulnerable was tantamount to suicide in certain circles.

Where Shadow had failed the boy so far (not that she blamed him, the man had no experience in teaching or mentoring, and certainly – to a mother-in-law's chagrin – none in parenthood) was that he had allowed Sonic to attack him on equal terms, and defended himself, and left the lesson there. Amara understood that the sessions had been rather more intended for catharsis than for improvement of Sonic's form, but she was a firm believer that every moment with live steel in one's hand should be treated as a learning experience. In Shadow's place, she would have done more than let him wear himself out; Sonic's old resentment was no longer so poisonous, after his anger had broken on Shadow's frustratingly-solid defences like waves against a sea stack, and this was all to the good. But Sonic had gained no actual knowledge from the matter, save that he couldn't hurt Shadow on even ground.

To ensure that perception didn't make itself into a falsely immutable fact of life in Sonic's head, Amara's first act when beginning to train him had been to declaim Shadow as a damned fool when it came to showing anyone how to fight. She was no believer in pedestals, and so she happily drove a proverbial wagon over this one while helping Sonic to understand the reasons why certain habits made one a better and more confident swordsman. A slight flex of the knee in stance here, an outward-turned ankle there, allowing one's eyes to unfocus just enough to take in the entirety of the opponent's form at once and watch for changes...it all added up, and Sonic was proving a most able pupil indeed, now that he had a teacher who knew what she was doing.

And now Silver Horizon had joined the household, and Amara couldn't be happier. Quite apart from the gentle, maternal joy of seeing the three boys reunited after so long and so much grief, she had discovered an able sparring partner in Silver who'd been able to show both herself and Sonic a few tricks. While his gladius Farsight was shorter and more manoeuvrable than her longer Thorn, it didn't have quite as much weight behind it and so was less suited for a direct swing; cunning thrusts were much more agreeable to the shorter, straight-edged blade than to her curved sabre. Along with the blank training blade Sonic used while he mastered the basics – upon which he would begin experimenting with different styles – the three weapons made for interesting counters against one another in sparring matches. More than once, Shadow had joined in with his much longer two-handed weapon, often leading to his cousins teaming up against him in the spirit of mischief.

Boyish competitiveness never really faded from a man, she reflected. Unchecked, it became domineering, loutish aggression; Silver's time in stricter military settings had curbed that impulse, as had his romance with dear, departed Honey. Shadow's time in – well, in Hell, she conceded inwardly, given what she knew of it – had left him with a firm grounding in who was truly worth his ire and who wasn't. Sonic's caretakers, at this mysterious Sanctuary...had done their best. It was certainly good enough to begin with, so long as he had good examples around him as he moved into manhood.

Even now, as she watched Silver and Sonic spar for an exhausting fourth hour that promised to leave them useless until tomorrow morning, she could see the relationships growing. Silver's declaration was only right and proper, in the traditions of the Horizon family; Sonic's upbringing had by its nature been less formalised, and many of these things were new to him. He hadn't expected, of all things, an oath of fealty and protection from one of the men he'd idolised as a child. It would be up to him, when he came into his birthright, whether he accepted Silver's service as the last son of House Horizon.

“Gentlemen,” came Shadow's baritone from behind her, with a polite double-knock on the heavy oaken door that kept the outdoor training grounds separate from the equipment rooms, and the rest of the house beyond. “I've had a letter from Duchess Chiros, and I believe a part of it may be of interest to you, Sonic. The rest of us will have to content ourselves with what comes from the Duchess herself, which appears to comprise a grouped invitation to her birthday celebrations next week.” Shadow held aloft a couple of half-folded sheets of paper, and from within them Amara glimpsed a faint lavender hue – another envelope, concealed within the Duchess' missive. Sonic started forward immediately, but she casually raised Thorn's scabbard to press gently in the middle of his chest.

“Not as you are, young man,” she informed him archly. “First, respect your opponent, and then your weapon, and then your person. Then you may apply yourself to the post.” Silver was already moving back toward the edge of the packed-dirt arena, to place Farsight back in its own scabbard; he shook his head at her with a wry smile on his way past. She relented, at least a little; Silver clearly considered himself as respected as he was going to get in this match, having fought one another to a standstill already. If that letter contained what she thought it did, Sonic's mind would not be on further sparring today.

She wouldn't bend on the care he took of his weapon, though. Having steel in one's hand was a responsibility that didn't end with the swinging. She pointed to the training sword in his hand, and then toward the equipment rooms with a smile.

He returned it, and went to work.

=======>>>>=======

Some four days earlier, Imperial Princess Blaze Felis had finally sat down at her desk. Wracked with guilt as she was for delaying so long, she nevertheless knew that further hesitation out of guilt would only make the situation worse.

Seated, prepared, with quill in hand, she took a deep breath...and stared at the paper, blankly, for two entire minutes. What in the world was she supposed to say? Sonic's letter had been so simple, so heartfelt, so wonderful that she'd felt the wonderful, strange upward pressure in her chest all over again, just reading it. The same feeling she got when she looked at him, when he smiled at her, when she'd rested her head on his shoulder at the ball and confessed how intently her thoughts had been upon him.

How could she make him feel the same way? She wanted, desperately, to equal him in this. She knew that her social situation had been entirely different to his own, growing up – whatever his had been – and that nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for genuine romance. She was, she felt, working at a disadvantage – and work it was, and work it must be. One of the few pieces of wisdom her occasional dives into romantic literature had gained her was that relationships took effort to maintain and nurture. She would not be found wanting, in any analysis of how she interacted with the hedgehog she was beginning to hope she might marry. She must make his heart skip as he had done to her, so artlessly and guilelessly making her face heat up whenever his regard for her was made clear-

Artlessness. Guilelessness. Perhaps those were the key. Honesty, and simple expression of how much he meant to her, and why. Yes, she resolved, staring at the paper before her and dipping her quill once more. These are the components of what he's doing, when he makes me blush so. She could do that, surely. Another deep breath, and she began with habit.

From the hand of Her Imperial Highness, Princess Blaze Felis, to Lord Sonic Erin of

...she paused. He had no lands, not yet. The law was certainly clear about which lands he should have, and those who currently held them were likely hurrying to strip them of what resources could feasibly be taken without appearing scavengers about it, even as she sat here. But even without the particulars to finish her customary greeting, it dawned on her that this was not an official letter in any capacity. Moreover, she could make a single change and turn the whole thing more heartfelt. So she moved to the window of her bedchamber, where a ceramic bucket sat just below the sill for occasions like this. Lifting the thick iron grate from atop the receptacle, she balled up the paper and dropped it inside, and sent a bolt of flame after it before replacing the lid. That would keep her abortive start from being spied upon, Blaze told herself with some satisfaction as she returned to her seat and took a fresh piece of paper to begin again.

Sonic,

I must first apologise. I had so few spare moments to scrape together to reply to your letter, that it took me nearly five weeks to sit with a quill. Even this sounds a craven excuse, to blame my position for my negligence. I can only throw myself upon your mercy and beg your pardon, as I did the day we met. I console myself that you did not withhold forgiveness for my bombardment of your person, and take courage from the kindness I see again in your eyes, every time I recall your face.

Not a day has gone by when I have not done so. I had not thought it possible that I might come to miss someone so fiercely, after so brief an acquaintance; perhaps the contrast between Summer Start's festivities when we met, and my resumption of my normal duties since, has lent force to the feeling of your absence. When I think of you, I think of freedom, of liberation from the onerous and the ominous alike. Part of me begins to scold at the thought, as if I wish to shirk my duties by thinking of you, but everything in me forbids that. The idea of spending my life more time with you is a beautiful one, indeed, but I would never abandon my duties as a leader. Nor would I wish to make you feel responsible for any self-doubt on my part, about fulfilling them.

Blaze paused, here. That crossed-out section seemed to glare back at her. Her marriage situation had loomed large in her thoughts as she wrote, and she was forced to wonder how much of it he knew. She could not and would not terrify Sonic Erin away from her by dropping such an expectation upon him like an overstuffed sack of coal, in her very first letter to him. Her very first love letter, she corrected herself with a blush, in her whole life. But he had a wise and perspicacious family, who had much more experience with political manoeuvres than he did. Surely, they would have made certain things known to him. Commanding herself to worry no more about it for now, she resumed on happier terms.

I know that I have omitted several of the usual pleasantries customary to a personal letter, but I thought to reserve these pages solely to express what I feel toward you. My words will of course be concealed alongside a more innocuous letter to your cousin from my great friend Duchess Chiros, and I hope that you will accept her inquiries as to your family's health and good cheer as mirroring my own. To be candid, I have little idea of how to go about the writing of a letter to a man I am beginning to truly love. I know I am not alone in this. Perhaps we may learn together, as we go?

Duchess Chiros' birthday party will be coming soon. I will be in attendance, though I hope to keep that secret until my arrival. I know she will have invited you, couched amid further invitations for your cousin and his lady wife, and your other cousin Baron (formerly Captain) Horizon, who I understand has taken up residence with you following the honourable end of his military career. Please accept my congratu I am truly happy for you both, to be reunited so. From what I gather, he is a good and understanding man. You deserve such family, as fully as you do the rest of your birthright.

I find my chance to write is nearly used up; the demands on my time are without cease. When I put words to paper for you, I find myself vividly picturing your face as you read them, as if I can see you across a courtyard. You awaken such things in me. Imagination, and hope, and mirth I thought myself too weary to find these days. So I hope you will think of me in turn, when you receive this. Picture me, if not at your side, then at least a stone's throw away. From there, we both know I can reach you.

With lovin deep regard,

Blaze

She sat back and stared at it, her heart thumping as if she had run a half-mile in the writing. It was...unpolished, to her perfectionist's eyes, and had numerous crossed-out spots (whether overly forward, or overly formal) which would have had her tutors instructing her to begin again, but she'd done it. Blaze Felis had written a letter to a man she loved. Buoyed up at being able to think the words to herself truthfully, she wasted no more time ruminating; waving the two sheets of paper gently in the air to help the ink dry, she cast about and located an envelope. Her personal stationery tended to match her own fur, and this was no exception; once the letter was folded and enclosed, Blaze quickly warmed up her sealing-wax with a fingertip and ensured the envelope would stay closed until it reached him. Standing up and striding from her study, she began to make for the Chiros ducal chambers. Arriving unannounced would be a minor faux pas, but Rouge would understand immediately.

After all, Blaze was not the only one falling in love.

=======>>>>=======

Parties, Silver Horizon reminded himself frequently, were not to be squandered.

Of course, there were layers to it, as an axiom. He knew a good party when he saw one, and this was...probably one of them, for those it aimed to cater to. A good party was a prime chance to relax, even aside from what his father would have called the socially strategic benefits of mingling with one's peer group. This get-together certainly seemed to qualify, though it was of a sort he hadn't thought he would ever attend again.

Like so many high-society revelries, propriety gave a rigid structure to certain aspects of Duchess Chiros' birthday. Given the informal reputation the lady had among certain gossips, Silver found he couldn't blame her for ensuring that public opportunities for scandal among her guests were minimised. This wasn't what one might call a mingling occasion; there would be a mixed ball at the end of the proceedings, which took up an entire weekend in late July (which was, certain rumours held, not truly the Duchess' birthday at all) – but before that dance, there were a number of smaller celebrations. To prevent impropriety, these were sectioned off into a party for single gentlemen, a party for unwed ladies, and a party for married couples.

Silver, due to his own circumstances, was attending the former; this had the pleasing fallout of allowing him to accompany Sonic to his first such gathering, while Shadow and Amy took the opportunity to enjoy their evening as a simple married couple among others. Shadow had quietly urged him, as they parted, not to (in his words) let Sonic do anything foolish...he most certainly would not, although he was wise enough to see the look on Shadow's face and realise that he and his cousin held rather different definitions of foolishness.

For example, when Silver had detected that there were some of the young bucks who whispered to one another and shot contemptuous smirks in his direction, he would have considered it foolish to take action on the matter. True, if he had demanded satisfaction, his victory over all five of them would be a foregone conclusion; after fourteen years in the infantry, Silver Horizon was a man they mocked only because they were certain he would not do so. They were correct, at least, in the sense that he had nothing to prove to a bundle of giggling boys half his age. They have the rest of their lives to be wise, he had privately concluded. Let them be bloody fools for a moment, and use what they think of me to make themselves feel brave. He drained the rest of his champagne flute, before providing the lesson of such bravery by giving the youths a knowing nod and smile, as if memorising their faces. Their laughter had died swiftly, as he turned and ambled calmly off to see where Sonic had got to. The outfit he'd worn to this party, an understated ensemble of dark, tan brown and the off-white of aged paper, flowed well around him; he must speak to the tailor Shadow had commissioned and congratulate her again, if he had an opportunity later.

Silver hadn't quite made half a circuit of the expansive room, before he caught a flash of familiar blue and began to move closer. His approach from the right of the younger hedgehog let him catch more of the conversation going on; Sonic was speaking with a tall, rangy, grey-blue wolf with an odd air of sinister menace to him. It wasn't clear yet what they spoke of, but they were laughing companionably enough together when a snide voice rang out from behind Sonic that instantly put Silver as much on edge as the wolf's appearance had. It was the sort of tone that only pretended to be conversational; it was projected to be heard, by a target. The voice of a bully.

“I mean, dear me, what is this Empire coming to?” it drawled. “Look, won't you, even the old money is new money these days!” The statement ended with a sort of carefully-curated guffaw, and Silver caught sight of the speaker as a clear space emerged in the throng. It was a mink, with golden-yellow fur and a darker muzzle; long, bright blonde hair cascaded down over his shoulders, and he tossed it theatrically as he shared a laugh with his friends.

The old money is new money? Speaking of bloody fools, mused Silver. They could disparage his cousin as a newly-discovered noble all they wished. If they'd forgotten that Sonic was still the legal heir to Erin Duchy and that his lands were due to be returned to him, then they were in for a far worse surprise than any Silver could deal them. As before, he held himself back from intervening; a few minutes ago, he had done so because he had nothing to prove. This, though, was Sonic's confrontation (and a confrontation it was certainly shaping up to be), and Sonic Erin had everything to play for tonight. He had a reputation to build. Evidently he'd just found the first paving stone.

Silver had spent four years living in the social cauldron of a barracks, among other men, before he had earned his own room as he climbed the ranks; he therefore didn't share Shadow's opinion of how Sonic should proceed. The young man had to make a young man's mistakes, and show a young man's courage – he must prove to the watching Empire that he had steel in his spines. So Silver remained back among the crowd, watching with a faintly amused air as Sonic's ear flicked – a telltale sign that he'd heard, but was ignoring, the barb.

It wasn't the only one. “One wonders if Her Highness favours him out of a fondness for collecting rarities,” came the mink's smug voice once more, raised a little louder than the first time. “After all, there are only three left – and one is taken up already, and the other beyond hope of remarrying. I have to say, I question her taste if this is her idea of a consort...”

That, at least, caused Sonic to turn his head. “Pardon me for one moment, Mr Sleet,” he began, clearly enough. The crowd had parted between the two; half the room seemed to have fallen silent. “This won't take a moment.” He turned and strode up to the mink, and tilted his head. “Sonic Erin,” he introduced himself, casually. No bow was forthcoming; no respectful greeting was offered. “I'm somewhat new to these gatherings. Is speaking casually and offensively of Her Highness the done thing?”

Wise, thought Silver, looking on but leaning back into the crowd a little to ensure the moment would continue belonging to Sonic. Make that disrespect of the Crown the first thing people remember about this. Evidently, someone had taught his cousin to steer perceptions; if he ever found out who ran this Sanctuary place, he would shake their hand and thank them.

“Oh, you may be assured...Sonic Erin,” replied the mink haughtily, pronouncing the hedgehog's name as if he were picking up something distasteful with a pair of tongs at arm's length, “my disrespect is for hedgehogs, not cats. Bartleby Montclair,” he added, gesturing to himself and studiously avoiding making any show of cordial respect with it. “Her future husband, if she's any sense to her.”

“Twice,” noted Sonic, apropos of nothing, and then, “So hedgehogs alone. I see. Then you owe two apologies, Montclair. To myself, and to my cousin Silver, also present here somewhere. I promise, he heard you,” he added. “We hedgehogs have rather sensitive hearing, particularly toward high-pitched whining sorts of noise. But I've no desire to let you continue to bleat,” he interrupted the mink's retort, driving right over the back-and-forth insults in which young Bartleby seemed to wish to engage. “Will you apologise? Or shall we retire to the garden, and see some justice?” He gestured to the glass doors, leading to the gravel-pathed and tree-lined avenue that led past the side and rear of the palatial Chiros Manor.

“Are you challenging me, new money?” hissed Bartleby, his eyes widening with affront as he leaned forward over the shorter but unflinching hedgehog.

“Are you afraid, old news?” replied Sonic, and the mink strode past him without another word to open the doors and march out, standing and waiting out there. Brave of him, thought Silver...or perhaps just inexperienced. Most of these lordlings' idea of a fight was a training bout against a family-retained combat tutor who faced punishment or dismissal if any actual harm came to the precious heir...or, sometimes, if the heir simply felt humiliated from a bad loss in the training fields. Sonic had vouchsafed to him, a week or so before, that he'd been trained in rather more practical ways to remove a man who'd decided to become an obstacle.

“Fantail rules?” asked Bartleby, as the watching youths crowded around the door – Silver among them, remaining as unobtrusive as he could – to watch Sonic stretch his shoulders in the deep-forest-green coat he'd worn tonight.

“Rules?” asked Silver's cousin, innocently.

“The Marquess Fantail's rules,” scoffed Bartleby. “Did your parents not even live long enough to teach you the noble art of fisticuffs?”

Sonic's face was no longer entirely schooled into patience and innocence. The green of his eyes was an inferno, as he stalked forward and the mink hurriedly raised his fists. “So a list of places I'm not allowed to hit you, then. No, I think not,” he snarled, and Bartleby threw a desperate punch. There was a busy half-second, involving a gripped wrist and a swift pull, and the mink sprawled on his front in the gravel. Sonic turned, as his opponent got up red-faced. “Rules imply respect. I would be a liar if I followed yours. As you're lying, by following them now,” he added, his hands busy gesturing to illustrate his point. His guard was down, and the blonde man struck at him again...only to find his arm in Sonic's other hand this time, and the hedgehog's face an inch from his own.

“I should shatter you for your insults tonight,” he growled. “But I want to show some restraint. So.” His own fist blurred, and there was a wet crack as he snapped the mink's nose to one side with a straight right. Bartleby went down like a sack of driftwood, and Sonic examined his knuckles to wipe off a few drops of blood before turning to move back toward the door.

“Nho rulef?” grunted the blonde, through tears of pain and nostrils blocked with his own blood. “Bafhtard!” Scrambling, he took up a rock the size of a fist, and threw it at Sonic full-force. The hedgehog blurred, lightning sparking from his heels and prompting a few of the closer onlookers to flinch back from the sudden burst of light and force. Before the stone could get halfway from Bartleby's hand to the back of Sonic's head, his blue opponent was right in front of him once more – holding the rock, right before his eyes.

“I wouldn't advise it, Montclair,” Sonic growled, placing the stone gently down before him. A dare, and a statement in itself. “I can clear three hundred miles in an hour, these days. I could be in Leon, laughing about this with Her Highness, before your nose stops bleeding. You couldn't hit me with a crossbow. But if you continue this,” he added, straightening up and standing imperiously over the mink, “you're every bit the overgrown child you sound. Address the facts: you aren't what a lady in the Princess' position requires for a consort. Nor are the pet fools you keep with you, to tell you you're funny. None of you have what it takes, to be what she needs in a man. So House Erin,” he added, turning to stalk back inside, “will step up. Mr Sleet, I apologise, but I hope to catch you again before the festivities are over. Silver? We're leaving. I find I've lost my taste for conversation.”

Silver felt a smile curl his lips. This was something he hadn't dared hope was in Sonic. Blood will tell, he thought, fiercely and triumphantly. Just like his mother when she'd run out of fool-handling patience.

“Yes, Duke Erin,” he affirmed for the crowd, matching his cousin's regal stride out of the room. And welcome home.

Chapter Text

FL 1193. Blumenheim.

“Tell me, Aidan,” came a voice, from the Baron's rear and left. Call it, oh, my seven o'clock, or perhaps a quarter past. Just the time for a slice of buttered toast, he mused absently as he turned. “Why is it that, every time I come to my family's ancestral home, I am faced with a veritable three-ringed circus of upheaval and disorder?”

Vithica Rose was, as sisters-in-law went, rather on the ominous side. A kindly descriptor would be 'striking', but the truth in Aidan's heart when he beheld the lady was that she had spent her life assiduously disapproving of everything she could find, and her face had suffered for it – cragged and lined like some forbidding cliffside, gaunt like a rainswept mountain. Her deep brown fur only served to further enhance the piercing blue glare of her eyes, as she managed to look down upon a man an inch and a half taller than herself.

Or possibly, Aidan reminded himself, she simply made a face and the wind changed. “Oh, well, I don't know, you know, don't you know?” he replied, entirely reasonably. From the church, distantly, came the sound of an enraged Bishop cutting loose upon a thoroughly sloshed parson; the breeze briefly carried a roar of Who shall rid me of this turbulent priest, the man said – well, you're more than turbulent, you're blended, and by Gaia I shall be rid of you before the sounds of the gossiping families leaving the village green enveloped them once more.

The stormclouds in her gaze failed to clear. “Aidan, you will cease to blither. Is this what our ancestral home has come to? Nonsense, antics, in the very church – and as its lord and master you have no intention of taking a firm hand!” That seemed rather harsh, to Aidan, and he made the mistake of opening his mouth to speak; he was thus cut off immediately. “Your pastor is publicly drunk! Your home is assaulted by killers! Your daughter-”

“Is thoroughly capable of speaking for herself, should she be discussed,” came Amy's voice from behind them, and Aidan turned in wonderment. He had never heard such authority in his little girl's tone. Vithica likewise rotated as if on a pivot, to narrow her eyes at the younger lady.

Amy's head was high, her bearing regal. Behind her came Shadow Erin, towering and as gaunt, in his own way, as Vithica herself; he radiated controlled danger, where she gave off an aura of disdain in all directions. His posture was relaxed, his hands clasped behind his back, but his eyes glowed like magma and his gaze was locked to the older woman's. Behind them both, Aidan caught a glimpse of Amara, but she seemed to be hanging back; perhaps this was something Amy should do, and say, for herself. Right-ho, dearest, he thought, and clamped his mouth closed as his daughter went on. It was at least all to the good, that the rest of the congregation had already left.

“It may come as a surprise to you, dear aunt, that the existence of a happy marriage is not an invitation for an outsider to supply her own henpecking of the husband,” she began. “Nor is the occurrence of joy and brightness your cue to attempt bringing rain. Likewise, a cowardly attack by another upon the former Earl of Erin is no moral failure on our part – especially when we saw the scum off howling, with no casualties of our own. Don't think I haven't noticed,” she went on, subjecting Vithica's attempt at a retort to the same trampling Aidan's own had received, “that you bring up these complaints with my father, who is a kindly and forbearing gentleman with a preference for smiles and laughter – and never with my mother, who is fully capable of slapping your wrist so firmly that you leave her Barony bearing a bruise on it!”

That lit Vithica's eyes with anger. “Young lady, I do not know who you think-”

“I know who I am,” Amy declared atop her aunt's abortive outrage. “Amy Rose, future Baroness of Blumenheim. Daughter of Amara and Aidan. Beloved of – her people,” she added, and Aidan caught Shadow's wondering glance toward her. Good grief, Amy dear. “And I have the best of both my parents in me. So when I am Baroness, just as today, I will greet your arrival with a smile, though you make it difficult. And I will greet your overreach with every decibel I have inherited from my mother, who is Baroness now – where you, dear Aunt Vithica, are not. And after your inevitable attempt to meddle in the running of a Barony you married away from, and the subsequent reminder of your place, you may return home. Doubtless someone there will be enjoying themselves without your permission, and I should hate to delay your retribution. Now,” Aidan's daughter concluded, folding her arms imperiously, “for today, you may address your complaints to me, as I don't see my mother around us.”

You would if you turned your head, darling, thought Aidan through the proud smile warming his face – mirrored by the one his wife wore, only fifteen feet away. But his sister-in-law seemed to have no such feelings toward her niece's blossoming sense of how to represent her territory.

“I have no complaints that would be heard,” she scoffed. “I had hoped that having the former Earl among you might have curbed this – this impulse for impropriety and tomfoolery in which your family so readily indulge. But to see him enable such behaviour...no. Blumenheim's dignity is lost, and our father would have grieved to see it. I send no well-wishes to your mother or your pertinent staff, young lady,” she announced, her voice quavering but cold and forbidding, “or to the creature you have adopted. I shall return to the house and thence to my husband and home. I wash my hands of you.” She turned and stalked away, toward the road for Rose Manor.

“You ought to wash your neck, while you're at it,” muttered Shadow, to her back, and Aidan burst into laughter, while the taller hedgehog gave Amy an impressed look. “You know, Ammeline, I confess that I've worried once or twice about the way I prod at your temper. I feared I might ignite real anger.” He eyed the retreating dowager, who Aidan had to admit seemed as if she were training for the Hundred Metre Flounce. “Now that I've seen it, I shan't forget the warning signs.”

“Well, now,” began Amara, breaking her silence at last and only pausing to pull Amy into a brief but heartfelt embrace. “That sounded like a Baroness speaking, to my ear. Wonderfully done, my darling. - I know, she's family and all,” she added, with a hint of the long-suffering in her tone at Amy's look. “After everything she said this past week, she thoroughly deserved that talking-to. If it stops her from ever wanting to return, then she doesn't deserve us, and that's the simple truth.”

“One can't force familial love,” agreed Aidan, tilting an ear in the direction of the church. The furious berating Lionel was dishing out to the blighter Smunt had yet to wind down; at this rate, it might be near noon before the good Bishop was finished. Well, and he knows the path to the Manor. We shall have a luncheon laid on for him, and some honeyed tea to soothe his throat. “Shall we make for home? It's still a lovely morning, perhaps a turn about the village before we return? - the northern end, at least,” he added, aware that things were still likely to be afoot to the south; it wouldn't do to presume things over and done with, before the Constable made his report with the particulars.

“Shadow and I shall be going back to the house,” announced Amy, immediately and studiously avoiding eye contact with her mother. Shadow performed one of the most masterfully understated double-takes Aidan had ever seen, but had the wisdom not to swim against the current.

“Well, enjoy yourselves, and try not to get home too quickly,” Amara advised them, with amusement in her voice that she no longer even bothered to conceal. “I should think you'd like to arrive after your aunt has left the estate.” Amy nodded at that, still refusing to look at either of her parents, and Shadow shot them a sheepish look but likewise supplied agreement.

Aidan carefully watched his moment, and waited until Amy and Shadow had walked slowly off toward the manor – until the bend of the road had taken them gently out of sight, as close together as they were walking. “Well, that seems to be progressing rather well, what?” he observed happily. Amara's misty-eyed nod was his signal to make a move. “Rather neatly done in the church, as well, I'd say. I don't suppose a chap might beg a reward, dear, for such a performance?”

Amaranthine Rose had few weaknesses. The hopeful pleading of a husband who had not seen a thickly-buttered plate of potatoes in two weeks was one of them. She sighed, with no little theatre of her own. “Yes, Aidan,” she conceded tolerantly, “I shall tell Cook that you're to have a full dinner this evening. You were marvellous.”

Aidan gave a happy little chuckle, his mind's eye already filled with a dinner that reached to the horizon. He pictured sailing into the potatoes, giving in to their siren song, and generally raising hell with the calories, and took his wife's hand with the air of a man who knows his soulmate stands by him.

=======>>>>=======

It was around this point, to the south of the village, that Constable Jonathan Lightfoot was finding himself grateful for lapine hearing. He truly hadn't expected two gents who practically oozed city to have such skill at moving undetected through woodlands, but even the enormous albatross had seemed almost to vanish from the senses unless one knew to look for a bowler hat.

Their sister, a tallish and rather strikingly pretty swallow lady named Wave, had been around for long enough to plan the entire enterprise along with him; they'd struck up an easy rapport, which he'd quite enjoyed while it lasted. He'd always had a quick grasp of planning and positioning; it had allowed him to swiftly catch the rare thieves or similar who cropped up in Blumenheim, when matched with his intimate familiarity with the layout of the village. This was what had led Wave Babylon to lean upon him as a source of information, to fine-tune her ideas when it came to things like travel times, shortcuts, vagaries of terrain...it had been exhilarating, in its way, and so had the moments when she'd looked him in the eye and called him Johnny during particularly fruitful discussions. It would have been taking liberties, had anyone else done it, but he'd found he didn't much mind it from her.

Miss Babylon, as he'd fumblingly called her the whole time, had since left for their home at Labyrinth Lake along with the Baroness' sister; he had endured the subsequent stony looks from her brothers with stoic resolve, as he knew they'd been sent along only to provide an escort for the lady and her children. He was fortunate to have the pair who'd stayed, and had made himself all business and welcomed their help. So far, the change of tack seemed to have worked. Now they followed her plan, and he ensured his position within his mental map of the area before raising a hand and beckoning vaguely toward himself.

Jet appeared beside him first, once more showing quite prodigious skill at stealthy movement. Storm followed a moment later on his other side, and Jonathan gestured subtly ahead, so as not to be a flicker of motion in the corner of a lookout's eye. A hundred yards ahead of him, through a copse so thick it nearly hid all beyond, stood a haycart of some sort with a single palomino horse hitched to it. Three figures could be seen around it, in various states of boredom or vigilance.

“As planned,” he noted, and Storm nodded silently and moved off to his left – the direction the cart was facing. Jet gave the intervening trees a glance, and then gestured with a nod of his head toward them.

“This way for me. My sister's plan, Constable,” he noted. “Hope you were listening as close as you were looking.” Jonathan made a rueful face, looking pointedly around them.

“Later, we can speak of it,” he replied, to keep the hawk's mind on the immediate task. Jet nodded once, gravely accepting the promise, and turned to melt into the trees ahead.

Fool, you're a policeman , he scolded himself as he moved to his right. You're used to being obvious when you have your eye on someone, to deter mischief. Remember to forget your training next time.

Jonathan gave the birds another five minutes once he was positioned, just to be very sure that all was ready; then, steeling himself and taking a deep breath, he stepped from his cover.

“Stand where you are!” he bellowed, as forcefully and intimidatingly as he could. He'd had practice at that, at least. “Officer of the law!” He had planned to follow with There are reports of smuggling through the village as the next line of his pretext, but it turned out he needn't have bothered; the duck near the back of the cart had already screeched in alarm and started trying to slap awake the snoozing white bear down by the wheels.

The jerboa up at the front stared in blank shock for a moment, before stirring himself to action – of a type, anyway. He leapt astride the horse, with a nasally-voiced cry of “Now, Queen! Onward-” but it was at that moment Jet Babylon burst from the trees ten feet to his left. It was the work of an instant to cover the intervening ground, and he whipped the cap from his head – making a quick whipping motion down near the flanks of the animal. Jonathan had already unslung his staff, and was hurling himself forward; the duck had taken what looked like a wrapped stick of blasting powder from his belt pouch, and was frantically working some sort of one-handed flint-and-steel contraption to strike sparks at its fuse. Jonathan gave him no time to light it, but whacked at his hand with the staff and sent him stumbling with a blow to the ribs.

The bear was upright now, and looming over him – but whatever Jet had struck at, he seemed satisfied with his results, and had left the horseman to engage this enormous brute in a flanking attack to try to kick his knee out from behind. The bear – Bark , Jonathan recalled – was sent stumbling forward, and a quick upward swing of his staff brought the end against that descending jaw with a satisfying WHOCK.

Behind Jet, the jerboa had continued trying to flee – the horse was moving, but the cart was not. The hawk must have been true to his word, and cut the harness hitching the two together; now that coward could ride like the wind, but all the evidence and his spoils would stay here. Jonathan resigned himself to only capturing two men today, as the horse began to get its gait.

Storm rose from the bushes nearly in the horse's path, emerging like the ghost of an almighty groundskeeper seeking vengeance upon poachers everywhere. One brawny arm rose up, and a flat palm caught the jerboa square in the chest to lift him partly from the saddle with impact alone. The other hand descended upon the horse's rump, and the animal whinnied and put on a burst of speed; intent on acquainting itself with the horizon, it left its rider behind as both of Storm's fists closed on the smuggler's shirt.

Jonathan barely had time to register this, before Bark rose up before him with vengeance in his silently burning gaze. The bear hadn't even grunted aloud at that blow from his staff, a hit that would have laid another man out for five minutes or more. A high-pitched, manic cackle reached him from his right, and he risked a glance over to see that Bean had succeeded in lighting the fuse of one of those damned sticks. Gaia only knew where he planned to throw it – but there was no more time to spare on the thought, as Bark gripped him by the shirt collar and lifted him effortlessly from the ground. It might have gone very badly for him, had not the jerboa struck Bark in the small of the back, having been thrown bodily from where Storm hurried toward them. All three went down, and Jonathan felt something creak and then crack in his chest; a pained groan escaped him as Bark tried to scramble upright. By the time he'd regained his feet, Storm was upon him, and the two began exchanging meaty, thudding bodyblows as Jet attempted, on the edge of vision, to close with the giggling Bean without prompting him to throw the lit stick he held.

Jonathan fought back a tear of agony as he pulled himself slowly to his feet. Moving too swiftly with a broken rib – for such this surely was – had always been described as inadvisable at best by those who'd done it and lived. Too many things for the jagged edge of the bone to puncture, they said, on the inside of a man. But he must be swift, and he had only one opportunity. He waited until the brawling titans had separated for a moment, and bit back another cry of pain as he leapt – and pulled the bear's cloth cap over his eyes. The reflexive backhand knocked him to the floor again, and this time dizziness swept over him – nausea, too, from the intensity of the pain. Storm wasted no time, and accepted the chance Jonathan had bought for him by laying three fearsome right hooks upon the bear's jaw and face; this was too much, and Bark slumped over. Storm glanced past him, his eyes roving over Jonathan – but then an outraged screech came from the duck, as he threw his deadly payload straight at the cart.

Jet was there to catch it, but realised at the last instant what he'd just done. He turned and laid out the duck with a single wheeling blow – Why couldn't I have the one with the glass jaw, part of Jonathan thought rather selfishly – before turning again. “Storm!” he called. “Hit a six with it, brother!”

“Don't googly it, Jet,” replied Storm - rather too flippantly and laconically for the circumstances, Jonathan thought muzzily, turning to face his brother and taking the lead pipe from his belt. Gripping it in both hands and holding it low, he took a firm stance over Jonathan's supine form, and drew back the bludgeoning weapon as the blasting stick sailed through the air in an easy underhand throw from Jet.

There was a hollow, metallic CLONK , and the insistent fizzing sound of the fuse rapidly grew very distant indeed...and, as Jonathan's awareness faded, a distant explosion.

Well , he thought as the dark claimed him, goodbye, element of surprise...

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Chiros Duchy. The Dry Lagoon.

When Sonic's eyes had adjusted to being outside – without the hall used for the Bachelor's Ball towering over him and obscuring the sky – it had quickly become obvious that the evening was rather younger than he'd presumed. It had felt close to midnight, but the sun had only just set, and half the horizon still glowed like molten glass; it couldn't be later than perhaps nine. Evidently, crowded parties took something of a toll on him.

I shall have to work on that, when Erin Duchy is returned to me, he mused absently, and then fought back a brief wave of terror at the thought. He would inherit, after all. All that responsibility would be his...although he had little enough idea how potentially becoming Prince Consort might change things, now that he thought of it. His duties would certainly stack up readily enough; he might need his gift, simply to get everything done. And to have let his temper off the leash so readily, and broken a fellow noble's nose like that...in a sudden rush of less nebulous anxiety, Sonic's thoughts brought on a cascade of ways in which this evening's misadventure might bring his future plans and hopes to a crashing halt, months or years before they had begun.

“Peace and quiet,” remarked Silver, as the soft hushing of the trees drowned out the distant and still-fading sound of revelry. Sonic barely registered it, but his older cousin's calm demeanour acted as a little oil on the troubled waters of his self-doubt. “Gentlemen's guest house was over in this direction, I think.”

“Silver, have I fouled up tonight?” Sonic blurted, and the paler hedgehog turned to face him in surprise. Like this, westward of him against the midsummer sunset, even Silver was barely more than a darkened silhouette, and that tangential reminder alone squeezed his heart at the memory of his first meeting with Blaze. He might have ruined it all. “Fighting Montclair like that. Giving in to my temper. That was foolish, wasn't it?”

“We're all of us fools sometimes,” replied Silver, tolerantly. “It was a trifle precipitous, perhaps. His family may hold you in lower esteem. But everyone who saw it was a witness to your defence of Her Highness' good name.”

“Unless they choose to side with him,” Sonic mourned. “He's from a much more established family. You heard him – new money. My family are gone-”

“No, we aren't,” interrupted Silver, and he moved over to rest a hand on the blue youth's shoulder. “I've no idea why you've let that little braggart's needling get to you, cousin. We're hedgehogs, surely we should be the ones needling others?” he added, with a flippant grin.

“You aren't taking this seriously,” accused Sonic.

“With all respect, Sonic – you're damned right I'm not.” Silver let his hand slip from its reassuring place on Sonic's arm to gesture between them. “The pair of us did nothing that will harm your prospects. I followed my Duke's lead, but didn't fight a battle for him when it was within his capabilities. My Duke, for his part,” he looked at Sonic pointedly, “extracted satisfaction after being publicly insulted, by a perfumed popinjay whose cronies abandoned him the moment he was expected to be responsible for his words.”

Sonic stared blankly at him, for a moment. “Is it that simple?” he asked at last, and Silver chuffed a laugh almost inaudibly, amid the evening breeze through the treetops.

“Take it from a fellow who spent four years sleeping in a barracks,” the veteran assured him. “Bottling up a lot of young men in circumstances like that? Some will try to establish a hierarchy, so that they can place themselves at the top. They all have their own methods, but that's the heart of it. Showing off, in one form or another, to attempt to outdo the man next to them. That fool Montclair tried to bully you and believed himself beyond consequences. Every man in that ballroom saw you deliver them to him regardless, with your own strength and skill and wit. And consider,” he added, “if you hadn't spoken up, if you had stood there and taken it, not only would he have kept at it and made it increasingly worse...but everyone would have seen the new Duke Erin sit through a torrent of verbal abuse without so much as an attempt to stand up for himself.”

Sonic thought about this, as something tiny chirped and whirred by in the slowly darkening air above them. Some flicky late back to its nest, perhaps, or – hah – a bat. “Then calling him out was the wiser choice?” he asked, with a flicker of hope.

“Wisdom, I can't speak for,” chuckled Silver. “I spent fifteen years at war, rather than address my grief in a safer manner. But I think it shall prove the more beneficial option, in its outcome. Now, they know House Erin will seek redress for a bald-faced insult. Besides,” he continued as they turned past the edge of the copse, coming in sight of the gentlemen's guest houses, “you danced with the Princess. You were her first dance at Summer Start's ball, by all accounts. There must be envy, among those she never acknowledged. Not just Montclair; he feels entitled to things simply because he wants them, and being refused is something that happens to other people. Like every other chinless runoff from the last time these inbred streaks of mess remembered how to climb atop their wives.” Sonic blinked, taken aback at the contempt in Silver's voice and the coarseness of the expression.

“You don't respect them, then?” he managed, and Silver shot him a rueful half-smile.

“Let us say I have a healthy disrespect for the attitude held by some older dynasties: that one's pedigree determines one's worth, as opposed to basic decency or competency.”

“All that was a healthy disrespect, was it?”

“It's certainly healthier than their worship of the idea,” shrugged Silver. “Sonic – there is one thing about your family that you must know, which I think Shadow might be expecting to communicate through actions instead of words. Simply this: when House Erin has momentum behind them, cliff faces fall. When House Erin makes a stride, the world is expected to move out of the way. You are of a ducal house. Only the Crown may command you.” He jerked his head back in the direction of the ballroom's lights. “Certainly none of them should have been surprised, that a man who disrespected your House was hit so hard he nearly disappeared up his own backside.”

The switches between his usual address and the rather earthier word choices of a career soldier had lent Silver a remarkably and refreshingly practical air, Sonic realised. After wading through mires of language to sift out Shadow's meaning, as if panning for gold, it was a gratifying change. “Then I suppose I'll consider it a successful evening,” he concluded, echoing Silver's smile as the taller hedgehog stopped on the gravel of the courtyard, a few paces ahead of him. “I only hope I speak to Mr Sleet again before the weekend is over. Very interesting fellow – what is it?” he asked, as Silver failed to keep up with him.

Silver's eyes glittered with the gold of the sunset as he stared westward, everything but melancholy banished from his face. Sonic had been too young to recall much, but he realised with a pang that he knew that shade of pale amber. The hue brought faint, faded memories of the scent of apple blossoms; of a soft voice, with the cadence of nursery rhymes or stories...had she read to him, as a child? Had she worn perfume from those blooms?

Sonic shifted a little, staring upward at the sunset that had captivated Silver so. The warm candle-flame orange of the lower sky gave way to a soft, pale lavender among the high-drifting cirrus clouds. For the first time, he realised, he and his older cousin had something unique and personal in common. Each of them looked on this western sky, and was reminded of the woman he loved.

“Tell me about her,” he asked, gently. Silver squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then a sad smile crossed his face.

“When we're inside, little brother,” he promised, and Sonic froze at the term of affection. “I'd like to do something, while we've a quiet evening and this open ground. It's good for me, sometimes.” He gestured for his younger cousin to step back, and walked a dozen or so paces in the other direction. When he stood in a stretch of empty gravel perhaps twenty feet across, he took a deep breath and let it out, his shoulders visibly slumping. The air rippled around his hands, then his feet, and then he began to rise until he hung perhaps a yard from the ground.

He glanced down, and power bloomed from him – exploded silently away from his body, in translucent blue-green waves that flowed outward into the air like drops of ink falling into water. Where it reached the ground beneath him, it pushed against the gravel; the faint, continual noise of the tiny pieces of stone moving against one another was an almost eerie counterpart to the lonely wind through the trees. The latter was a natural sound, and held a softness that felt like a part of life's background chorus. The stone-hiss Silver's power was entirely down to his gift, and Sonic knew that he should be working to accustom himself to seeing it. The raw fact of such a terrifyingly powerful gift remained unnerving to witness, for now.

Silver seemed to know it, too. He did most things with his hands, after all. This, though, he could never achieve with fingers dragged through the gravel: his power was drawing in it, creating curves and patterns, whirling spirals and shapes that had no name, or none that Sonic knew. This must be fine-detail practice, he realised as he watched; this sort of harmless, gentle use might be even more difficult than splitting a rock with raw strength, for Silver. Sonic quickly concluded that he would practice, too, if he were granted such a gift. He wouldn't wish to mutilate everything he touched with it.

After another full minute or two, Silver's eyes drifted closed again. The glow faded, the tourmaline sheen faded from the air, and Silver's feet touched down in the centre of the largest flowing, fractal pattern he'd made. Sonic was staring in awe, at the breathtaking display of pure power wielded with such delicacy and care. There was a few breaths' pause, as Silver beheld what he'd made.

“It won't last,” he mused, quietly. “The world will erase it, as life goes on.”

“But it's wondrous while it's here,” observed Sonic, and Silver nodded.

“And beauty doesn't lie in lasting forever,” he agreed. “But the most beautiful things of all...those do last forever.” He gave the sunset a lingering glance, and a last smile. “Or forever enough, at the least. Come, we'll have something heartening to eat.” Sonic blinked at the rapid change of topic.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” agreed Silver. “Sorrow will come, when I've the time for it. Until then, it generally allows me to get on with the work of living. We've reached an agreement.”

“You made friends with your sorrows?” asked Sonic, dubiously, and Silver huffed out something the same shape as a laugh.

“Rather a friend than a hated enemy, to fear its arrival. But no, more an accord of necessity. Sometimes there simply isn't time for tears, in a fight.” He clapped Sonic on the shoulder, as they went inside. “Or in a meal, if you want it to be a good one. Bread and cheese, and cold cooked meat, and small beer. That's a soldier's victory feast, little brother, and you won your battle today. Let's go and pester the cooks.”

=======>>>>=======

The next morning, Sonic awoke to a knock at his door, and was conscious of a brief sense of total peace. Warm sunlight poured in through the window like platinum, and the local flickies were in fine but distant voice; he spared a few respectful thoughts for whichever landscape artist had ensured the guest houses would be an appropriate distance from any trees, to soften the little birds' chorus. The closest thing to any pall cast on the proceedings was the faintest of aches in two of his knuckles, where he'd struck Bartleby Montclair the night before. Lady Amara was right; it hurt to deliver such a blow, even if it hurt the other man more. But it was a very small pain, and it felt more like validation of his actions than indictment.

The knock came again, and Sonic returned to himself with a flick of one ear. “Yes?” he called, sitting up amid the white cotton of the sheets.

“Beg your pardon, Your Grace,” came a voice through the door – he recognised it, the man in charge of hospitality for this guest house. Evidently, the fellow was up to date on certain social developments; last night had been the first time anyone had publicly named him Duke Erin. “There's a warm bath drawn downstairs, and privacy unless you call. Baron Horizon asked to let you know he's gone to see Lord and Lady Rose, and asks you attend when you're ready.”

“Thank you,” he called back, pulling himself to his feet and doffing his soft sleep gloves for a more durable daytime pair. “I'll be down directly.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

Perhaps thirty minutes later – with his quills still losing the last of their moisture from his bath, under a summer-morning sun so direct and calming it felt as though he should be gently steaming – Sonic approached the guest cottage given to the Roses for the weekend. It was a delightful little place, he thought, all white-stone walls and true thatch. Rustic to look at, but doubtless well-appointed within. As he approached, his leisurely pace allowed him to pick up raised voices from within.

Both were male, so it must be Shadow and Silver; he brought himself up to a jog and drew to a halt outside the door. Amy reclined in a wicker seat on the cottage's little porch deck, with a slim book in her hand and a cup of tea growing cool on a small table by her side. She glanced up at him, and rolled her eyes.

“It's about time,” she groused. “Honestly, if those two are going to argue over you, they should at least delay the beginning until you're present. I retired after I realised they weren't going to give you that courtesy, but take a deep breath out here first.” She shot an irritable look toward the front door. “My husband seldom raises his voice, even when directly insulted. Whatever happens, Sonic, please remember that: your wellbeing is a matter that draws this intensity from him. His methods are one thing, but I beg you not to doubt that his love is what drives him.”

He gave her a slow nod, all confusion, and she sighed and gestured him in.

In the cottage's living room, Silver was on his feet in a wide stance, as if he'd been gesticulating when Sonic opened the door. Shadow was still seated, in an armchair that still barely enfolded his long limbs, but he was leaned forward as if preparing to take to his feet. At the sight of their younger cousin, there was a frozen pause, and then a careful rearranging of postures that seemed almost sheepish.

“All right,” began Sonic, warily. “Let us have it. I'm the topic of conversation, I've seen people argue about me before. Have I done something?”

“Have you-” Shadow paused, and mastered himself. His eyes were glowing a little more brightly, but he schooled his face into simple sternness. “You brawled, Sonic. Like a child in a schoolyard. You put your fists to a nobleman with a lineage as long as your own, and in far less precarious position-”

“He defended his honour, Shadow!” interrupted Silver, the two older hedgehogs' eyes met. Sonic vowed then and there never to stand between those two glares. “He needed to establish-”

“He needed to show greater control!” barked Shadow. “It was a childish squabble, a spat of words, and he marked a man's face for it!”

Sonic felt anger rise within him, sudden and volcanic. There was far too much for the caldera of his patience to contain. “A squabble! He insulted my parents, Shadow, to my face! My dead parents! He insulted you, and Silver, and the Princess! He knew I heard, and so he threw everything I love into the mud!”

“And now everyone knows that if only they grow audacious enough, impertinent enough, they can make Duke Sonic Erin fly into a rage and become violent,” replied Shadow. “I hope it was satisfying-”

“Now they know I defend myself when insulted!”

“You call it that, but your enemies will not.” Shadow placed his hand over his face for a moment, then wiped it downward as if exhausted. “I know we had little time to prepare you for your position, but I thought I'd guided you better than-”

“You are not Duke Erin, Shadow!” Sonic interrupted him, and the room fell deathly silent. Silver stared between them, his own temper still lit, as Sonic found himself at the other end of that star-hot glare. He waited a heartbeat longer. “You are not. And I sense that you no longer wish to be. But I am, and I must make that role my own. I cannot and will not allow the re-emergence of our family to suffer public insult, for the sake of being the sort of Duke you would have been. We are the same,” he added, his shoulders dropping slightly, “in the sense that we each have our style, and we won't change. Yours is more disciplined than my own, true. But mine is for me, because I haven't your years of training-”

“Exactly. I'm asking you to use what I was taught-”

“Shadow.” Silver's interruption was more measured, quieter, than the shouting he'd been doing before. “He hasn't your extant family connections, either. Your skills are tailored for a man with a duchy already behind him, antecedents and a seat of power, and resources to bring to bear. They still work for you, because you can be intimidating enough as you are, and don't need those things to achieve the same results. But Sonic has no power base. No parents or established territories. He is the last legal heir of Erin Duchy, but he must build his political influence as if he were the first of us.”

Sonic exhaled softly, shooting Silver a grateful look for articulating it. “Shadow...you were trained to be Duke, but weren't you trained in the midst of our lands? Where, if anyone offered you open challenge like that, they would be seen as fools, and you wouldn't be taken for a weakling if you let someone else escort them out?”

“He has everything to fight for,” added Silver. “House Erin's reputation is mighty, but historic. The ducal line no longer needed to make shows of strength, against intimidation. We aren't in that time any more, Shadow. We are in a position where Sonic's antecedents, socially, do not matter if someone else decides that they don't. He will be challenged, and offered insult, because he is a young man among young men. Such things always involve some sort of jockeying for position. I witnessed that altercation, and I promise he did what was most advantageous in the circumstances – and haven't you always trusted my judgement before?”

Shadow glared at them both for a long moment, and sighed. “I...must think about this. This changes too many things, in the long term.”

Sonic's eyes narrowed. Is he trying to plan my future for me? He opened his mouth, but Silver shot him a silencing look. “Then we shall let you concentrate,” the paler hedgehog replied, his tone as conciliatory as Sonic had ever heard it. “You know where to find us, brother.”

As they emerged from the cottage, Amy put her novel down. She glanced between them, huffed out a quiet “Men,” and moved inside to join her husband.

=======>>>>=======

“Ammeline,” came a whisper later that day, over a subdued luncheon. Amy turned and laced her fingers with his, to show she was listening.

“Shadow?”

“Have I been tyrannical?” She blinked, bathed in the soft dying-ember light of his gaze, and then closed her eyes to rest her head upon his shoulder. Of course this had tortured him.

“You're worried,” she replied. “After everything that happened, you fear for him, and that can only be called natural. It's led you to watch over his shoulder, I think, and...that may be the flaw in your response. Seeking perfection from him, when a man needs mistakes and problems in his dealings so that he can learn and grow from them.” She drew in a breath, and released it in a sigh. “I should have seen it, really. He's so radically different to you in his manner overall, I should have wondered whether he might find a more disciplined man's approach rather stifling.”

There was a pause. Shadow had closed his eyes, when she opened hers; she wasn't unused to him taking time to think about things, when difficult or personal subjects arose. Eloquent as he was, he always took time and care when his words truly mattered. But with his eyes shut, it felt more as if he feared his next question.

“Is it beyond repair?” he whispered at last, and her heart broke a little. She drew the taller hedgehog into an embrace from the seat next to him, running her silk-gloved palm slowly over his quills and pressing her lips softly to the furrow in his brow. She had often done this, as if to kiss away the faint scowl carved into his face by his life. Today was no different.

“No, Shadow,” she reassured him, softly. “Your cousins love you as brothers, and you aren't so proud a man as to balk at showing some humility. If you go to them, after we've eaten, apologise, and tell them truthfully that you understand – that you mean to improve on your behaviour – then I believe they'll both be man enough to accept that promise.” She tightened her arm around his waist briefly. “And I hope it will be a promise,” she added meaningfully.

“I can't swear it to him,” began Shadow, with a thread of despair in his voice. “Gaia help me, if he were at risk and I could protect him...”

“Then I swear to you, husband,” began Amy, “if he's ever at risk-” she trailed off, as a memory slid from the future into her mind's eye. Shadow, snarling at Sonic with his hand around another man's throat. Sonic's face, full of betrayal. An enormous bang, like an explosion. Her husband and his cousin, embracing desperately...she blinked, realising her eyes stung and burned, and the blur of tears couldn't obscure Shadow's worried gaze glowing back at her.

“A vision?” he asked softly, concerned. She nodded slowly.

“We may have to work on what you'll say,” she whispered softly. “I think you'll have need of one more apology, sometime soon.” She clasped his hands, squeezing gently. “But you'll have me standing by you, for all of it. I already made that vow.”

“So did I,” whispered her husband, drawing her to him. Amy found no more fear in his arms. She made certain there was none for him, in hers.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Blumenheim.

It was perhaps fortunate, that Shadow Erin had had practice in muting his expressions.

The experience of finding himself walking a country lane with Ammeline Rose, alone and with privacy, was a wondrous one. The humidity of the earlier morning's vanishing dew was gone, and so the shafts of sunlight were less clearly visible as they lanced down through the gaps in the deep-green translucency of the trees that lined the path. But the light itself shone just as strong, and had turned from platinum to gold as the sun made itself comfortable and got down to the day's business; every so often they passed beneath one, and a spot of palpable warmth drifted across him where he touched it. Idyllic wasn't the word. This was a quiet, simple little paradise. It occurred to him, absently, that perhaps heaven might not be so much a place as a moment, a combination of place and time...and company.

Ammeline walked beside him, slow, comfortable, close. That she felt safe with him was clear; he still sometimes felt as if he had little right to see her so, after the things he had shown her. The aspects of himself he wished could stay forever hidden, left locked in some inward cellar of his being. But he knew that the source of such thoughts was shame, and what remained of his sense of fear. Experience told him that Ammeline had witnessed, if not his transformation itself, then the form he'd worn in that desperate, terrible fighting; she had not shied from him since, and so reason dictated that she hadn't feared the presence that coiled through his chest and waited to defend him. Certainly, she hadn't been frightened enough by his appearance and savagery to dissolve her sense of trust.

I see you, Shadow. In there, under that. I know you, and I trust you. The words filtered into his memory, as if arriving by late post, and he nearly flinched at the realisation of where he'd heard them. Evidently not everything of that night had been lost to him, in the hours he'd spent with the beast; Lady Amaranthine had filled in some of the gaps with her own perspective, when he'd quietly and despairingly asked it of her. He knew he had fought bare-handed, monstrously, brutally. He knew he had still spoken, once or twice, and been aware enough to listen to reason when he was spoken to. He knew that he had treated her with kindness and forbearance, as much as was possible on that awful night. He knew, in short, that the vortex of guilt and horror at his own existence was entirely internal, and that none of the people he trusted had found him fearful, on balance. Indeed, the staff of Rose Manor had also made their approval clear, when they spoke of the bestial apparition they'd come to call the Rose Dragon.

These thoughts warmed Shadow nearly as much as the little patches of sunlight that drifted across him, as he and Ammeline walked in companionable silence. But, true to form, she seemed to find that the flames of mirth and joy within her would not be quenched, and her upper arm brushed against his as she folded her hands almost sheepishly before her.

“An evening's work well rewarded, I think,” she began brightly, with a smile and a sidelong glance at him. “Superb work all round. I...that is, thank you for coming with me for it, Shadow,” she continued. It seemed as if she fought to wrestle her words into a shape that would fit what she truly wished to say. “I rather think I should take back some of the vicious things I've said to you, when you've exerted your sense of humour before.”

“I wish you wouldn't,” Shadow replied, instantly. The words were upon his lips before he could bid them emerge – or retreat. “Then I should have to provoke you to say them once more. Some of those opportunities, you shall never hand me again.” A blush reddened her cheeks, and she glanced away, but not enough to conceal her smile, or stifle the outright giggle that escaped her.

“You truly are incorrigible,” she remarked, her gaze upon the path before her. “And insufferable. And – and other things beginning with in,” she declared nebulously, looking back at him. “There must be at least one or two more, after all. Indefatigable, perhaps.”

“Oh, no,” Shadow replied, almost demurely. “Never that.” Not in your presence, Ammeline. Before you I am thoroughly and helplessly dismantled. “Inveterate, rather, in the other qualities you mention.”

“Good,” she noted, and he let his gaze flicked toward her for a moment. He could feel his face heating similarly to her own; neither of them had the courage, in this moment, to look squarely into the eyes of the other. Her arm brushed his once again; the touch was barely anything, but the warmth from it felt greater, and lasted longer, than any of the dappled patches of sunlight through which they moved. “I wouldn't...wish you otherwise. You've prodded at my temper, Shadow, and occasionally at my pride, but never at my dignity. Not even with that outrageous trick in the gardens that evening. I...recognise that difference, and I want to be certain you know my gratitude for it. You could so easily have been cruel. Not once have you treated me with real disrespect.”

“Heaven forfend,” replied Shadow, clinging to the oblique in the face of this unexpected openness. Ammeline shot him a look that should have singed his fur, before it softened into a smile.

“And even when you say that, you truly mean it,” she went on, to illustrate her point. “Even as you choose your phrasing to veil the sentiment, you only make a playful attempt. It remains, and you allow me to see it. I was right; you wield all this so much more skilfully than I. But I think, perhaps, my enthusiasm outshines yours in it,” she added impishly. “You seem to do it out of habit, rather than entertainment.”

“Thus, and so,” Shadow agreed. “With most people, the will to dissemble is less present than the urge to cloud my intentions. A habit older than even my scars. My parents taught me to be vague until I was committed to a course of action, so that I might not be outmanoeuvred in politics as Duke. It became habit, as you say.”

“With most people,” Ammeline echoed, and Shadow was forced to nod in concession.

“With most people. With one in particular, I find myself increasingly enthusiastic. One person brings out more in me than I thought I had left. I...” He fell back, at last, on a turn of phrase that had occurred to him months before. “...fight it, sometimes, when I see the flame this person becomes, in her zest for the joys and absurdities of life. To avoid making a fool of myself, I fight the urge to throw myself into that fire and be consumed.”

“To be consumed by...her flame? You speak as if you dread it.” Ammeline's face was unreadable, but her meaning was not. Well, that was all to the good. They had dropped most of the pretence in their conversation already. Shadow shook his head, immediately and insistently.

“Not for myself. I dread causing her discomfort. I know that if I were to burn in that flame, the man who would emerge would be forged better. Stronger. Cleaner, perhaps. But without the full certainty that she would welcome it, I will not allow my wishes to be pushed upon her.”

“Then you're a fathead,” she remarked, simply, and seemed to revel in the double-take it earned her. “But a truly kind and gentlemanly one, at your core. And perhaps that...well. If you haven't noticed by now, Shadow Erin, then I shall simply have to deny you the triumph of deducing it for yourself. But that forbearance and consideration are among the things I've grown to rely upon, and take comfort in, and love. You shall never hurt me, Shadow. Do you know how rare it is, for a young lady to be able to say that and understand that it's true?” She slowed her gait, and he matched her; his longer limbs seemed almost ponderous in their movements now. “You seem to fully and truly trust me; I've no illusions about what a rarity that must be, after being prepared in your youth to enter a world of backstabbing and political jostling. But for a lady there are twice as many concerns and avenues of harm, and I know that you understand this, too. And yet your – even as you poke at my temper – your gentility, and that aspect to your manner that plainly says it never even occurs to you that you might press an advantage...my parents see it too, Shadow. We are unchaperoned, and alone in a lane together, a third of a mile from any other person. And they, and I, trust you unreservedly. I've seen you harm someone, Shadow, I've seen you kill. But you will never, ever lay a hand upon me in anything other than tenderness. That isn't a command. It is a statement of fact. True?”

“True,” whispered Shadow, near dumbstruck, gazing into her eyes. When had that happened? When had their glances met, and stayed? When had they slowed to a halt, amid the faint rushing of the breeze in the treetops, the soft and beautiful gold of the sunshine playing over them both and making her once again the angel he had seen when he first awoke in Blumenheim? When had she taken his hand in both of hers, and why did her expression tell him he wasn't the only one who'd felt the warmth of it spread quickly to his heart?

“True,” she agreed, her lips curving into a warm, soft, jewel-bright smile. “And you – well, you are hardly ill-favoured, Shadow, regardless of what you may think of your teeth,” she added, a little more bashfully. “Strong, safe, handsome, quick-witted, devoted, a sense of mischief and adventure that can rise to match my own...you show me all of these things, and you think I shan't react in the only way an intelligent lady should?” She released one of her hands from his own, to poke him lightly in the shoulder. “You think I shan't begin to fall in love? You doubt yourself too much, you silly man,” she added, turning to face her home and starting to walk forward once more. When he matched her pace, she drew closer and slipped her arm through his, resting her head against his bicep where a taller lady – or a shorter gentleman – might find it atop his shoulder instead. “You dear, dear, silly, wonderful man.”

They walked on, through the golden, joyous sunlight.

=======>>>>=======

The next two days at Blumenheim were barely a reprieve from the week or two of solid nonsense that preceded them. The captive smugglers had been detained pending the arrival of one of Constable Lightfoot's less-local colleagues, for transit to the nearest courthouse at Marble Town. The two Babylon siblings who'd remained to assist the redoubtable rabbit in his arrests had departed, with an air of grudging respect for the lawman that seemed to stem from some private matter or observation. Amy could wring no explanation from them before they left, nor from the injured constable himself as he rested in Doctor Bauer's care.

A silver lining was that the place was no longer crawling with aunts, Amy mused; nevertheless, there was a change in the air of the place – certainly among the family. By the time she and Shadow had returned to the house, Aunt Vithica's carriage had already left; the staff they saw as they arrived were conducting their business with individual variations on a sigh of relief. With Aunt Destra and her toffee-ruining sons likewise gone, in the company of the intelligent and personable Wave Babylon, the Roses were once again left to their own company for a brief and bustling respite.

The upcoming trip to Leon City, to testify to the Crown concerning the attack on their home, loomed large now. Amy's mother, and Shadow, had taken on the task of speaking to the court; her father had initially given the perfectly reasonable response that he would likely remain at Blumenheim; if he were to testify in court, the stenographers would need to send runners for more paper. It was on the day before the departure, however, that Amy's parents asked to see her in her mother's study.

“Ah, there you are, darling,” the older woman smiled. Amy froze in the doorway, caught up in a sudden premonition that had nothing to do with her gift. Her father's diffident expression held some unnameable portent, combined with her mother's firmly casual tone of voice. She resolutely stepped inside, and closed the door.

“I believe I'm about to hear something which you believe I shan't like overmuch,” Amy noted, and her father's complete lack of a poker face bore immediate fruit. Her mother gestured to the pair of comfortable, curve-framed leather chairs before her desk, and Amy took a wary seat. Her father slid into the other, and laced his fingers before him.

There was a pause of indeterminate length, somewhere between twelve seconds and four months. Eventually, the Baroness leaned forward, and let a smile escape her facade. “First things first, I suppose,” she began. “Do a mother's eyes deceive, or is there an Understanding with our dear Mr Erin? - ah, that's wonderful,” she added, as Amy's own complete ineptitude with subterfuge betrayed her yet again. She could never hide anything from her parents, versed as they were in what kind of questions to ask. “I'm overjoyed for you, darling, I truly am.” She reached over the desk for Amy's hand, and received it with a warm squeeze. “I shan't humiliate you with the obvious, but when you expressed those concerns to me the morning after we were invaded, I did have something of a feeling. He is, after all, such a man.”

“I say, steady on,” began her father, before tilting his head in a visible moment of reconsideration. “Then again, I do rather see the point. Chaps like young Shadow do tend to spark awe and dread in some ratio or another. I don't blame you in the slightest, dear heart,” he added to Amy, and she felt her cheeks heat up again like an iron skillet removed only briefly from the flames.

“With that in mind, there are considerations,” her mother picked up, and Amy glanced back at her wordlessly. “Some are unfortunate practicalities of our position, Amy dear, and require what might be briefly uncomfortable questions. I'll endeavour to make them as swift as I may. Do you think that this is a gentleman whom you can see yourself marrying?”

“Mother!”

“Darling, this is a matter of crucial import for Blumenheim,” the Baroness told her, simply and firmly, without rancour. “There are no wrong answers, so long as those answers are certain. We must know these things, as the eventual continuity of our leadership is a matter with which we must concern ourselves. Knowing that we approve of him, and that his own willingness is rather a foregone conclusion should you accept him, will you answer?”

Amy swallowed hard, and gave a mute, mortified nod. Her mother returned it, with rather more stately patience.

“Thus, and so. Do you think this is therefore a man with whom you can see yourself having a child? - don't squeak at me so, darling, we do need to confirm these things in terms of intention,” Lady Amaranthine added, giving her hand another gentle squeeze. “I shan't ask you to choose a name, for goodness' sake. I ask it only in the most abstract and hypothetical sense. Do you think it feasible?”

Amy was almost as red as her mother's own fur, now. She could not deny that, when she'd considered what might delicately be called dynastic obligations, it had lately been Shadow Erin she visualised as her opposite number in the duty of creating her own eventual successor. She had told him to his face that he was undeniably handsome; his rangy but powerful build, his impressive height, the burning red of his eyes, even those intimidatingly carnivorous teeth, had all featured in her evaluation. She gave another nod, and her mother's smile widened.

“Wonderful,” she beamed, and ran her thumb reassuringly across the back of Amy's knuckles. “That should be an end of the more discomfiting questions. You see, dearest, we ask because we – your father and I – have decided to posit an alteration to the conditions under which you shall inherit the title of Baroness Rose. Not to make it more difficult, that we can assure you,” she added, at Amy's expression. “Not at all. You're aware of the current arrangement?”

Amy didn't have to think hard to recall it, but after the past minute or two, pushing words past her lips felt like a task for a mythic hero of old. “It...shall pass to me when you are both gone,” she summarised, and her father nodded gravely.

“Exactly, my dear. When the time comes for each of the two of us to, ah, rejoin the earth, so to speak. But this is something of a basic situation, rather than a bespoke arrangement,” he explained, taking over from his wife. “A default sort of plan. Any family with an inheritance shall pass it on if that particular condition comes to pass, unless some other provision of will or law forbids it. What we're proposing is a rather earlier transition, d'you see. Something that would allow you to take up the title sooner, and permit your mother and I to retire and spend a little of our dotage in a more leisurely manner.”

The deduction was hardly a desperate leap of logic. “And this condition would have something to do with my...marrying, and bearing an heir.” Amy wouldn't waste time by phrasing it as a question. Her mother confirmed it with an encouraging nod.

“That's right, darling. What we're proposing is that, once your firstborn child is one year and one day old, the title shall legally pass to you; you would be Baroness Amy Rose, and Shadow would at that point be Baron Shadow Rose. Your child...would be in the same position as you are now.”

“Rather less embarrassed, I suspect,” remarked Amy archly. “At least for another twenty years after that.”

“Oh, I shouldn't worry, dearest, you'll find some way to mortify your little one with suitable hilarity,” her father comforted her jovially, utterly undeterred by her unimpressed look. “But we didn't wish to surprise you with this; we've no reason to treat you so unfairly. And we needed to be sure of your own aims and intentions on the matter, what?”

Amy let out a long sigh, looking back and forth between her parents. “I think I see. And...yes, I understand. I'll accept it, if that's your wish,” she added, her tone making it clear that this should be obvious. “I can hardly deny you the chance at some peace and quiet, after all. I rather think I'll want the same, when my...” she trailed off, and glanced down with another blush.

“When your child comes of age and falls in love,” agreed her mother, catching her eye and holding her gaze with another warm, soothing smile. “Of course, my heart. Then as we're agreed, your father shall need to accompany Shadow and I to the capital. Changes like these require us both to be present and to concur in writing, after all. Do you feel you'll be all right, running the place alone for a few days?”

Amy smiled knowingly at the leading question. This was a lesson she'd had drummed into her since she could speak.

“I'm in Blumenheim, Mother,” she replied simply and confidently. “I'm never alone.”

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Chiros Duchy. The Dry Lagoon.

“Shadow, dear,” began Lady Amy, “would you mind flagging down a server and finding another glass of wine for me? A nice rosé, perhaps?”

“Certainly, angel,” her husband replied, unfolding himself to his full height. “If I see either of my cousins, I shall engage them in conversation.”

“Thank you,” she cheerily told his retreating back. Rouge watched him go, faintly amused at the way the throng parted before him.

“These Erin men,” she marvelled, looking back at the pink hedgehog. “Where do you find them?”

“Generally in a living hell,” Amy replied with a prim expression, lifting her wineglass with her smallest finger raised to take a theatrically elegant sip. Rouge gave a throaty laugh and rested her elbow in her hand, her thumb against her lower lip. She had found a fast friendship growing between herself and the daughter of Baroness Rose – a similar practical outlook they seemed to share, regarding healthy disregard for formal frippery and flatteries of all kinds, had been fertile soil indeed for their rapport. Even more so, the discovery that they shared a goal regarding Her Highness' wedding.

“I suppose I'm fortunate,” she mused, “to have found a gentleman of interest whose life has been relatively even-keeled. So far as I know, at least. But that is rather a lot of wine for one lady to drink so quickly,” she added, glancing off in the direction of her husband's retreat. “Are you certain, my dear?”

Amy smiled impishly. “Oh, he's not bringing me wine,” she assured her new friend. “I despise rosé, all jokes aside. It's a little code we have, for when I wish him to act as a sort of shield or distraction for others' attention. Generally when I'm up to something amusing and righteous...or simply wish for some time alone to discuss certain romances.”

Rouge could feel her eyes sparkling at the younger woman's evident instincts for adventure and subterfuge “Lady Amy Rose, you should have been an agent of the Crown,” she teased happily, and her smile widened when Amy shot her an amiably smug little look.

“I rather prefer remaining an agent of chaos,” she quipped, and then quickly clarified, “With a small C, at least. So, with my husband ensuring privacy: our little cooperative venture. Shall there be any advancement tonight?”

“We may indeed see a visitation from a certain lady,” whispered Rouge, visibly delighted with the change of topic. “She has mentioned that she'll appear. Sometime before sunset, I'm told, although the presence of a certain young gentleman is devoutly to be wished also. Despite certain unfortunate rumours floating around my lands, concerning some behaviour from a night or two ago...” she added, meaningfully. Amy nodded in understanding.

“I realise that my testimony may mean little, second-hand as it is, and seen through a lens of its own,” she began. “But I've heard from the young man himself that there was rather extreme provocation involved. The sort of bald-faced insult which, in the wrong circles, might lead to more than fisticuffs as reproof. He confirms that he struck one blow, and every other time he laid a hand on the man was to deflect an attempt by Mr Montclair to strike at him.”

Well. They were naming names? Thus, and so. She could afford to lower the pretence, if there was this much candour to be had between them. “I understand. You must be aware, though, that there are several parties – known friends of young Bartleby – who stand by his assertion that young Duke Erin was quite aggressive, and instigated the matter himself by attempting to drag the fellow outside without any warning or provocation at all. And I must stress that I, personally, am inclined to believe your delightful in-law,” she clarified, “not least because of certain insults levied toward myself by Mr Montclair and others in his circle, who appeared to forget the acuity of a bat's hearing. But this will not satisfy those who were not present, Lady Rose. As someone in close connection to one party, your conclusions will naturally be seen as equally questionable. And this sort of rumour might yet be a stumbling-block for young Sonic.”

Amy's face had fallen a little. “Yes, my husband explained as much to him yesterday. And to dear Silver. At some length, in fact,” she added wryly. “They did make some excellent points of their own, but the root of his concern still remains. Will this affect perceptions of a courtship, do you think?”

“Everything observed by anyone will affect those,” sighed Rouge, snapping open her fan and cooling herself a little. “It certainly won't be of assistance to his cause. And we-” She paused. Her fanning grew a little faster. “Amy, dear, your husband is coming back. With another gentleman,” she added, a frisson of panic crossing her features. “Quickly, I beg you – how does my hair look?”

“Quite lovely,” replied the pink lady, with a mischievous smile of her own. “Is his companion of a height with him, then?”

“Oh,” huffed Rouge, pouting at her. “I wish you wouldn't sport with me.” Amy's smile only widened, and she fluttered her eyelashes in a manner that must certainly disarm her towering husband. Rouge was a lifelong expert in such tricks, and with a sardonically raised eyebrow she wordlessly applauded the hedgehog's ambition in trying it upon her. “All right, then,” she conceded, turning in her seat to stand and greet the arrivals. “Ambassador! How lovely to see you,” she cooed, curtseying in response to his well-rehearsed bow. “I must thank you for coming to my little celebration. I hope all is to your liking?”

The two had quietly agreed that, while their feelings were known to one another (and, somewhat inevitably, to Knuckles' capable and insightful retinue), they should remain concealed from the world at large until there was less chance of rumour or scandal regarding their relative positions. It was, after all, a situation in which either of them could potentially be accused of a conflict of interest. This had hardly discouraged the echidna, who had phlegmatically remarked that he must merely continue as he had begun: admiring her from afar, and refraining from speaking his heart where others might hear. Deeper love echoes louder, he had said to her, as naturally and casually as if it were a proverb among his people. Perhaps it was. Regardless, she found it increasingly difficult to conceal her adoration of the man, even with her lifetime's experience with obfuscation.

“Very much so,” was all he said aloud, though his eyes spoke volumes more when they met hers. “I find myself accommodated more comfortably than any man might hope. Your duchy holds a rare beauty, Your Grace.” He didn't refer to the landscaping, the resplendent and romantic fool. Rouge offered her hand, fluttering her own eyelashes as shamelessly as if she gave dear Amy a masterclass at it. He took it in one massive glove, adorned with its blunted spikes and incongruous to the delicacy of the gesture, and hovered his lips an inch or so above the backs of her fingers. There were eyes upon them, she knew, and yet this skated the edge of openly expressing his admiration; still, she couldn't bring herself to stop him.

“I'm glad to hear it,” she remarked, casting her eyes to either side meaningfully. Shadow Rose drew a little closer, picking up her cue and allowing his wife to do the same, ensuring that this became a conversation of four to any intruding gazes. Knuckles likewise retreated a hand's breadth or so, reestablishing propriety.

“Well, this is quite wonderful,” remarked Shadow Rose, his expression as mild as it could become around those angry red streaks. “But Ambassador, I hesitate to ask – your little companion is absent? Is it well?” Knuckles blinked, and nodded – twitching aside the long, deep-blue jacket that made his crimson fur stand out so wonderfully. In an inner pocket of the coat, level with his hip, was a small bulge; barely audible from within was the sound of tiny snoring, and one or two sleepy mumbling noises.

“Thoroughly gorged on two apples and a banana,” the echidna confided, as if detailing how to sneak past a guard post with a bag full of contraband. “It should sleep until morning.”

“After their last public appearance, I find myself rather wishing I could do that to my cousins,” Shadow groused, and spared his wife a glance when she prodded him in the ribs with an expectant look of wifely correction. “But of course, we have our priorities. We shall have to mend a public image, I suppose.”

“Would this involve the encounter with the boy Bartleby?” asked Knuckles, glancing at each of them in turn and then tilting his head thoughtfully at Rouge's sober nod. “I did encounter some...inaccuracies in storytelling, when hearing it whispered. I corrected these where I found them. Is the boy truly so ready a liar?”

“I beg your pardon – you corrected rumours?” asked Shadow, his eyes widening. Knuckles nodded nearly casually, as if it were a matter of course.

“I am, certainly at this moment, a formally unattached man,” the echidna noted. “I was thus present at the same party. You might be surprised how few will notice a large man keeping his seat, when smaller men strut and jostle. But I was witness to the altercation, and have given the cold truth of it when I hear a lie.” He glanced around them again. “If I overstepped, then I offer humble apology and beg-”

“You,” whispered Rouge, and he fell silent instantly, the better to hear even that from her lips. “You are the dearest man.”

Knuckles barely managed to tear his eyes from hers, when Shadow placed a hand upon his broad shoulder. “You overstepped nothing, my friend,” smiled the tall hedgehog. “Those falsehoods are a problem we've wondered how to deal with, among ourselves. You've done us a service with your honesty. Particularly by ensuring the Duchess' home is kept free of such rumour,” he added, meaningfully, at a brief and meaningful glance from his wife that Rouge decided not to see.

Amy Rose, I should never have feared. Of course you would see it with me, as we both saw it with them. She allowed her smile to broaden, and let Knuckles have the full brightness of it.

=======>>>>=======

“Oh, my goodness, is that Amy Rose?”

Ammeline froze, and whirled on the spot. Shadow had enough time to see a brilliant smile cross her features, and then she was moving – crossing the fifteen feet or so between them, to embrace her old friend.

“Lady Latour,” Shadow greeted her warmly, making the same trip rather more sedately but with an unmistakable smile of his own for his wife's old schoolmate. “It's been a long time.”

“Yes, it has, you terrible thing,” agreed Ammeline. “What shall it take to winkle you out of the Emerald Hills and come to visit Blumenheim once or twice?”

“Well, a wedding is evidently enough,” giggled the vixen, releasing Shadow's wife and offering the tall man her hand, above which he hovered his lips a respectful inch before letting it go. “Have you another couple preparing one? I might visit for that.”

“Oh, hardly,” scoffed Ammeline, flapping her hand dismissively. “We've no shortage of eligible men, of course, but they seem to have their own schedules. Or some of them do,” she added, rolling her eyes at Shadow. He raised an eyebrow.

“I haven't the pleasure of understanding you, buttercup,” he lied happily. “Baron Horizon has no intentions of remarrying whatsoever, and my younger cousin has...certainly made progress in his own plans. Unless you refer to the letters Constable Lightfoot exchanges with Miss Babylon?”

His circumspect approach was dismissed out of hand by Lady Latour, who gave a roll of her own eyes at his subtlety. It made him imagine what Baron Aidan might say, to see it. Possibly a reference to a bowling green, a part of him mused, as the Viscount's daughter hastened to render discretion useless. “Oh, the young Duke Erin,” was the first thing to pass her lips. “Yes, well. Perhaps this is what you miss out on, Amy dear, now that you're a married woman. But at the young ladies' party, he was certainly a topic of discussion! Though it's widely agreed where his heart lies. He seems to have no hesitation in him at all, when it comes to declaring his love. Something a number of us wish to see in certain men,” she added, looking aside with a downturned mouth.

“Oh, Mindy, surely he's still not-” Ammeline paused, and glanced at Shadow. “I think this is becoming a ladies' discussion, dear,” she added to him. “Why don't you go and make yourself visible near the entrance, for when your cousins arrive? Enjoy the sunset a little. Perhaps frighten someone, you're good at that,” she added playfully, which he could only assume was a return volley for the earlier buttercup he'd idly launched in her direction. He nodded phlegmatic acquiescence, and gave both ladies a bow.

“Then if you'll excuse me, ladies,” he replied, turning and parting from them. At his height, moving slowly was a difficult proposition without the term stalk becoming a pertinent verb; nevertheless, he kept his face impassive and reflected that if he were going to weave between the groups of chattering guests, he may as well be looming while he did. A half-minute of controlled wandering brought him to the doorway, and a nod of acknowledgement to the doormen got him past and out into the cooler evening air.

Out here, wandering out to the corner of the manor where his streaks' faint glow ensured he had plenty of personal space, he would act as a beacon for his cousins when they eventually arrived. He knew that Silver was waiting for a certain arrival; when the royal carriage made its appearance, he would wait a short span and then approach with Sonic. It wouldn't do to seem as if their youngest cousin were on tenterhooks awaiting the Princess, after all.

Like this, washed in gold from the low-hanging sun, the Dry Lagoon's renewed fortunes made every sort of sense. It was clear to any who cared to look: the greatest asset the seat of Chiros Duchy had was its own land. Duchess Chiros had seen it upon her arrival in the territory, she'd often claimed, immediately following her wedding to Duke Reginald – who, being the lecherous, drunken fool that he was, had concerned himself more with a life of dissipation and opulence. While her husband had been far more absorbed in the trappings of his power than in the wise use of it, unaware of how little time he had left, the lady had already seen an unconventional way to reverse the failing economy of Chiros Duchy as a whole. All of the wealth in Reginald Chiros' lands had been locked away in his home, in the form of gaudy decorations and trinkets; his people laboured hard and barely survived, and their circumstances had been obscured from their Duke – intentionally on his part, or otherwise – by gilded fences and a carefully-crafted lifestyle of pure luxury.

The Duke's unfortunate passing had seemed swift, and merciful in that there was no proof of violence or foul play. Rumours abounded, of course; he had lived barely a year and a half past his wedding, and the lady now stood to inherit his station. There had been intense scrutiny, and suspicion only grew when the new Duchess' first act upon assuming her mantle had been to begin selling her late husband's gaudiest and most expensive decorations and possessions. Included in these had been several exquisite furniture sets and rare tapestries, as well as the Duke's entire wardrobe.

Said suspicion had abated over time, but the Duchess had used that time well. While all eyes were upon her, she had ensured there would be something for them to witness; recognising the beauty of the land in which her manor stood, she had invested the new influx of capital first into stable food stocks for her people, then into farming subsidies in order to create breadbaskets in the grasslands bordering the White Jungle. With this sacrifice of personal wealth leaving her people increasingly well-fed for the first time in perhaps two decades, the new Duchess Chiros had established a loyal and devoted follower base in her lands, and her next move had enjoyed near-unanimous support: the creation of a robust and thriving tourism industry, allowing visitors to experience the splendour of her duchy – from the beautiful and comfortable riverboats of what was now known as Cruise Canyon to the well-maintained and suitably haunted-looking villas at the foot of the eerie Pumpkin Hills.

Even the Dry Lagoon, the breathtaking ancient ruins and wetland habitats from which Rouge Chiros ran her lands, had been changed to bring in high-class clientele. The noble and the wealthy were often to be found guesting here, in the same exclusive and fully-staffed villages of guest-cottages currently in use by the invitees of her birthday celebration. While the Duchess was sometimes sneeringly referred to as the Pawned Lady in certain older-money circles, for the method she'd used to save her people from a neglect-fuelled famine, the insulting moniker was never, ever uttered within Chiros Duchy. Her people, quite simply, wouldn't stand for it.

Perhaps Aidan and Amara might like to visit this place, when the title passes to Ammeline, Shadow mused briefly to himself – though he knew full well what conditions would be fulfilled to bring his wife into her inheritance, he also knew from Ammeline's own vague predictions that their current difficulties (by which he understood her to mean that they were not yet safe from his family's murderers, and could not in good conscience bring a child into the world) were unlikely to last more than another year. A year or so as grandparents might allow them to get the more egregious initial rush of spoiling-the-baby impulses out of their collective system, and give them breathing room in which to think of how to enjoy their new freedom. Ideally, Amara would not be attempting to put a soft practice weapon into the chubby hand of a year-old grandson or granddaughter.

But what might they call such a child? He had little doubt that the shortlist of names would involve the letter A, this being a tradition he didn't mind keeping. A boy...what sort of son would he and Ammeline produce? A serious, studious Arthur? A vibrant and outdoorsy Alexander? He certainly couldn't see them naming a child Archibald; no son with any sense would thank them for making him answer to 'Archie'. Or a daughter? A soft-smiling Amber, perhaps, or a strong, wise Aurelia...

“Shadow?” asked Silver, resting a hand on his shoulder. Shadow nearly flailed, fighting down an inward snarl as he whirled on his cousin and took a tense instant's eye contact, before letting out his breath and clapping a hand dismissively onto Silver's upper arm in turn.

“I'm sorry, I was in my own world,” he explained simply. “Sonic?”

“Already within,” replied Silver, gesturing to the door of the manor a hundred yards or so behind them. Just visible in the deepening twilight beyond it was a familiar coach, bearing the royal seal on its side; it was moving away from the entrance, which meant that Her Highness must have arrived some minutes ago. Master yourself, Shadow Rose, he scolded himself, and joined his pale cousin on a leisurely walk back inside.

=======>>>>=======

Her Imperial Highness was a title so practiced among those who surrounded Blaze, that it came off the tongue from pure muscle memory. And yet lately, she seemed to spend so much time fending off increasingly unsubtle marriage proposals that she might yet earn the title of Her Impertinent Highness instead.

The gentle joke was all that kept her smiling through the oleaginous greetings of lordling after lordling, dullard after fool after mendicant. There were few among them who even met her eye; the field seemed to be narrowing, lately. Certainly the process of winnowing with gentle refusals had cleared the field of those with the tact to accept such a reply; one function of this ball, wisely set up by Rouge for her birthday, was to allow these gentlemen to mingle with young ladies in a social setting, where many such women would be seeking a potential match of their own; if a prospective suitor could make his attempt and be declined, and then find himself in mixed company with fair odds of meeting someone he truly liked? Well, then he could hardly feel slighted.

This was a double-edged sword, however, in that the men who remained within her orbit were the persistent or the tactless, or those Commander Tower had occasionally referred to as the congenitally entitled. The men who felt that they earned a thing, simply by desiring it. The men who saw her, or her throne, as simply one more thing they deserved. She knew these faces, too; the foremost sons of House Lapis, House Squamis, and numerous indirect ducal descendants or relatives were present, of course. House Avis had evidently decided to opt for sheer variety, and she saw their crest on the lapel of one of their more recent offerings; she could discount him out of hand, as he had barely even bothered to make his case. A pang of guilt briefly struck her at the realisation she couldn't recall his name.

Perhaps if they'd stuck with a mere trio of suitors instead of the two-dozen seeming to hurl themselves into my line of sight this summer, I should have remembered them better. The thread of her thoughts was disrupted by the sight of House Canis' leading suitor, a mink named Montclair, who looked...rather as if he'd walked into a door.

“My goodness, Mr Montclair,” she began, covering for the fact that his state had quite chased his first name from her mind. “I applaud your fortitude; you seem to have met with some personal misfortune, and yet you bear it well, to appear tonight.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” he oiled in reply, with a smile that seemed more tolerant than genuine. “I was unfortunately waylaid at the gentlemen's ball, by the new Duke Erin. He rather seems to have decided that the throne is his goal, and disfiguring his fellow candidates for the hand of royalty is his method of choice. But I should never have feared, for Your Highness' eye sees past all temporary blemishes and through to the spirit beneath.”

“Really! Well, I never,” came a welcome voice from her right, and she turned her head to see Rouge calmly approach with that liquid, hip-swaying walk that she seemed to reserve for the times when she required all eyes upon her. Where did you go so swiftly, after greeting me? She drew in a breath to comment, but the bat continued speaking with a brief, amicably quelling flicker of her gaze toward Blaze's own. “I must admit, Bartleby dear, I have heard conflicting accounts of the evening's events. Baron Silver Horizon tells quite a different tale, and does so with a soldier's flair.”

Bartleby – that was his name! There was some vicious work done at naming-ceremonies sometimes, Blaze reflected – allowed a brief sneer to cross his face before he turned it into another well-greased smile. “Baron Horizon is, I fear, rather limited in his perceptions these days,” he explained, “perhaps due to the toll upon his mind, after years of heroism in defending our nation. Alas, the poor man's objectivity has crumbled, and he favours his family in all things.”

Rouge made a sympathetic noise, resting her elbow in her palm and cupping her cheek with the other. “Indeed? Ah, a tragedy. And so it falls to you, and...your friends, if I recall? To ensure the truth is spoken?” Her smile widened. “Well, one can see how objective witnesses might be thin on the ground. A blessing, then, that we have one whose home is in the air. The Ambassador from the Echidna Empire was present that night, after all,” she added, and Blaze had the rare pleasure of watching that obsequious smile pouring off Montclair's well-bred face so completely that it seemed to risk staining his cravat.

“I – was he? My goodness,” he managed, and Rouge's eyes met those of her monarch once more.

“Indeed he was. Your Highness, perhaps this might be resolved if we were to beg his tale from him?” she asked. “I'm certain he could be prevailed upon to tell us the truth of it.”

“Excellent,” replied Blaze, finding her spirits rising a little at the impish exchange. From the way Montclair blanched as if he were rapidly gaining his winter coat, she already felt she knew at least part of the truth. “If you'd be so kind, Duchess Chiros, as to ask him nicely to speak with us?”

“Immediately, Your Highness,” the bat agreed, and within a minute the enormous crimson envoy was before her. Blaze had time, with their approach, to get a good look at Rouge's face – and where her gaze drifted. Oh, dear. We are a pair of lovestruck fools, aren't we?

Bartleby Montclair seemed to have shrunk six inches in height. He began to excuse himself, but her gaze pinned him where he stood, in between her cordial greeting and her request that Knuckles enlighten them. He acquiesced readily, and with every sentence of his story, the mink seemed to vacillate more desperately between shamefaced anxiety and flushed, old-money indignation.

“...at which point the young man took up a stone. Perhaps the size of a...well. The size of his fist,” the echidna clarified, glancing down at his own enormous right hand. “He threw it, with some force, but the Duke caught it quickly, using his gift. He denounced Mr Montclair for a coward, declared him outclassed, and then spoke of his intent to – here you must pardon my paraphrasing, Highness,” he added, and Blaze gave a gracious nod. “Of his intent to become the kind of consort that an Empress needs. He framed it as a role of support, provided to a sitting ruler. He then implied that those others present, with whom he vies for your hand, have less concern for Your Highness than for their own gain, and made those his parting words. He and the pale Baron left directly, and the next I heard his name was this evening, when I heard untrue accounts of their meeting. One would think,” he added, tilting his head very slightly to put Bartleby in his field of vision, “that there is shame enough in being bloodied for one's arrogance. But to fail to learn the lesson? To lie, and paint oneself as victim instead of instigator? There lies disgrace.”

Blaze glanced between her three interlocutors once more. The mink seemed to quiver with impotent fury, caught in a lie but seemingly more upset at the Ambassador's nerve at daring to contradict him with the truth; something cynical in Blaze's heart made her wonder if the word savage was far from his lips. The echidna himself remained completely unperturbed, and the love-light in Rouge's eyes seemed to have grown a size and a half from watching the larger man step up when he was needed. She could hardly blame her friend; she felt grateful to him herself, for helping to stymie these rumours. Knowingly or not, he had performed a service for the Crown of Sol tonight. She briefly wondered if it would be overstepping her bounds, to suggest in diplomatic packages that Knuckles' eht-tlam have one of its mosaics filled in for this.

“You have our gratitude, Ambassador,” she settled for telling him, “for giving us a truthful account. Bartleby?” The mink visibly fought back a cringe at her tone. “Get out of my sight, before you're removed. Now, Duchess,” she added, removing her gaze from House Canis' last hope at her hand, giving the impression that she was finished with him and would be obliged if someone were to come and sweep him up. “I believe this gentleman deserves a dance with the mistress of the house, for his timely aid. Shall we have the music?”

“Yes, we shall,” replied Rouge, her eyes never leaving the Ambassador's, her hand reaching for his. Blaze turned her gaze aside, pleased at having returned the favour Rouge had done her at Summer Start – and a flash of blue caught her eye from the doorway. Gold eyes met green, and she felt a softness come over the world that only ever came with him.

A little less than five minutes later, pleased at having Rouge take the lead in the dancing for her birthday and draw at least some eyes away from them, Blaze found herself in Sonic's arms again as they turned across the floor.

“I've missed you,” she whispered softly, and his fingers squeezed gently at hers. “Every bright morning makes me think of you.”

“And every twilight cloud to turn lavender makes me wish I were with you,” he replied, just as softly. “But I'll be in Leon soon, I had a letter from someone else at the Palace about coming to arrange paperwork...”

“I know it,” she assured him, and she wondered if he could feel her cheek move against his shoulder, when she smiled the way she only did for him. “You may owe some gratitude to the Ambassador, by the way. He spent two or three very enjoyable minutes regaling us with the way you defended my honour at the gentlemen's gathering.”

Sonic nearly missed a step, but those reflexes were liquid lightning, and he caught himself almost before Blaze herself had noticed his startle. “He – did he?” There was a brief, pregnant pause. “Did I sound a fool, when he told it to you?”

“You sounded a hero,” she told him warmly. “Come back from death, when the Empire needed you. To rescue a princess and knock down a scoundrel or two,” she added, and the mirth in her contralto voice made him smile back. She felt it against her temple, and felt her heart leap and warm like a flame. “So long as you're confident this particular little villain shan't try any further duplicity.”

“I have two hands,” whispered Sonic, conspiratorially. “One for each of his faces.”

For the first time in what felt like years, Blaze laughed aloud.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Leon City. Sunset Park.

Aidan Rose was, generally speaking, not the sort of chap given to rumination.

Oh, certainly, he would gamely pit his inner monologue against that of any other reasonably intelligent chap (even if there were those who contended he personally possessed about enough brains to open his mouth when it was dinner-time, and no more); aware as he was that some of his more erudite moments had been more or less accidental, he nevertheless felt that it could have been much worse. He could have decided to spend his time as a literary critic, perhaps, or one of those dark-suited bowler-hatted chaps with precisely measured and consistently sober ties, whose presence at the door was always a sort of awful looming prelude to some failure of arithmetic by the Crown's tax and revenue offices.

Perhaps if they permit the poor blighters some levity in their dress, they might recover from their mathematical malaise and write down all the numbers correctly the first time, he mused. Allow them to brighten the outer man, and who knows what may bloom forth from that little joy? - dash it, I'm doing it again! It turned out that not being the sort of chap given to rumination was jolly difficult, when one had little to do but wander carefully-tended parkland and examine the work of others. He'd always had something of a soft spot for the beauty of wildness, and often went riding when the daylight looked particularly evocative, but this more artificial beauty sparked little within him. Still, small mercies – he was, at the least, not testifying in court like Amara and young Shadow.

Whoever had had the almighty cheek to launch a night assault on Blumenheim, whatever could be gleaned from the bounders they'd left in one piece – it was still necessary as a part of the legal proceedings to hear from the injured party (despite there being rather few injuries on their side of the skirmish, Shadow's decidedly transformative loss of composure having kept the staff safe while Amara's cool-headedness and military experience had allowed her to ensure the same for the rest of the family. Amara being experienced with putting things into concise words and expressing them clearly, thanks to her own experiences, she had been the obvious choice. Shadow, likewise, was a necessary inclusion simply due to his being the most likely target; he had already suffered an attack before, after all, by cad or cads unknown. If anyone were to attempt to truly end House Erin's story, Shadow was certainly at the top of the list they'd be obliged to make. Not least, as the forbidding beanpole himself had noted, because he had seen the faces of several of those present that night. He remained a witness to it, and so silencing him was likely a motive.

And so, until that business was completed, he considered the day his own. Tomorrow, he and Amara would go to the palace and speak to a legal eagle – possibly in the literal sense, he believed there were one or two among the Empire's higher-ranking clerical staff – to make the necessary changes to the conditionals for Amy's eventual inheritance. Rather exciting to think about, really-

“BUNCHES, old boy!” came a delighted roar from somewhere to his rear. Aidan whirled on the spot, though it was the kind of voice that might reach a chap from anywhere up to a third of a mile away. He searched his surroundings, but the other visitors of Sunset Park had begun parting like a sea before an ancient prophet, or a plate of garlic-buttered fish before Amy's knife and fork. His eyes widened as a magnificently proportioned fox gentleman, red of hair and beard, bore down upon him with his solemn face slowly curving into a great and fierce grin. Aidan wasted no time in mirroring it.

“Well, I never,” he breathed, striding forward and clasping his enormous old friend's hand in both of his own. It was like squeezing a leather bag full of walnuts. “Remy Latour! You mountainous old blighter, it must have been fifteen years! You haven't changed a bit!” Aidan's smile was so wide it felt as though it might creak, but dash it, a chap didn't encounter another chap he hadn't seen for three-fifths of his only child's life without being glad to see the chap in question. Certainly not so formative and bosom a chum as Viscount Latour.

“Nor have you, Aidan, you're still as full of flattery as you are of luncheons,” rumbled the gigantic and jubilant fox. “Speaking of which, have you...? - ah, I thought not, you've that same look in your eye,” he added at Aidan's wordless shake of the head. “Warning every calorie within a hundred yards that its days are numbered. Hanged if I know where you put it all. Come, I'll treat you,” the giant urged amicably. “If you've nothing pressing, that is. No? Marvellous. There's a wonderful little place by the river where they know me, I'll have them give us a nice, quiet place to sit and catch up. How's dear Amara? And little Amy? Ah, she was so small the last I saw her, but such a darling girl, and always so sweet to my Mindy...”

Some twenty-five minutes later, the two gentlemen lowered their cups with a harmonious, unified sigh of appreciation. Both veteran trenchermen, they had been equally matched in their esteem for the traditional tea-and-teacakes luncheon that might be found by two old friends savouring an unexpected reunion. The conversation, likewise, was recollections and recognition, bright well-wishing and brassy laughter. They had each had their sorrows as well as their joys, of course; Remy's wife Maeve, whom he had married rather sooner than Aidan had wedded Amara, had been lost to fever some fifteen months after their daughter Mindy's birth. Devastated and feeling hollowed out by the loss, Remy had nevertheless refused to become the sort of frightful blaggard who would treat his daughter like a stranger and retreat into the business of running his lands. Mindy had suffered the loss as much as he had, and so Remy Latour set about applying himself as the most devoted and attentive father a young lady could hope to find protecting and guiding her.

“Though it's not as though she doesn't give me the runaround,” Remy was explaining, as Aidan enjoyed a deep breath of the riverside air. The scent of coffee from within this delightful spot only added to the ambience of a brief, charming refuge from the bustle of the city, and it was only a whetstone to the appetite on arrival. Now, with a thoroughly acceptable repast within him, the relaxing nature of their surroundings had plenty of time to work its magic upon him. “She's managed to get herself infatuated with this man, d'you see. Chameleon fellow, works for the palace. She's in love, dash it, and she insists I welcome the blighter.”

Aidan considered himself rather fortunate, to be speaking to a true friend. He didn't have to conceal the smile on his face, even as Remy tilted his great, shaggy-moustached head inquisitively at the sight. He gave a brief and dismissive waggle of his own loaf, and assured his bosom pal of the truth. “Simply flabbergasted to see my own problems on another chap's face, Heaps,” he began. “Amy's gone and grown attached to this great tall fellow we found by a roadside, don't you know. He's an absolute delight to spend time with, by all means, erudite and intelligent, and...well, I shan't call it worship, but he's decidedly fond of the ground on which she walks, what? And so I faced much the same dilemma. He delights in annoying her and lighting the fuse on – well, you recall Amy's temper when she's prodded. I shouldn't be nearly so sanguine about it, if she didn't delight in it too, but I'm dashed if I can remember seeing her smile this much since she was a little girl.” He laced his fingers over his middle, and gazed out over the river. “I'm rather squarely behind the match myself, to tell you the truth. He has my blessing, and I've let him know it; perhaps that's worth considering as your next step? Talk to the young fellow yourself, and make your support clear? When a daughter like either of ours attaches herself to a chap, it's the best we can hope for that the specimen she's selected has some redeeming qualities, and humility's not all that heinous a flaw, what?”

“Well, I mean to say, Bunches. He's competent at what he does, by all accounts, and he absolutely treasures the moments he has with her. She's never come to me with so much as a sour face or a tale of an incautious word from the little purple blister. But she's my daughter, d'you see? My daughter,” lamented Remy. Aidan nodded in commiseration, even as his own use of those very words came back to him from the day he'd said them to young Shadow. “A fellow can't allow his daughter to be courted without ensuring there are some...perhaps not difficulties, nor barriers. But something, to be certain the louse approaching her is worthy. Even if she approached him first,” added the forlorn, monolithic fox.

“Thus and so, old fruit, yes indeed,” agreed Aidan, emphatically. “Apple of the eye and all that. I recall both of Amara's revered elders gave me four or five months of the third degree when they found out she'd made her choice. Her father in particular seemed to hope repeated examination would reveal something he'd missed. I still remember the dismay on his face when he realised that, no, what he saw was what he got, and it was all he would get.”

“Old Baron Rose was a damnably high-handed fellow, if friendship permits saying it,” Remy mused, sitting back in his chair. “D'you recall the first time I spoke to him after losing Maeve? When little Amy was still swaddled, and Mindy next to her, and he turned to me and more or less ordered me, to my face, to remarry for her.”

“And I had to remind him he was attempting to command a Viscount, before he opened his bally mouth at you again,” Aidan agreed, lost briefly in the reminiscence. “Alvin and Amara were appalled at him for it, after you'd left. I rather think that was the fourth time I fell in love with her, to see her stand up to the old devil even in your absence.”

Remy nodded, solemn and slow. “I must have fallen for Maeve seven or eight times, over and over again,” he murmured softly. “Funny, how one remembers nearly all of these things.”

“Nearly. But then, we're a fortunate pair, Heaps. Some chaps have wives they only fall in love with once.”

“How many would it be by now, I wonder?” Remy whispered, misty-eyed. “How many is it for you, Bunches?”

“Lost count, and still coming,” Aidan smiled gently, without hesitation. “Maeve was a true delight, old boy. You'd be the same...though you were always better at sums, so you might have kept better count, what?”

“Perhaps. And I see her every day, in Mindy.” Aidan nodded sagely to this. At the least, poor Maeve hadn't left his friend alone. The sheer resilience of the fellow was inspiring in itself, but that sort of loss would have been even more grievous. He glanced over at his friend again, and blinked as the enormous fox drew a beautifully-worked little watch-and-chain from his vest pocket to examine it closely.

“I say, Heaps, not to change the subject, but that's a rather lovely piece of clockwork,” he observed brightly. It was crafted from smooth, dark wood, with an inlaid circle of brass surrounding the glass covering its face. It looked ridiculously small in Remy's hand, but that didn't mean much; so had Amy, when she was learning to walk and had toddled over to him to be picked up. “Wherever did you find it? I should love to see about getting one for Amara, she's forever squinting at the sun to tell the time.”

Remy looked at him, then back at the pocket-watch. A smile stole across his face. “This was a gift, for my birthday a year or two ago,” he explained, disengaging the chain from his vest to offer it. Aidan took it reverently, turning it over in his hands. “A dear friend of mine had it made by a certain workshop near my home. The Tails Workshop, it's called – look, you can see the maker's mark,” he added, gesturing to Aidan to flip the object again. He did so, observing the carved image of two fox-tails close together, as if almost intertwined. “Very exclusive, they only make custom pieces. I might make some inquiries, if you like.”

“I should be jolly grateful, old bean,” accepted Aidan, happily handing the timepiece back to his old friend. “Two tails – a pair of craftsmen, then?”

“So it'd seem,” nodded Remy, with another smile. “Rather private, though, bordering on the reclusive. I've never met them myself, d'you see.”

“These creative types, there's always some oddity. I say, perhaps Amy's young man would like one. I should find out his birthday.” Remy looked back at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, yes. This fellow who follows her around. As a godfather, I'm practically obligated to press you for details, Bunches,” he added with a deep chuckle, and Aidan glanced around to lean in and whisper conspiratorially.

“Well. I believe it's hardly a secret, Heaps, but it still seems rather unbelievable, so perhaps word hasn't spread quite so far yet. But, you see – it's the last son of House Erin,” he enunciated, relishing Remy's taken-aback look.

“The last? Really? Well, I never,” the fox rumbled obligingly, and Aidan paused for a moment. Remy had no secrets from him; he knew when the man was feigning a reaction.

“There's no need to be sceptical, Heaps, you may meet him the next time you haul yourself away from Hilltop Heights and spend a weekend with us,” he encouraged jovially, nudging his friend. “It's a rather fantastic tale, really. It was this February, don't you know, before the snow melted, and I'd taken a couple of chaps from the stables out with me to give some horses a spot of exercise...”

=======>>>>=======

Shadow Erin had expected to bare his soul to a number of people, when he came to testify concerning the attack on Blumenheim. Certainly he had worked out a form of words ahead of time, to make things easier for himself when it came time to speak of his longer privations.

He had certainly not expected to describe things in a courtroom, before a council of assembled nobles and Her Highness' regent. The human certainly lived up to his name, standing tall and imposing while the Princess remained seated beside him (Shadow presumed she was observing in preparation for her own assumption of power as Imperial Princess, when she came of age next year) while queries were first made and salient facts established with Baroness Amara.

It was difficult not to sink into the memories of his own capture, while he held them this close to the surface. He felt as if he grasped some struggling, seething mass of smaller animals, a netted shoal of fish perhaps, and held them beneath his arm in a desperate attempt to stop them squirming free of his control. Normally the memories were easier to manage, but then he normally had no intent of describing them. If it came to it, he knew that most of the things he contained within him – most of the events he kept hidden – were secret only and solely because of his lack of desire to enumerate the deeds. He would, if he were required to. Even to these staring strangers. For Blumenheim, he reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time that day, he would give everything he had and everything he was.

What had been taken from him, and then granted to him in the most visceral way, had been the greatest secret of all; that felt markedly more serious a matter, and so if he were pressed on questions that drew too close to it, he would request to speak of it only in private council with Regent Tower and Her Highness. Lady Amara...he had decided he trusted sufficiently to let her know, if she wished to be present for such a discussion. He would absolutely not speak of it in the presence of anyone from another House, as the rest of the courtroom were.

Now, as the Baroness outlined the events of the attack itself, he found himself grateful that her description of his transformation had been a sparing one; both of details, and of himself. More examination would come, and in greater detail. That much was clear. Yet, she had described it as a bodily change that left him swifter and stronger for the duration, allowing him to protect our household staff as they roused themselves to join the defence – and left it at that, which struck him as a shocking amount of omitted detail. Yet it truly did contain everything of consequence to a casual observation. He marvelled again at her skill with making things succinct, and wryly contemplated that even outside of discussing the after-effects of his life's lowest point, it was a skill he had rarely taken the trouble to practice.

“...at which point Mr Erin dispatched the last of the assailants in his flight across the lawn, and met with Captain Horizon coming the other way,” Lady Amara was saying. “What followed was a reunion between gentlemen who had been family, and as such – the attack itself being effectively over – I should like to grant them their natural right to privacy in what was said. It was at this point that I moved to the rooftop, to dry-fire the cannon emplacement there; a pre-arranged signal between ourselves at the Manor and the townsfolk, as a warning signal should anything befall us.”

“In the manner that the townfolk might ring the church bell to warn of danger, then?” asked one of the assembled worthies – a trio of less-minor nobles, whom Shadow was forced to trust had been selected for some greater intellectual faculties than their peers.

“That's correct,” the Baroness confirmed, her hands clasped behind her back and her bearing as regal as any Duchess. “After the attack that brought down House Erin, we have felt it prudent to establish certain measures to warn of assaults upon our home, and to change the way our territory is run so as to ensure defence is tenable. All of these changes are as unobtrusive as possible to our people's everyday lives,” she added over a rising murmur among the dozen or so of the nobility who'd managed to finagle themselves into a seat in this court; she had privately expressed her doubts to Shadow beforehand that any of them were treating this as more than mawkish entertainment. “Each of them was informally discussed in letters to the late Emperor, His Imperial Majesty Magnus Felis, who ruled at the time – and each was granted his approval in his responses to us,” she continued, raising her voice and giving the formalised peanut gallery a diamond-hard glare that seemed like it could have come from her sister Vithica. Her implication was clear: to protest such minor changes, tempting though it might be for someone seeking to cause another family some amusing trouble, was to protest the judgement of Princess Blaze's late father. No one would dare, indeed; his wisdom had been characteristic of the royal family, but his personal might had been truly shocking to witness, and he had brooked few challenges to his decisions once they were made.

“And your – ah – guest,” began one of the foremost tribunal in this fact-finding exercise, a bloodhound whose name escaped Shadow even after hearing it announced. Such was the fog of grief and old hurt clouding his thoughts, he supposed absently, even as he came to recognise that he was spoken of but not addressed. “Rumours abound, of course, concerning his return from the dead. That he is come back to our Empire, and able to rejoin society, is a true joy to us all – even if his listing as legally deceased has left him forbidden to reclaim the seat of the lost House,” the man added, to various perfunctory murmurs of agreement from the court. As if a single one of you regrets that I cannot reclaim my family's lands, after they were divided up among you, thought Shadow bitterly.

“Rumours abound indeed,” began Lady Amara, “but while it was my husband who discovered and rescued him from the cold of winter, I am prepared to explain matters. Or perhaps you might do him the service of addressing him,” she added, perhaps a little more pointedly than she needed to. “He is present, after all, my lord. And rather imposingly difficult to miss.” Her eyes met his, and Shadow's tightened in something of a barely-there smile of gratitude. The bloodhound paused at this reproof, but the rooster next to him took up the gauntlet.

“Very well. Then we shall speak to him. Shadow Erin, formerly Earl of the Star Light Plateau and Windy Valley, formerly heir to the ducal house of Erin,” began the officious-looking chicken, and Shadow stood up straighter. “You have sworn a binding oath to speak the truth, fully and exclusively, within this court and for the duration of these proceedings. Will you reaffirm it?”

“I will,” announced Shadow, placing his hands upon the railing before him – standing up next to Lady Amara, and causing a few muted gasps at the sheer altitude he now reached. “While this court is in session, and I stand within these walls, I vow not to lie by untruth or omission.” And thus I begin making work for these poor stenographers, he noted ruefully.

“Then, Mr Erin,” and was there a hint of satisfaction in that voice? Was there a frisson of glee in so addressing a man who would otherwise have been biddable only by the voice of the Emperor or Empress themselves? “We require your story. What happened, on the night House Erin fell? What happened, for you to be taken alive? And what happened,” the fowl emphasised, drawing himself up, “to House Erin's Chaos Emerald?”

Shadow's eyes narrowed. The truth it shall be, he told himself. “I will speak of my privations,” he began. “Of my family's murder by their assailants, of ten years of torture. I will speak of freedom. But of my family's hereditary treasure, I will speak only to the Crown and its most immediate representatives. I cannot and will not discard the dignity of my forebears by speaking of it to anyone of another House. I beg the court to permit that I speak of those matters in private, with only the Regent and Her Imperial Highness,” he added, raising his own voice over the murmurs of disappointment and protest that swelled at his demarcation of that boundary. “Surely, none but the Crown may demand those particulars.”

There was a sharp tap of Regent Tower's gavel, to bring the room to order; he had leaned sideways a little, to put his head together with the similarly-inclined princess. They conferred briefly, and exchanged nods before the human spoke. “The court will sustain this compromise. By the principle of the law, if not actually written in the letter of it, the whereabouts of a Chaos Emerald are not to be discussed with other Houses than the one protecting it.” Another, louder rap of the gavel accompanied his stony bi-coloured gaze as he stared down the court, and the muttering subsided.

Shadow inclined his head in gratitude and acceptance, and took a deep breath. “The attack itself,” he began, “came in early September. It was only a day or two after my mother, Duchess Ginger Erin, had celebrated her forty-seventh birthday...”

If they wanted a tale of pathos and sorrow, he resolved, then he would give them the truth. And may they weep at it.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Angel Island. The Hidden Palace.

My goodness, Her Gleaming Majesty thought to herself. He certainly provides us with options.

The latest messages were in; her ambassador to the Sol Empire had provided updates, regarding some minor political upheaval in her fellow monarch's lands (My cousin, she thought to herself in some amusement – as all royals on the world below addressed themselves as such, despite holding absolutely no blood relation unless one dynasty or another had become problematically over-represented; she thanked her lucky stars that the Crabsburg family had only risen to international prominence among the close-knit but outwardly isolationist cluster of kingdoms beneath the Western seas).

Would that her attempt to reach out to Spagonia had gone as well. Embroiled as they were in their bitter war with the Sol Empire, they had adopted a rather foolishly closed-minded approach to other political relationships. Her agents within their nation had little to report at the best of times, insular as the place was; there wasn't quite open hostility to those of foreign origin, but echidnas were still an exotic enough sight that there was little trust, and so little gossip came her way.

The nation's leader, Il Doge, had received a deputation in the same manner as Princess Blaze. His response, however, had been quite disgracefully impolite, and the deputation had nearly lost two members in the subsequent overland escape and pursuit by Spagonian soldiery. The prospective ambassador, a woman with the oath-name of Shade, had the great fortune to be gifted in a way that had saved their lives – the ability to move completely unseen under cover of darkness, no matter how little care she might take with concealment. Moving by night and hiding by day, they had returned to their pickup point and been met with a rescue party to rejoin their people. Shade had been courageous enough to volunteer herself as a potential ambassador to Holoska, and preliminary briefings would begin when she and her chao had rested.

Another matter, however, complicated the position of her envoy to the Sol Empire. It was one that seemed nearly inevitable; the Empress couldn't recall, for the moment, who had said “The only impossibility is that all will go as expected”. Whoever they were, she had considered having their words inscribed over the main door of her scryers' halls. Knuckles, who had served her father with distinction, devotion and humility, had a problem that hovered somewhere between silly, mundane, awkward, and endearing. He professed himself to have fallen in love, and wished to ask her permission to act on the development, along with a humble request for any wisdom that might be shared regarding conflicts of interest. She felt a smile cross her face at the man's upright and honest approach, proving she had been right to send him to speak to a sister nation in good faith. There were few more honest and scrupulous braves in her employ, and not for the first time, she found herself glad she'd sent more devious people along as his retinue. With the other political agendas at play in Sol, they may yet be needed.

And what was this at the end of his missive, about placing himself 'at some personal risk to assist Princess Blaze in a matter of ducal succession'? Had he become involved in a duel of some sort? Still, he knew how to handle himself...and his phrasing had succinctly explained his decision. Assisting Princess Blaze meant helping the Sol Empire to remain stable, and Tikal knew that a man with a gift like Knuckles' was uniquely positioned to determine how that might be achieved. He would do what was best for the feline monarch, and so his efforts would aid the Echidnas – and perhaps earn another decoration to personalise his eht-tlam, when all was done. She quickly annotated his missive with swift pictograms for Conditional approval in all things; educate where needed and advise caution, and rolled the scroll back up. Placing it in the hands of the waiting courier, she sent him off with her usual nod of respect to her Empire's logistical staff; she would leave it up to her diplomatic staff to add whatever guidance they may, on how to keep his loyalties from interfering in his love life.

A soft chuff of laughter escaped her, as she mused on it. Son of the Island, find you a lady who can fly, indeed. It'd seemed almost too good a joke, when his retinue's reports had mentioned how often the bat duchess had visited with him; that he was conscientious enough to bring it up himself only cemented her faith that it was worth permitting him this. As well, it would help to establish deeper ties between their nations, and so even practicality spoke to the wisdom of it.

Yes, indeed. She sat up a little straighter as another bow brought a new emissary, with another issue to address. But you hold court now, Empress. Reflect later. She focused her attention on the report offered her, of the Azure Lake's fish stocks and their population stability. Knuckles would, she was sure, be fine.

=======>>>>=======

“Are you certain it's here, dear?”

“Perfectly certain, Aidan, it's a book,” replied Lady Amaranthine. Inwardly, Amy felt she had to concede the point. They were in the library.

“Nothing on this shelf,” reported Shadow, from across the room. “Though there's a beautiful first edition of The Once And Future Kingfisher. I should like to read that, when I have the time.”

“So long as we dust first,” complained Amy. In their division of the room, hunting a tome of obscure Imperial etiquette, she and her mother had taken the floor-level shelves while the gentlemen had busied themselves up ladders – or, in Silver Horizon's case, simply hovering. The pale hedgehog glanced down at Amy's words, with an abashed look.

“I wish I'd been more devoted about my fine-control,” he lamented. “I could have brought the dust up myself, and disposed of it. But with so many delicate books...”

“Think nothing of it, old boy,” Aidan reassured him jovially, from atop his own ladder. “It's been said by some scholar whose name slips my mind, that a chap must eat a bushel of dirt before he dies. We're practically performing a public service, getting our share in early, what?” He withdrew a book, and caused a minor fall of the stuff onto Sonic and Amy below him as the new Duke tottered past beneath the weight of eight or ten heavy volumes.

“Could one of these be what we're looking for?” he asked, having paused to shake his head vigorously and liberate himself. Behind him, Amy took a few hesitant breaths, but could hold it no longer.

“wahFNERT-”

“HAH,” cawed Shadow from across the room, as Sonic slowly turned in amazement to stare at the pink heiress. She gave him a look of pure, unfiltered don't-you-dare, before moving to the end of the shelf and leaning around it.

“Risible, is it, dear husband?” she asked icily. “One day, I shall find out why you stifle your sneezes. Your blasted cousin is sworn to silence-”

“We hedgehogs treat a vow seriously when we make it, my starlight,” noted Shadow mildly, coming around the corner with a few books carefully stowed under each arm. Gaia only knew how he'd managed to pick them up in the first place, Amy absently noted, before focusing herself on the task at hand.

“One would think that in sickness and in health might imply restraint, when finding humour in the sneezes of your wife.”

“My darling Ammeline,” Shadow replied to her, in a voice so low and affectionate it was almost a purr – leaning down to half-whisper the words in her ear as she felt a maddening blush rise up to her cheeks. “The joy you bring to my life cannot be restrained. I tried for months, when first you found me, but all was in vain. Every day we spoke made me love you more ardently, and every day we didn't, I found your absence a greater tribulation.”

“I shan't speak to you again until tonight if you insist on this behaviour, you escaped chimney-sweep's brush,” she gritted out, fighting for control of herself. He knew exactly what he was doing, the barbarian.

“Shadow, dear, if you could bring those over to join Sonic's discoveries, we might have a shortlist of candidates,” called Amy's mother, with timing that straddled the border between long experience and pure miracle.

“Certainly, Baroness,” replied her husband, striding happily forth as if fuelled by Amy's embarrassed glowering. She shook her head, working the worst of the dust out of it – they would all need to bathe, tonight – and moved to join the family as they gathered around the large reading-table appropriated for their retrieved books.

“The Genealogies Of The Houses Of Hedgehogs was lost with your father's manor,” the older lady explained, beginning to check the spines of the books before her one at a time. “But it's a requirement to either produce or create a comprehensive record of the family tree, for a Duke taking his seat and finalising his acceptance of the title. We Roses have our own copy, somewhere among these. A living document, last updated with Sonic's birth. I believe it may even be in your mother's handwriting, Sonic dear,” she added, and the blue hedgehog's lips parted with a question already forestalled by her raised hand. “Yes, of course you may see it. If only we can find it. Preferably before my sister-in-law arrives,” she added with some chagrin.

“My aunt Destra,” supplied Amy quietly, feeling rather than seeing Shadow roll his eyes on her left. “Her boys are – I believe five and thirteen now, Mother?” At the maternal nod, she continued. “I should caution you that she takes a rather hands-free approach to motherhood. The last time they visited, she lost track of them both in a single afternoon.”

“Inside the manor?”

“Oh, yes,” Amy confirmed readily, to emphasise the farcical facts. “Your cousin was obliged to glue the older boy's mouth closed, to stop the flood of impertinent questions.”

“Hands-free is rather an understatement, angel,” her husband noted, with an expression one might call sulky if it weren't on the face of Shadow Rose. “I still maintain that her abandonment of them was the only wise decision I saw from her that week.”

“Yes, well, she certainly decided the wise course was to go home, once you smiled at her, you brute,” replied Amy, giving him a smile that was half challenge. “But she seems to have decided a little courage is worth introducing her sons to the new Duke Erin, tangentially related through her husband as she is. You might expect her to have coached them in flattery, so have a care.”

“I should be surprised if she's successfully coached them in washing their hands correctly,” Shadow retorted. She shot him a look like a thrown bag of lead shot, and looked back at Sonic.

“She will certainly attempt to ingratiate herself, and her sons, with you. I suppose it's a blessing that this shall happen here first, where you can fumble a response or two without causing serious insult. But this is something you must prepare yourself to deal with.”

“Currying favour from, ah...” It was clear Sonic didn't want to say lesser nobles, even in purely legal or hierarchical terms; the words likely left a bad taste in his mouth even without needing to speak them aloud. He was that sort of a man.

“From those who'd quite like to be seen with you smiling at them,” Amy offered, and he nodded grateful acceptance. “I question the wisdom of her attempting to have her sons help her. Cholmondley can't be convinced to do anything without the offer of a sweet of some sort at the end of it, and Stanford has decided that he has a lifelong grudge against our own Constable Lightfoot.” Shadow gave a low laugh at that, and Amy gave him a cool look. Her husband's disdain for obstreperous children was one thing, but laugh though he might, this was an important stage in a young boy's growth.

Sonic was adrift in a sea of others' shared knowledge, and without a raft in sight. “Did...Lightfoot catch him stealing an apple? Rewriting a signpost? Throwing clods at townsfolk?”

“Nothing so villainous, old egg,” Aidan explained from the other side of him, having checked down the spines of one set of books. “The lad's thirteen years of age, and among his father's most trusted employees are a trio of birds. One of whom is a rather attractive swallow, who has doubtless had an involuntary influence on the boy. And who often sends affectionate letters to the Constable, thus earning the eternal, burning wrath of a youth who loves unreservedly.”

Sonic blinked, his brow furrowing. “He despises the Constable...because the Constable has the eye of this swallow lady?”

“And being thirteen, he likely mingles the fervent wish for her heart with the bitter knowledge that it can't be so,” agreed Aidan. “Every boy of a certain age seems to go through such a phase. With myself, I seem to remember giving my heart quite impossibly to a queen in a storybook, when I was something like eleven years old. She led an order of knights, I recall, and stood between her people and some frightful peril or other...” Across the table, Amy's mother gave her husband a warm, glowing smile. He wisely returned it, but only briefly, so as to continue. “Yourself, Sonic? If you've a story worth sharing for the laughter.”

Sonic busied himself with the next book on the stack, eyes downcast, but Aidan's jovially and entirely-too-engaging manner could erode that little embarrassment from the young Duke in moments. With a self-effacing huff and smile, he gave in. “When I was in Sanctuary Temple, there were few ladies at all, and every one of them was sisterly. But the prayer-hall,” he paused, his eyes going distant. “In the prayer-hall there was a stained-glass window, depicting an angel. For a time, I think I loved that image. When the sun was high, in early afternoon, she seemed to fill the whole room with golden light. I thought I would never see anyone so radiantly beautiful. And then when I came to Leon, I found I was wrong,” he added, returning to the here-and-now with a bright, lopsided smile that looked much like a younger Shadow might, without the weight of the sorrows that had scorched themselves into the taller hedgehog. Amy felt her heart clench at the brief glimpse of what Shadow might, one day, have been. Dismissing it firmly, she turned and took the hand of the husband she loved with a brilliant smile of her own. If he was at peace with the man his trials had made him, she could be no less so.

It was a pity her aunts weren't so wise.

=======>>>>=======

“A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” the green hawk greeted Sonic, with what could only be called an engagingly cheeky grin. Or perhaps a cheekily engaging one, some part of him reflected, but he smacked it gently aside and shook the man's hand, then repeated the gesture with the towering, bowler-hatted albatross next to him.

“It's wonderful to meet you both at last,” he replied, “and I look forward to meeting your sister, also. I've heard many things about Alvin Rose's rogues, from my cousin and his wife. And the redoubtable Constable of the village, also,” he added, in the grip of an urge to devilment that he couldn't have refused if he had a sword to his neck. There was a tense moment where the two men's faces froze, and then the taller of the pair broke into a broad smile. Behind them, there was a scoff – one that mingled impatience, dismissiveness, and imperfectly-concealed frustration. Ah, he thought, as his own smile widened in response to both the sound and the albatross. There's the lovestruck one.

He didn't say it aloud, though; impulsive nature or no, Sonic knew the value of taking one's time with a good joke. There was something about Blumenheim, it seemed, that made its inhabitants into a veritable bane for those who took themselves too seriously. A lovesick youth, certainly, was in for a bad time of it. Especially when the boy pined for a lady whose actual paramour was a respected pillar of the community here.

“I do beg your pardon, Mr Babylon,” he began, his expression telling both the birds every thought in his head. He could never have stopped it. Fortunately, the feathered duo only exchanged a glance before Sonic's smile found its echo in Jet's own. “Either you are much younger than you look, or there's a fellow behind you to whom I haven't yet been introduced.”

“Right you are, Your Grace,” rumbled Storm dutifully, stepping aside – and, yes, Sonic could see that Amy's further hasty briefing on the conditions of Alvin Rose's household had been accurate. While Stanford Rose was a walrus like his mother, the look that the hawk gave him verged on brotherly.

My uncle Alvin is a much less present father than my own, in the lives of his children, Amy had said, as his own father – my grandfather, Adamant Rose – taught him to be. They've suffered a lack of discipline as a result. While he understood that the personalities and priorities of Alvin and Destra Rose had led them to marry more out of convention and conformity than any real sentimental attachment, it left them in something of an awkward spot when it came to the attitudes imbued in their young sons. Since beginning to work on certain matters with his father's most skilled employees, Stanford had apparently shown signs of growing maturity and reliability; while the better qualities of these two men had begun having an effect on him, so too had the attraction of the sister among the trio. The fact that Miss Wave Babylon had excused herself quickly to go and visit her beau must surely rankle with the boy.

“This is Mr Stanford Rose, who'll be staying here with our sister and the family to learn a little bit about business while we're escorting yourselves, sir,” began Jet, with that puckish smile still upon his face. “Young Stan, this gentleman is His Grace Duke Sonic Erin, soon to rule Green Hills and likely our own place too. - We're from Labyrinth Lake ourselves, sir,” added Jet to Sonic, laying it on rather thickly in the hedgehog's opinion. But then, they were putting on this little show for a lad who seemed to have little subtlety in him yet.

“Pleasure to meet you, Stan,” Sonic greeted the boy, extending a hand. “If I've your leave to call you that.” The boy gave him an openly wary look, before shaking his hand; Sonic gave him a firm nod. “I've yet to meet your dear mother, of course, but all reports are that she'd be happier if we got along well. Or at least, if she hears that we did,” he added with a wink. “And happy mothers tend to leave a fellow alone, from what I recall.” White lies, of course – he remembered nearly nothing of his mother. But verisimilitude required it.

“Agreed,” ventured the boy, evidently pleased to have a stranger speak to him as an adult – as a fellow man, who understood the problems a man of thirteen must face regarding insistent mothers. “Though she'll likely speak to my younger brother, also.”

“Don't you worry about that, young Stan,” rumbled Storm cheerfully. “We'll keep little Chum occupied, teaching him the parts of horse harness and such. Easy to keep him content, when you talk to him like a big lad.” Stanford nodded, oblivious to the irony, and met Sonic's gaze again.

“Then it's good to meet you, Your Grace,” he declared confidently, “and I'm grateful for your help with my mother. Forgive me – I'm not certain when it is you're planning to set off with the brothers here...?”

“Myself, my two cousins, and Lady Rose the younger will be leaving tomorrow afternoon,” replied Sonic, giving the two birds a glance to confirm it. “Once I've settled the signature business in Leon, I mean to pay a visit to Green Hills. I'm afraid you'll be finding yourself in the company of your mother, your brother, the Baron and Baroness, and Miss Wave Babylon for a week or two, at the least.”

Stanford's eyes lit up. Sonic didn't bother to hide his own doing the same. Amy was right, he decided. Matchmaking was fun...especially if it involved fair odds of someone being pushed into a pond. “Have you seen the trout lake?” he asked, as if the thought had innocently occurred to him just now. “Quite an interesting landscape feature, especially with the decking on its far shore. Quite a romantic spot, I'm told, though of course there's no lady here I might take to see it...”

Oh, yes. They would have stories for him, when he returned.

Chapter Text

FL 1182: Green Hills. Erin Ducal Palace.

It had been a beautiful evening. Somewhere, a gently-dissociating part of Shadow Erin noted, it probably still was.

But not here.

There hadn't been time to determine what had happened, or why, or even who. Their attackers wore no uniform that he could spot. There had been no alarm horns until it was too late; the first hint he had received, in the private meeting-room where he and Miss Robotnik had been speaking, was when the bugle had sounded in a distant but well-drilled call. Quickly picked up by other watch stations even as it had quickly been cut off, the signal had done its work, but far too late. When Shadow had run to the door and opened it, a stranger in dark padded leathers had been on the other side with a drawn poniard. Only Shadow's gift had saved him, and as the knife had thrust for his belly he'd flickered out of existence to reappear behind the man and grasp at his arms. A gritted-out Miss Robotnik, if you'd be so kind had encouraged the shocked young woman to lay their assailant low with a steel paperweight to the temple, but she had refused to avert her eyes when – perhaps callously, but out of practicality – Shadow had cut the man's throat.

No man should be driven to such things and then forced to carry the weight alone, she'd told him, and with a grateful nod he had led her toward the main banquet hall. It was one of their most defensible rooms, with thick stone walls to keep in the warmth against the cold Green Hills winters, and common wisdom among the House of Erin had long held that it would be a superb secondary fortification, were they to come under attack and be cut off from any more defensible positions.

First, though, they must reach it. Along the hallways they trotted as quickly and carefully as could be achieved, passing signs of recent violence that ranged from arterial spray on a wall to the unmoving bodies of servants or housecarls caught by surprise. The clashing of blades caught Shadow's attention, and he bade Miss Robotnik wait around a corner before he slid around it with his purloined, crimsoned blade at the ready.

His father's voice rang out to him, as the older hedgehog withdrew his greatsword from a leaking body at his feet. “Shadow! Thank Gaia, boy – is the young lady-? No! Superb,” the steel-grey older man called, as Shadow beckoned Miss Robotnik around the corner to join them. Beside Duke Finn Erin stood his most loyal bodyguard and friend, Baron Dionyse Horizon – the sea-green hedgehog shooting Shadow a level look and laconic nod of greeting, as he hefted his own blade and knocked it gently against the shield he also bore, to free it of some rag or other.

“Father, who-” he began, but a crash from beyond the two older hedgehogs halted all conversation as a window broke inward and two more invaders slid through. A crossbow bolt whirred along the hall toward them, but halted against empty air that rang like a bell; Shadow knew his uncle Dionyse's gift could take the momentum of a thing and scatter it, diffuse the energy of its movement through the air to be expressed as sound. But he knew, too, that it couldn't be done for long. Gritting his teeth, he flickered toward their enemy and appeared in their midst to take the crossbow of the man who hadn't fired. His grip was practically unresisting, unprepared as he was, and so Shadow could swiftly wrest it from him while the other struggled to reload. A pull of the trigger, and he dropped the empty weapon to strike the floor along with its owner; the poniard was across the other's throat in a swift red line before the first had ceased to gasp.

Shadow hurried back toward his father and uncle, bracing himself against the disapproval he saw on both faces. “I know, damned foolish,” he began, to rob them of their reproof. “Every second counts. Father, tell me all.”

Duke Erin's eyes held his son's for a tense moment before a slow nod relaxed him. “Very well. Your mother and your Aunt Terra have gathered most of the guests in the northern ballroom. Thankfully there aren't so many, and Terra has her hounds with her. We've been making sure there are no others here before we join them. We can't seem to find Josephus or Lilian anywhere they should be, but we haven't the numbers to look further yet. We must hope they've found somewhere to wait unseen, until they can make their way to us. But if they've brought siege engines, then one fortunate impact could wipe the place from existence...and us with it. So you must take the younger ones, son,” he added, “all you can find. We've no idea if they have agents among the staff, so take care not to turn your back on a housecarl until you're sure of him. Likewise any serving-staff you find without one of these scum bleeding at their feet, or trying to bring them down.”

“Father, are you seriously directing me-” began Shadow, but Duke Erin held up a hand, and that deep-grey handlebar moustache – a fixture of the man for Shadow's whole life and as much an element of Home as the scent of the sea off the Azure Coast when the wind was from the west – twitched impatiently. The thick leather glove rested on Shadow's shoulder, and for a moment he was ten years old, coming to his father before the hearth and begging for heroic war stories again.

“You've spent today speaking with the voice of a Duke, my boy.” Duke Finn Erin's voice was rough with emotion, before he was more than halfway through the sentence. “There aren't words for the joy it gave me, to see you take that responsibility and rise to it. You wear a father's pride and love, just as you always have, and earned anew besides. But you must be aware that tomorrow you might bear the title itself, and carry blood on a Duke's hands from defending your home.

“It isn't how I want all this to pass to you, Chaos knows,” he added, squeezing both of Shadow's upper arms with his hands. Behind him, Miss Maria Robotnik's eyes shone with tears, from the realisation of what she witnessed now. “Nevertheless, if someone wishes to grasp carelessly at us, they shall find their hands torn and bleeding for it. Take who you can save, my son. Get yourselves to the main banquet hall, where the stone's stout and there are weapons on the walls, and protect your people with your life. Your station demands it, and if I know you, so must your conscience. I shall do the same with those we've gathered elsewhere. Gods willing, your mother and I shall join you before morning. If not...then, gods willing, it shall be many years before you join us.”

Shadow blinked stinging eyes, and his vision blurred. His father's eyes crinkled in a smile, and then strong arms were about his shoulders. He returned the embrace as tightly as he dared, dropping the knife for a moment to cling to the older hedgehog in a desperate, helpless plea for six or eight years of his life to reverse themselves – to place him back at the table with his lessons for the day, puzzling through them with his mother's patient encouragement and the promise of a song or a pastry once he'd finished. Then he let go, and his father did the same.

“Go now, Shadow,” Finn Erin told his son. “Find your people, plant your feet, and stand for them. We'll meet again, I promise you. The only question is when.”

“Then go to my mother,” Shadow retorted, through his tears. “And be as good a husband as you've been a father.”

“As if I'd dare otherwise, pup,” joked his father gruffly – and then Uncle Dionysus' voice drew their attention. More attackers had found the broken window, and three or four were climbing through. “Go, boy, and let me remind these fools what they face,” the Duke added, and Shadow took up the knife. A gesture to the silently-weeping Miss Robotnik brought her quickly to him, and they returned the way they'd come, to continue their journey.

Behind them, the baritone of Shadow's father rang out once more. Duke Finn's gift was of a peculiar kind; when he lifted his voice in song, his physical strength grew with it. So long as he was singing, he was mighty, and he had composed a number of brief nursery rhymes in Shadow's childhood to playfully lift his son and nephew around in one hand each. What he sang now, Shadow had never heard before, but it poured through the air over distant-sounding screams from his enemies.

"Before we had the palace walls,

House Erin had our spines,

But now our home stands great and tall,

Defying flame and vines.

Fools assail what love has built,

And we with blades rebuke.

So come, rush in and die, filth!

I was a man before I was a Duke!"

=======>>>>=======

“That was the last I ever saw of my father,” Shadow finished, the words spilling into the rapt, appalled silence of the courtroom. Ten years of intervening suffering had not dulled the memory as much as he'd expected it to, now that he spoke it aloud; it took all of his self-control to master the tears that stung his eyes, and to keep his voice level.

“Miss Robotnik and myself continued to the main banquet hall, as directed. We encountered little resistance along the way; it only occurred to me later that my father's singing was as much a lure as anything else. He was drawing them to him, that we – that I – might live. Shortly before we arrived, we were assaulted again, by another two of our attackers; I killed one, and might have been killed by the other had Lady Honey Horizon, my cousin's wife, not come upon us and brought him down with a length of chain. We ascertained her safety, and then moved on, and were fortunate enough to come upon a few maids and housecarls who had concealed themselves in a side-room. With them in tow, we arrived at the main hall and began barricading ourselves in, but the clamour of our preparations proved too great for concealment. We were quickly found, by other forces encircling the ducal palace; Lady Horizon bade us defend her along with the maids while she began to use her gift, and when the southern garden's beehives emptied through the hall's windows to swarm our attackers, I believed we might have a chance.”

“Evidently, you did not,” noted the bloodhound before him, and an intake of breath rippled around the courtroom at the callousness. Shadow's eyes narrowed, even as others threatened to open. Lady Amaranthine straightened as if someone had slid a steel rod down the back of her coat, her own eyes wide with fury and fixed on the canine before her. The rooster to his left, and the beetle to his right, leaned nigh-imperceptibly away from him at the sudden focusing of silent, shocked, white-hot rage.

“Forgive me, sir,” Shadow began, before he could quite stop himself. “I had believed I was the only man in this room who had been present, and survived to tell the tale. If you were indeed there, and indeed if you were then it must have been as one of those who attacked my home, I shall happily cede the dock so that you might make your own testimony under oath. However, I have sworn to omit no truth, and so must make it clear what my next course of action would be.” The implied threat drew a few catcalls and protests from the watching crowd, and the gavel from the royal bench rapped out fully three times before Commander Tower was obliged to live up to his name and rise to his feet.

“There shall be no violence in, or around, this courthouse,” he announced, thunderous and indignant. “This is not a criminal trial. It is an investigation into an assault on the home of Baron and Baroness Rose, and preliminary questioning of Lord Shadow Erin has thus far yielded little. The tribunal will cease to make inflammatory remarks,” he continued, glaring at the bloodhound. “That includes yourself, Lord Calceter. The witness, too, will imply no further violence. If anyone in this courtroom is later found to have been present on either of the occasions discussed today, they will be dealt with according to the law. The tribunal will make no further inquiry as to the fall of House Erin – Lord Rossington, your curiosity shall not make this decision for the court!” he added, his voice rising above the rooster's protest. Rossington glared for only a moment before acceding. “This investigation will adjourn for today. Tomorrow, private testimony will be taken from Lord Shadow Erin, for the ears of the Crown alone, concerning the fate and current whereabouts of House Erin's Chaos Emerald – if these are even known to the witness. A reminder, that all sworn witnesses remain under oath until this investigation is concluded. Are there any questions? - Yes, Lord Erin?” the human added, finally reducing the volume of his diction to a more reasonable level at Shadow's half-raised hand.

“If it pleases the court,” began Shadow, “I would like to beg permission to read results from any investigation that took place into the attack on House Erin. I have gone this long without knowing the final fates of those who did not die before my eyes. I wish to know what there is to know, concerning how my family died.”

There was a brief pause. A new voice spoke up, and Regent Tower's head snapped to one side; Princess Blaze had risen to stand next to him. “The court will grant your request,” she told him, simply – an announcement, and a command for those others who heard. The Regent's face was unchanged, but he agreed readily with a single nod. “To deny you these answers would be to needlessly prolong your suffering. Speak with the archivists, and they shall oblige you.”

Shadow bowed his head in gratitude. He found he did not trust his voice, even as the Regent's gavel rapped once more to adjourn.

=======>>>>=======

Of the attackers' bodies, the darkest-clad and lightest-armoured had been the first to fall; others lay atop them, where they'd been put down by defenders within the Erin ducal palace. The first wave must have been a stealth contingent, dark-clad and coming over the palace walls in a noiseless but utterly savage intrusion. The main gates of the outer wall had been open, but undamaged by ram or fire; undoubtedly the work of the initial intruders, the investigation had concluded. If the enemy had had agents within the guard or staff, the stealthier contingent would have been tactically redundant.

Shadow had expected little of these reports, but had dared to hope much. The result before him lay between the two, and he could hardly say it pleased him. When the archivists of Leon Palace had pressed a copied sheaf of papers into his hands, and when Lady Amaranthine had returned with him to the Rose townhouse and afforded him privacy, he had been conscious all the while of an anxious, near-febrile anticipation. The urge to action had no respect for social niceties; ever understanding and as thoughtful as her daughter, the Baroness had quickly departed with the intent of an hour or two of walking the city, and Shadow had been left alone.

He had seldom felt the word more keenly.

With the report's pages laid out before him, skimmed and then separated and read in detail, there was little to stop the grief from swallowing him. The clinical, impersonal language of the report was no barrier; it had occurred to him that a man reading a doctor's report upon the natural death of a parent might feel much as he did now, with the sorrow and loss growing between and through the black-and-white of the words and paper like soft red flowers through a grating. Ammeline would advise him to allow himself to feel it, he had no doubt.

Ammeline. He ached for her presence, uselessly and hopelessly, in this moment of utter grief. With his arms folded on the desk before him, and his mouth concealed against them, his slumped form must truly be the picture of forlorn pathos. Certainly, were she here, she would run to his side, lay a hand upon his shoulder...oh, he longed for it. And yet this must be done alone; he would have little time to read and understand everything, were he comforted. She would take up the afternoon with solicitous attention to his mood, he felt – he hoped? – but the form of her hypothetical assistance eluded him, and he was forced into vague, repetitive wishes for her to somehow appear. Even that was a desire he knew he must deny himself, even if he were able to bring it to fruition. While he languished and ruminated, Ammeline remained at Blumenheim and learned the running of her home. If he wished to deserve a place beside her, the turmoil and self-pity within his breast must remain there unspoken. His respect for her must be paramount, as must his trust in her.

Besides, capitulation would bring no relief. He had no way to contact her, even were he to give in. Temptation to do the impossible, in the end, was no temptation at all. And so, drawing in a shuddering breath, Shadow returned his focus to the papers before him. Swallowing the acid burn of his grief, and feeling its sting beneath his eyes where the salt of tears gently but inevitably reddened his flesh, he gathered himself as would a barely-living soldier with a mile yet to march, and trudged resignedly onward into the blizzard of names and fates on the paper before him.

The investigators had been thorough, where they could; identifying those lost in the attack had doubtless taken some time. Every staff member had been named, and likely buried by their families where possible. There were names here that he recognised; Sylvie and Bettie Cook had been two paradoxically-named maids at the palace whom he had come to know through simple, friendly conversation. They had been among the terrified staff he'd brought to the main banquet hall, in the last few minutes of his freedom. He, Miss Maria Robotnik, and Lady Honey Horizon had stood in defence of them, along with a handful of less familiar domestic staff and two or three hastily-armed housecarls with injuries of their own. But they had all fallen, in the end.

Piercing wound to chest, read the description for each of the maids. That was all he had of their final moments. He hadn't seen it happen, had been laid low with a blunt blow to the temple by some filthily grinning brute of a wolf who'd appeared to be leading that prong of the attack. Some part of him rebelliously attempted to force his imagination into motion, to picture the terror they must have felt when their last defender was brought down, how they would have clung to one another as sisters when the end came. Unceremoniously stabbed, once each, as the garden staff might casually pull up a carrot for the basket.

Of the others found in the main hall where he had fallen, he had seen few final moments. Miss Robotnik had been the first of the defenders to die; valiantly though she had fought for a home not her own, her courage and resolve had seen her take a back-handed slash to the side of her neck; she had lived perhaps eight or ten heartbeats more, even as Honey had stood astride her failing body and screamed defiance into the face of the wolf and his encroaching, ever-advancing subordinates. Even as their enemy was assailed by swarms of stinging, enraged bees at Honey's command, she had woven lethal, bright nets in the air with the arcs of her blade, and nearly brought him down once or twice through sheer savagery. The ruff of fur upon the canine's head and down his neck, so pale grey as to appear light blue, had lost a few strands to her blade with how close she came.

Whoever their assailant had been, Shadow recalled, his sword had been strange. He knew of blue steel, of the rainbow ripple found on blades made by the arcane techniques of the Robotnik workshop, of the swirling patterns in Damascus steel that seemed to make it near-indefatigable against any other kind of blade. But he had never seen an orange sword before. Whatever it was made of, the hand-and-a-half weapon had moved like a blade only half the weight its size suggested. It had beaten Honey's desperate, furious shortsword parries aside, and slid between her ribs as if she weren't there at all. His own vengeful, roaring interruption had only left him spattered with the warmth of her blood, as it had left her body and come around on a backswing for the wolf to strike him down with its pommel.

There had they fallen together, and there all but he had remained. The monument to their bravery and sacrifice was this, and nothing more: Piercing wound to chest. Slashing wound to carotid artery. Thus were they memorialised, whether their families had reclaimed them or not. Of himself, of course, there was no mention. At this moment, he very nearly wished – irrational as it was – to see himself upon the list with them.

Reports from other parts of the ducal palace had mingled the bleakly conclusive with the frustratingly inexplicable. His parents had been found in the northern ballroom, along with Silver's; their fathers had fallen atop one another, and their mothers further behind as a last line of defence. The children of the staff, at least those housed within the palace, had been found among those huddled at their backs. None had survived, and at this Shadow had drawn in another shaky, burning breath that bordered on a gasp. All of those little lives...of course his parents and Silver's had made a living bastion of themselves, at the last. To do otherwise would be to abandon the very soul of their duty to the people they led. All had been riddled with arrows; knowing Uncle Dionyse, the man had likely pushed his gift to the limit. Their attackers had simply sat back and reloaded, it seemed, until he was overwhelmed and his gift could halt nothing more.

Josephus and Lilian Erin had been something of an enigma. They had been found slumped against the inside of one of the palace's servant entrances, an unremarkable back door close to the stream that flowed through the grounds. It had faced no blows from without; his aunt and uncle had been found at the centre of a semicircle of corpses. They had killed over a score between them, defending the doorway...from the inside. They had fought, apparently with the ferocity of monsters, until the hallway was blocked by the encroaching dead. The Earl and Countess of Marble Valley had given their lives to prevent the enemy from reaching that door.

Caught up as he was in his grief, Shadow never thought to question until years later why their attackers had been so doggedly determined to do so.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Leon Palace. The Chamber of the High Council.

The life of a reigning monarch was, largely, a never-ending cavalcade of responsibilities and claims on Blaze's time.

Nevertheless, quite aside from the nature of her station and the necessities of authority, it did occasionally have its redeeming points. One such moment loomed before her now, and her expression remained placid only through long experience and a youth spent in practice for meeting any circumstance with equanimity.

Her assembled Ducal Council had begun their respective – nearly interlocking – tirades the moment she had entered the chamber, and she hadn't needed to parse the individual voices and words to know the root of their displeasure. She had seen the headline of the Lion's Voice this morning, after all; the capital's most popular newspaper, it was largely known for its personal-interest takes and reliability on the facts. When the Voice printed a story, it meant there was little to no uncertainty on the very letter of what was written. That would, Blaze mused, make Their Graces' current discomfort severe indeed, from the front page Duke Fabian Canis held up amid his undirected protests.

“HOUSE ERIN SHALL STEP UP”

Restored Heir Of Shattered Duchy Issues Confident Declaration For Princess' Hand

“I must say, while I've no regrets about maintaining propriety at my birthday celebrations, this sounds like something I should have liked to see,” mused Duchess Chiros, that coy half-purr in her voice as she perused her own copy with a theatrically studied nonchalance. “Of course, we had the story from the Ambassador, did we not, Your Highness? And yet his delivery was rather dry. This account has far more romance to it, I think. Have you chanced to read it?”

Ambassador Knuckles' telling had been quite romantic enough for Blaze, detailing as it did the manner of Sonic Erin bloodying a man's nose for her honour as well as his own. Quite the precedent to set, she reflected happily, but kept the sentiment from her face. “I have not,” she replied simply.

“Hardly worth a glance,” scoffed Jacob Squamis, refusing to look at it while Blaze took her seat at the head of the Council table. “Rags like this would print anything if they thought it would lure a reader or two.”

“Really, Jacob? One wonders that they've yet to be caught in a lie,” Herman Coleo smiled, and Blaze found herself glancing at him from the corner of her eye, without turning her head. The man was a gifted and veteran schemer, and the less involved he seemed to be in a given day's problems, the more closely she tended to suspect him.

“If one of you will be so kind as to loan a copy,” she suggested, holding out a conciliatory hand until Danica Avis reluctantly placed hers in it. A quick skim of the front page's text proved that she had, indeed, been unsubtle in her favours; the article discussed the known timeline of Sonic's public appearances, and his proximity to her for each. Apparently he had been seen running vertically up a church steeple on Brightwater Boulevard one morning, before vanishing across rooftops in the direction of Cracked Cannon Street; his appearances at formal events were documented with equal diligence, and likewise her dancing with him on each occasion.

“Her Imperial Highness' favour toward the young Duke, soon to be reinstated to his rightful position in the eyes of the law, seems to have been nearly instant,” Blaze read aloud. “The repeated associations, and the implications of these, have left many in the Empire enchanted with what appears to be a romantic fable come to life, and still others speculating that the Princess may have already made her choice regarding marriage. Well, they certainly seem to have been watching closely,” she remarked, glancing up at the variegated scowls facing her.

“This baseless speculation about Your Highness and this hedgehog is beneath contempt,” began Vincenzo Lapin, to various nods and murmurs of agreement. “It besmirches the honour of House Felis, to permit such gossip. Some form of retraction would appear to be in order-”

“And where, exactly, is the untruth?” Blaze interrupted him, and the room fell silent. “Sonic Erin is a delightful man, pleasant, handsome, and thoughtful. On every occasion of our meeting, he has treated me with respect and forbearance, and been rather charming along with it. Perhaps I shall court him,” she continued, with open challenge in her voice. “I wonder, what would the response of my Council be, should I do so?”

“Unthinkable,” announced Fabian Canis, immediately. “It isn't to be countenanced. He has no connections, no lands, no experience at managing so much as a territory-”

“He is a ducal heir,” Blaze cut him off, with a look like a whip. He fell silent, and one or two others on the Council subtly froze as a realisation seemed to come to them. “Your concern has been my marriage and the succession, has it not? My discovery of any gifted candidate, under the Rite of Divine Beneficence, is perfectly legal. This method of finding a consort is the reason for said Rite. The unforeseen benefit being that I have found a candidate whose presence is genuinely pleasing, and who concerns himself with my wellbeing and happiness.” Which I would not have found from any of the options with which you all attempted to trap me.

“Your Highness,” began Duke Lapin, “We must still beg you to consider how this may affect your support, with an eye to your accession. If your nobles have no confidence in this, this interloper in established politics and families, we may be forced to withdraw our support, for the sake of the Empire's stability...”

“Really, Vincenzo?” Rouge Chiros cut in, from across the table. She remained the picture of languid, if mildly entertained, composure. “After we all announced our intentions to the populace, this past spring? The Council made our concerns plain to Her Highness, and Her Highness made them plain to the people. We feared a succession crisis, should the title of Empress be granted before a suitable partner has been secured; Divine Beneficence has ensured that the word suitable has a very clear legal definition, and this young man meets it in all particulars.”

“And you are right, Duke Canis: he has no connections. No influences upon him,” Blaze added, her eyes darting to the others around the table. Now there was distinct and noticeable discomfort among them; she hoped they were beginning to realise their years-long error. She hoped to savour the creeping fear in them, just this once, that they had consistently and thoroughly underestimated the woman they had aimed to turn into a puppet ruler. “And few of the people of our Empire are truly foolish. If support from the Ducal Council is withdrawn, they will wonder why. They will notice that the withdrawal came suddenly, upon the news that my choice of consort is not from a family over which the current Council holds sway.” Her glare had sharpened, and challenged each of them in turn; one or two leaned back nearly imperceptibly in their seats. Evidently, they had thought themselves more subtle than they truly were. Such was the cost of complacency.

“We also seem to be forgetting,” noted Rouge, resting her cheek in one palm and evidently enjoying herself, “that the next time the Ducal Council meets, we shall be seven, not six. Duke Erin has his title, and should be arriving in the capital this very morning to legally take possession of his lands once more. He shall be joining the Council, naturally.” Duke Lapin opened his mouth, and Blaze's eyes were upon him instantly.

“More objections, Your Grace?” she asked, frostily. His mouth snapped shut, but Duke Squamis took the chance to speak.

“Your Highness, returning these lands to House Erin is inadvisable,” he began, his tone conciliatory. Blaze felt her eyes fight to narrow at him. Even now, you speak down to me, as to a child. “The peoples of these lands have only just settled into their new lives as the subjects of others. There would be great administrative upheaval, should we reverse this decision. Surely these people deserve some peace.”

You snivelling coward, Blaze spat, internally. How dare you throw such a paper-thin excuse before me. Even as you and your peers begin to realise how little you've fooled me, you resort again to the trick that never worked. A smokescreen is nothing to a wielder of flame, mendicant.

“The late Duke Finn Erin,” she began in a frosty, lecturing tone chosen to illuminate the tranquil fury beneath her controlled exterior, “was a beloved and trusted leader, as was his mother Duchess Brigandine before him. Aside from the last ten years, the people of those lands have been proudly led by the hedgehogs of House Erin for more than a dozen generations. To claim bureaucratic inertia as a reason not to return those lands now...would seem disingenuous.” She let the silence linger a moment longer, before adding, “The law is clear. Those lands belong to House Erin, as the heir has reached his majority and claimed his title.”

“His cousin was listed among the dead, but Duke Sonic only as missing, prompting many to wonder how the different verdicts on their fates came to be,” read Rouge aloud from the paper in front of her, taking a quiet delight in prodding the situation with a stick. “There is no officially noted reason why the former heir was marked as deceased when no body was found – oh, I do beg your pardon,” she added, glancing up at the stony faces surrounding her. “I didn't mean to interrupt, the passage merely sprang out at me.”

At least three of your peers look as if they wish to do the same, Blaze carefully refrained from saying. “My decision is made,” she announced, without inflection. “I shall court Duke Sonic Erin, should he be willing. Now, let us move on to matters of governance...”

=======>>>>=======

“My dear Duke Erin!” cooed Duchess Chiros, as Sonic, his cousins, and Lady Amy Rose arrived within the palace. The two Murines escorting him moved apart and took up stations at the walls as she sashayed over, sharing delighted greetings with the young hedgehog and his party; she was all smiles, even in this formal capacity overseeing Sonic's acceptance of his lands. She was also alone, which surprised all of them.

“I was led to believe Duchess Avis would be the witness for the proceedings,” began Shadow, but the bat waved away his observation with a flippant roll of her eyes.

“You recall correctly, sir,” she reassured him, gesturing languidly to one of the other doors out of the room. “Duchess Danica Avis, a delightful lady, to be sure.” Her face spoke the words her voice could not, for fear that the topic of discussion might hear her.

“Is she well?” Sonic asked dutifully, and she rewarded him with a warm smile.

“Quite well. You may have seen her, Duke Erin, on some occasions where I was also present; the day you were made known to us as a gifted man, following that unfortunate fire in the bakery, she and I were present before the public stage where Her Highness granted you the Headwater. Though I suspect that even then, there was room for only one lady in your thoughts? Little wonder that your mind was on other things.” She wagged a finger before him, still all theatre, even now. “The Princess shan't be present for our task today, and so you may feel at liberty to pay attention to the lady helping you with it. Danica Avis is harmless enough,” she added, dropping her voice to a whisper so that Sonic, Silver, and the Roses would be the only ones to hear. “She may be sponsoring a few rivals of yours for the Princess' hand, but she knows that her family's chances for this were never excellent. Her duty is clear, and she will perform it with you. - Baron Horizon,” she added, turning to Silver and addressing him directly, “your presence with your Duke is permissible regardless, as a bodyguard.”

“I'm gratified to hear it, Your Grace,” replied Silver, easy and respectful at once with her rank.

“I believe that tomorrow, Commander Sir Abraham Tower of the Solar Armed Forces would like to speak with your Duke in strict confidence,” she added, tilting her head meaningfully to emphasise the seriousness of the matter. “Regarding certain matters of statecraft. I understand that the palace guard will be extending an offer to discuss your experiences in the field of combat, and compare notes? Ah, and so they should,” she smiled, at his nod. “Practicality demands it, I believe, in their line of work. And here is our missing Duchess!”

Danica Avis immediately struck Sonic as the most visibly world-weary bird he'd ever encountered. The smell of strong tobacco hung about her, and her left hand still held an ornate pipe of dark wood – freshly knocked against the wall outside, no doubt, to remove the ash it had contained. She nevertheless seemed sanguine about what was to come; perhaps she had simply grown resigned and accepting of his presence, and was feigning the best-foot-forward attitude with which she introduced herself, or perhaps she truly was appreciative of his arrival. He could at least hope for it.

“Well, now,” the tired-looking puffin began, in a voice roughened by her habit but no less friendly for that. “Our newest Duke. I must say, young man, if you're to join our Council I hope you've a clever head on your shoulders. Too many damned fools in it at the moment, likely including myself one or two times. Duchess Danica Avis,” she added, shaking his hand – pointedly treating him as an equal, with businesslike aplomb. Sonic rapidly decided he could do worse than to mirror it, and returned the gesture.

“Duke Sonic Erin,” he replied, with a ready smile and a gesture to his companions. “My cousins – Baron Silver Horizon, who's sworn to my protection, and Lord Shadow Rose and his wife Lady Amy Rose, one day to be Baron and Baroness of Blumenheim.”

“Lovely to meet you all, sirs, madam,” the Duchess replied, inclining her head amicably. “Now, if you'll forgive me – there's rather a lot happening today, so perhaps we should move straight to the heart of things, to release us all the sooner? Excellent. Then, Duke Erin, Baron Horizon, if you'd like to come this way...”

“And I shall entertain Lord and Lady Rose,” smiled Duchess Chiros, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “I hope your signature is a clear and firm one, Duke Erin. You'll be heartily sick of it, when you've finished. Come along, now, my friends, we've lots to speak of,” the bat finished, as Sonic and Silver were led away.

=======>>>>=======

His whole arm hurt.

It seemed implausible, that his shoulder should ache from the movement of a pen. Nevertheless, the burn of exertion seemed to have taken root all the way up his shoulder. Silver had offered to show him a few tricks with a hot towel, when they returned to the townhouse; as a career officer, he too had learned the havoc wrought by paperwork upon the ligaments.

Still, it was done. His lands were once more his own. He stood without his Headwater Medallion, but bearing now the crest of his own family. Like all the Sol Empire's ducal coats of arms, it was elegantly simple; a crimson base in the shape of a brilliant-cut gem, outlined in deep gold and embossed with the silver fleur-de-lys and sunburst of sworn service to the Crown. Beneath it gleamed the motto of the Erin dynasty, in carefully crafted, smoothly-finished dark inlay: GRASP NOT IN HASTE. It was a warning about hedgehogs, and about life.

The day had come. He had walked the halls of Leon Palace today as His Grace Duke Sonic Erin of Green Hills, Master of the Marble Valley and of Blumenheim, lord of all territories from the Azure Coast in the west to the Great Turquoise to the south, and to the Mystic Caves and Labyrinth Lake to the east and north. Behind him and to his left had stood his older cousin, Silver Horizon, in the position of a bodyguard; the older hedgehog's experience at marching allowed him to stay there, when Sonic maintained a reasonable indoor pace. It seemed unreal, this finalising of his dreams; he had thought of this day for so long, and to have it now – and more besides, as he hadn't imagined in his younger years that Silver had still lived – seemed nearly dreamlike.

“I hadn't realised that my lands were to be so extensive,” he explained absently, rubbing his triceps and flexing his leaden fingers where his hand now rested atop the Rose townhouse's dining table. “I suppose it's all to the good that my gift continues to expand, so as to see it all.”

“Your first tour should be in a carriage,” noted Amy, as she seated herself. “I believe you said there was a gift to that effect?” Sonic nodded, and elaborated as Shadow took the fourth seat place next to his wife.

“Duchess Avis informed me she had taken the liberty of having a suitably ornate carriage painted with House Erin's livery,” he explained as the maid placed his plate before him. “Thank you, Madeline – Her Grace hinted it's something of an informal tradition, when a new Duke or Duchess inherits, for the one witnessing their signature to provide something of a present.”

“I rather feel as if I should check it for sabotage,” Silver remarked, and Sonic cracked a smile at his put-upon expression.

“I think I'd feel a little safer if you did, cousin,” he admitted. “Supposedly, they expect it to be finished at some time tomorrow. I've an appointment with Commander Tower, and then I'm invited to an informal dinner with the rest of the ducal leaders and Her Highness.”

“I recall my father intimated there was to be a banquet, when I took the rank,” Shadow observed, taking up his fork with a nod of gratitude to Madeline. “To be hosted at Erin Palace.”

“I'm told they had to dig into the more distant past for the protocol about that,” Sonic supplied. “Quite a few generations have passed, since a new Duke had anything to celebrate without an existing palace in which to do it. Supposedly, when my new home is completed, it shall be then. It began as something of a housewarming tradition, and simply grew to encompass the occasion of taking one's inheritance.” He studied Shadow's face, the whole time he spoke; even now, he feared resentment from his cousin. Shadow showed nothing but amicable interest in the conversation, no sign of rancour that Sonic should rise to the ducal seat while he remained the heir of a barony. I shall have to do something about that, he resolved – surprised at the thought as it occurred to him, but immediately committing to it. Reasons came together in his head, great and small, but he knew that he should have to consult some books concerning the what and the whom before any action was taken.

“Duchess Chiros did mention some friction on that topic, that we might expect to see at your first Council meeting,” Amy added, with her first few mouthfuls already lost to the void. “Supposedly, there's been rather a scramble. Those of your lands that were divided among them, some have been trying to delay handing back.”

“Mining, quarries? Timber resources, perhaps?” asked Silver, his fork halfway to his lips. “Do they hope to squeeze resources from the land while they can?”

Sonic felt an uncharacteristic surge of possessiveness in his breast. A scowl crossed his features as he spoke up. “The scoundrels. Those lands are mine,” he began, and Shadow glanced at him in approval. That, at least, Sonic was grateful to notice.

“They are,” the taller hedgehog confirmed. “An excellent attitude for a Duke to have. Those lands hold your folk now, Sonic, and as of today you are their named and chosen protector. They have become your responsibility.”

“And these greedy swine – I beg your pardon, Lewis,” added Sonic, and the impertinent page gave a phlegmatic shrug and smile as he passed behind Shadow, “mean to gather what resources they can, to take back to their own lands? Is there anything that can be done to stop it?”

“Well, now,” Amy began, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. Shadow turned to give Lewis a meaningful nod, and the pig began quietly ushering the rest of the staff from the room until only the four hedgehogs remained. “This is what's suspicious about it. By law, when the lands transferred to you, any infrastructure within did the same. That includes any equipment or stations they set up for such work. They've had plenty of time, knowing you'd regain the land, to dismantle and remove those places and tools – and they would generally save more in doing so, than they would gain by continuing to mine or cut until the last moment.”

“They stand to lose money by doing this,” Silver realised aloud, and straightened up. “Then their objective isn't the gathering of raw materials?”

“No, brother,” Shadow growled softly. “Ammeline and I believe they seek something else entirely, and this attempt to delay matters is purely to grant them more time to hunt for it where they will.”

“What could they possibly seek?” asked Sonic, his eyes narrowing. “What of mine could they be hunting for?”

“Something they shall never find if they have another thirty years,” Amy announced smugly. Shadow gave her an affectionate smile, and nodded to his cousins.

“It lies nowhere in your lands, Sonic,” he added. “This is a secret known only to myself, Ammeline, Baron and Baroness Rose, Her Highness, and Commander Tower. And now, to you two.” He gave Silver an apologetic look. Sonic hardly blamed him; if it were this serious, he must have kept it from Silver – intentionally or otherwise – for some time between their first reunion and today.

“Tell us, brother,” Silver urged him gently, unconditional forgiveness in his voice. Shadow's eyes slid closed, and his head sank a few degrees in muted relief before he met their gazes again.

“They seek the Chaos Emerald belonging to our family,” Shadow announced, gesturing to the coat of arms glittering on Sonic's breast. “And it lies nestled behind the muscle of my heart.”

Sonic's fork jangled as it hit the floor.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Leon City. High Court Audience Chamber.

If my soul is to be bared here, Shadow thought with no small degree of chagrin, I shall at the least be comfortably seated.

It was a well-appointed little room, designed with privacy in mind; a little more than half the size of the bedroom he had occupied at Rose Manor since February, its walls were lined with bookshelves as much to deaden sound as to provide reference materials for any discussions that took place within. Faintly audible from his lavishly upholstered seat was the rushing of water; the room took advantage of the courthouse's riverside position, by having a tiny artificial tributary diverted to pour past this room and add its sound to everything else with which a prospective eavesdropper would have to contend. Only he and his two interlocutors were present; Baroness Rose had gently asked if he would require her presence, and explained that only his request would stop her from respecting his privacy and remaining absent from this interview. He had gratefully affirmed that he would survive it, and thanked her for her forbearance.

Thus isolated, Shadow found himself in the unpleasant position of having nothing more between himself and the most disagreeable conversation he had ever had, without being shackled. Still, there was no navigating around this task. It must be dug through, like a high ridge in the path of a new trade route. Resigning himself to its inevitability, he spat on his metaphorical hands and hefted the pickaxe with which he would begin.

“I believe I am prepared,” he stated, raising his eyes to meet those of the two figures seated across from him. Her Highness – soon to be Her Imperial Highness, when she reached her majority and began to rule – had composed herself in one chair, and on her right sat her human regent. Sir Abraham Tower was a mightily framed man indeed, and had a lifetime's military experience; this would at least leave him familiar with harrowing reports of one sort or another.

“As are we,” the Princess replied, sharing a brief glance with the human. “Much of what might be tangential to this conversation will also be required for the wider court, Mr Erin. However, to reiterate the meat of your statement – with which we are in full agreement – the whereabouts of House Erin's Chaos Emerald is something only the Crown may bid you disclose. We shall not ask for details not directly related to that question, but we will require that you answer it as fully as you can.”

Shadow had been considering a glossing-over of some of his tale, considerate to the sensibilities of a young lady of high breeding. The expression and bearing of the Princess immediately informed him that this would be both unwise and unnecessary. This was a young woman fully prepared to face every trial and difficulty involved in the running of her nation; he knew the determination in those eyes. He flattered himself that he had seen it in mirrors, long ago. He could do no less than respect it, and her, by providing the full tale.

“I understand, Your Highness,” was all he said, in hopes that his tone might relay the rest. “I shall begin where I left off, yesterday. I was laid low, left alive, and taken from the hall in which I had stood and failed to defend my people. I know this only because I awoke elsewhere.” The memory squeezed at his mind; of the cold agony of arms left too long upraised, of finding himself stripped of all clothing and left cold and unprotected, with his wrists shackled above his head. Of weeping like a child, alone in the dark and utterly broken.

“I recall that it was dark, and that I remained sore from my defeat. My utter failure. It weighed upon my thoughts to the extent that it took me quite some time to consider where I might be,” he continued, nearly tonelessly. “It took rather less, after that, for my captor to appear and introduce himself. I was in the hands of a masked and quite theatrically cloaked jackal, naming himself Infinite to me. The first time I saw him, he took the opportunity to gloat at my plight, and began indulging what would turn out to be a quite fearsome habit of grandiose rambling. Indeed, I thought him merely mad, at first. He sought many things, knowledge chief among them; he claimed to pursue an understanding of gifts, and of how and why Chaos' benison came to some, and not to others. He later gave me reason to think, from hints he let slip through his ravings, that he had succeeded in creating a gift in at least one young individual.”

Commander Tower had straightened up at those words, and Shadow nodded a little. He could hardly blame the man. Such blasphemous endeavours could, if truly successful, spell an untenable – or catastrophic – situation for any organised defence force. “You react much as I did, my lord regent, at the time I heard it. Yet he was careful, at least, never to hint at the identity of the attackers who had delivered me to him. Instead, he focused largely on my usefulness as a healthy male specimen, upon which he would labour with the tests of another project. He sought immortality, and had made some strides toward it; he had developed a number of elixirs which would cause the body to heal from wounds or injuries at a greatly accelerated rate, and took pleasure in telling me I would need them as he was forcing them down my throat. He spoke the truth.” Shadow took a rather slower breath than he might strictly have required, and closed his eyes against the memory. “The moment he was certain his potions had taken effect, he approached me with a knife and began to hurt me. Just to measure my new healing, he told me...or, well. I was rather too noisy at first, for him to make himself heard. Once he'd gagged me, he was free to indulge himself once more in the sound of his own voice. I did heal from those wounds, within a day, and he was well pleased with it.”

“Not mad after all, then,” observed Sir Abraham, and Shadow opened his eyes to meet the man's gaze with a slow, serious shake of his head.

“My lord, he was entirely mad...just not mistaken. No sane mind could conceive of the plan he detailed to me, a day at a time, cutting at me and measuring my healing, before attempting different treatments to elicit different results. He hoped to make it possible for me to heal nearly too quickly to kill, so that he could take the final step himself and render his body immune to death itself. Once he had what he needed, he would ensure I suffered carnage too great for even that rate of recovery, and leave me in a shallow grave somewhere.

“This went on for a number of...years, I do believe,” Shadow continued, forcing himself to step back from such rumination and take a broader view once more. “Some of the injuries were too severe to heal within one day, and so he varied what he did, and where, and how often. My prison was, I concluded, entirely underground; there was no light when he was not present. I lost track of time, and soon enough gave up counting what I guessed were days. It was some time after that point, that Infinite approached me with my family's Chaos Emerald in his hand,” he intoned, and all the royal bearing in the world could not stop the Princess' ears from pinning back against her head at the realisation of what would come next.

“The first cut was deeper than anything he had done before,” Shadow explained, touching a fingertip to a spot that – had Infinite been only mad enough to try, rather than to succeed – would bear a truly horrific scar, directly beneath his sternum. “He had restrained me quite handily, and so I had no recourse or way to struggle when I felt his hand cup my heart and lift it out of the way. He had encased the Emerald in...some clear material. I have no idea what it is, or what its purpose might be, beyond ensuring the edges of the gem shan't tear at me with the motions of my body. But the tests went on after that, and he only grew agitated when he realised I was beginning to sicken.”

Shadow took another deep breath. Commander Tower took pity upon him, and poured from a pitcher of cool water to place a full glass before him; he took it up in a hand that moved too slowly to conceal his attempt to stop shaking. “My thanks, my lord,” he noted, with a polite incline of his head and a swift-as-he-dared mouthful of water. It tasted as sweet as any other mercy he had ever received, and he swallowed it gratefully.

“Whatever power a Chaos Emerald contains, it was acting as a slow poison when placed within me. At that point, perhaps sensing that he risked losing his experimental subject, Infinite began to try more outlandish combinations of treatments. More potions, curses, carving sigils into my flesh with knives of bone or of bog-iron, or of obsidian such as we hear the Echidnas used to use. I continued to fade, and might have succumbed had he not arrived one day with an odd piece of black stone. He claimed it had fallen from the sky, like a dying star, and come to him through some nefarious channel or another – but he acted with haste, to cut into my chest once more and place the stone within me alongside the Chaos Emerald.

“I have no sure knowledge of what happened next. I knew a terrible pain in my limbs, an ache and a burn, and then in my tail. I felt every bone from my jaw to my fingers and toes begin to change...I remember wonder in the one eye I could see, beneath his mask. I remember seeing his fear, when I felt the shackles give way. I remember my hand striking at his chest, feeling his ribs give way beneath me...and then I remember nothing but cold. So far as I can tell, I underwent the transformation that appears to have replaced my gift, and tore myself free of my restraints. My first instinct was to ensure his death, and then to escape. I believe I pulled down a wall, or something similar; I recall screaming, and not only mine or his. A girl's voice, perhaps, or a child's. I am certain I killed no one else on my way out, but all other details are lost to me. My next clear memory is of a bedroom in Rose Manor.” He took another mouthful of water, to break the flow of words into their appalled silence. “And so, Your Highness, my lord regent, that is where House Erin's Chaos Emerald is hidden. How he laid his hands upon it, I know not, nor how close he came to his final goal.” He met their eyes, and his own glowed with soft but unmistakable crimson rage. “Nor do I know who handed me over to him. But the day I find out, I shall begin along the path that ends with them sharing his fate.”

=======>>>>=======

Amy Rose was beginning to understand how her mother maintained such magnificent physical shape.

While Amy and her father were more emphatic about their appreciation of a well-crafted plateful, Baroness Amara Rose was hardly hesitant to lay into the calories herself. Her husband's occasional diets were absent from her own life, largely because of her martial training and continuous drilling of sword forms with the ancestral steel. The majority of her energies, however, were spent in the thousand and one daily tasks of ensuring Blumenheim's needs as a community were properly seen to.

In the three days since Amy had been placed at the head of the figurative table, she had found herself assailed by a series of what she would normally have called other people's problems. She was rapidly learning the humility of proper leadership, and while the lesson chafed, she did pride herself on having risen to the challenge and accepted that when she held the reins, all problems were at least tangentially hers.

The sick cows in Jeremiah Slopes' fields, Stablemaster Cuthbert Aurum had informed her, were well in hand; a pair of gentle lads from Rose Manor's stables had been dispatched to ensure that round-the-clock care and watchful eyes were present, while allowing Mr Slopes and his wife to tend to the rest of their lands. The trio of youths scrumping apples, on the other hand, had been an eye-opening experience; for the first time, Amy found herself in the position of punishing mischief, rather than perpetrating it.

The issue here, she'd mused to herself, was that it was technically a felonious act – and their constable was still abed, laid low at the eleventh hour by the weight of a falling bear. Having put forth the heroic effort necessary to refrain from remarking The bears aren't even ripe until autumn when commiserating with the injured lawman, Amy rather felt she had done her part for the cause of good manners; the course of wisdom was to prevail upon him for advice in the matter of teenaged tearaways conducting low-level orchard raids.

When she had knocked at Constable Lightfoot's door, she had found it unlocked, and a burly, deceptively fluffy-coated canine fellow just inside the door with what looked like an equally burly cudgel resting at his elbow. She knew him as Terence Hardbrook, brother of the maids Grace and Mercy, and the eldest son of the family who owned and ran Blumenheim's inn. He stood up as she entered, and touched his forelock. “Morning, Miss Rose,” he greeted her, with mixed deference and cheer, and then registered her glance at the weapon he'd automatically taken up. “Beg your pardon about the club, we're just making sure Constable Lightfoot's nice and safe, y'see. Miss Temme says best to leave the door easy to open, while he's laid up, but he did have time to say there's still a risk about his safety, from someone or other. So if his door's to be open, we're making sure it's watched.”

Amy smiled broadly, nodding her approval. “It's a sound plan, Terence. How is he faring? Is he decent to speak with?” The sheepdog glanced at a door along the hall of the cottage, and wobbled a hand in a so-so gesture.

“Best let me check, Miss, won't be a minute. Any blighter comes in that door looking for trouble, I'd be obliged if you teach him his manners,” Terence added with a grin, and Amy took up the heavy oaken club where he'd rested it against the side of the chair.

“Emphatically, Mr Hardbrook,” she assured him playfully, settling it across her shoulder as if it weighed no more than a riding crop. The man disappeared into the room at the end of the little hall, and reappeared perhaps half a minute later looking rather more dubious.

“Well, Miss, he's awake and he's dressed, right enough, but the medicine Miss Temme gives him for the pain leaves him a bit delirious. I couldn't promise you'd get three sensible answers from him.”

“One is all I need, Terence. Thank you very much. I'll be out of the way shortly,” she added, handing him the weapon and stepping into the bedroom. Inside, the room smelled strongly of herbal medicine, and in the bed – dressed as promised, but beneath a thin sheet for the cosy surroundings – sat Constable Lightfoot. His pupils were the size of coins.

“Constable?” Amy asked softly, approaching carefully as the rabbit stared down at what appeared to be a half-written letter in his lap. “Pssst! Jonathan!” she added on her second try, and his ears perked up while he looked blearily around.

“Who's that?” he asked, as if his eyes presented him with conflicting accounts of what stood before them.

“It's me,” she offered, taking the chair by the bed. From the towel draped over the back of it, this was likely where Miss Temme sat when acting in her capacity as his nurse.

“Me?” That seemed to genuinely puzzle the policeman for a moment. “...I thought I was me,” he added plaintively, looking up at her with such utter confusion she was forced to stifle a giggle. The man was truly out of his wits, then...but his breathing didn't seem to pain him, and at this moment it seemed an acceptable compromise. Amy had witnessed the stertorous breathing of the barely-conscious mess he'd been reduced to immediately following his injury, and the sober, quietly troubled expressions on the Babylon brothers when they'd returned with him half-supported between them. Agony was to be avoided, and this seemed to do the job.

“You are,” was all she said, to reassure him. “I've got a bit of a legal question I hope you can help with. We've three boys who were caught stealing apples from the orchard, and I'm afraid I have no idea what the punishment is for it.”

“I should ask a policeman, if I were you,” Jonathan advised her solemnly. Amy fought the urge to rest her brow in her palm.

“You are a policeman, Jonathan,” she told him, and he perked up a little.

“Oh, good, as long as someone is,” he remarked happily. “How many apples?”

“I...does it matter?”

“Does what matter?” he asked, in genuine perplexity. Amy let out a sigh.

“Perhaps I should come back tonight,” she suggested, and he blinked slowly – one eye slightly behind the other, which she felt could only mean trouble for any attempt at a useful conversation. There was a knock at the door, and it opened a crack for Terence to put his face through.

“Beg pardon, Miss – Jon, mate, it's me.”

There was a short pause, and then the triumphant light of a conclusion came into Jonathan's eyes. “Aha, you can't fool me,” he told the sheepdog, “I'm already in here.” Another heartbeat's silence accompanied his glance at Amy. “Both of me.”

“It's Terry, Jon,” the other man informed him patiently. “There's a letter arrived for you. Miss, if you'd be kind and leave it at his bedside for when he's lucid?” Amy nearly sprang to her feet, moving to the door to accept the envelope.

“Of course, Terence. You were right, I think it's rather better if I come back later,” she added, placing the missive on the nightstand and returning to the door. “Do we know when we can expect his wits to make an appearance?”

“He's generally quite put together about dinnertime, Miss, the nurse has him timing the doses so he's got the brains to eat regular. If you've a question to ask him, it might be worth writing it down so's he can see it? He'll put that before writing his letter to Miss Babylon.”

Amy's ears perked up immediately. Immediately. This prodded at certain instincts she had honed to a razor edge. “He's writing to her?”

“Quite ardent he is, Miss, or he would be if he could balance his courage and his caution while he wrote it. He's had about a sentence and a half so far, but we live in hope. We're all egging him on to be nice, don't fear,” Terence added with a broad smile. “He's got a sort of notepad out here, if you'd like to write your question, and when he's put an answer down I'll make sure it gets to the manor? Lovely, let's just find a pencil here...”

Amy surrendered to the flow of gentle nonsense, with a resigned smile. This was her home, and even the lunacy was charming. She couldn't let it down, so long as she gave it her whole heart.

=======>>>>=======

“I should preface my next statements,” began Shadow, “with a caveat that when I enter the state in question, my awareness is somewhat reduced.”

The courtroom regarded him with stony silence. Evidently, having gathered for morbid gossip, the onlooking nobles would settle for little else. Still, he had experienced some catharsis with the outpouring of his story that morning, and it permitted him to approach this more public setting with rather more equilibrium.

Still, it ached. He would restrict himself entirely to those matters relevant to the thrust of the inquiry, whether or not other questions were asked of him. Sir Abraham had spoken to him quietly, after the more private interview hours earlier, and expressed his respect for Shadow's...he had used the word resilience. Shadow's response had been a quiet nod, rather than the bark of laughter that had threatened to make itself known. After all that pain, all that time spent wondering whether his soul was surgically removed in that dungeon, or if it was just buried under the layers of agony, and might yet resurface and allow him to offer it to her...resilient was the last word he should use to describe himself. He had never felt so brittle, within himself. Even his physical frailty, earlier this year, had granted him the boon of leaving no time to worry about his psyche.

Now, they demanded that he take it out and show it to them. The regent had been correct in his decision yesterday: this was not to be borne. He would feed no explosion of grief and fury to the gossip mills of Leon's nobility. His dignity had been carved anew, in his new form, after the madman Infinite had shattered it and ground the pieces to dust. He would prize it all the more, now.

“And so your testimony will naturally be limited,” noted Lord Rossington, practically scoffing the words, as if he believed perhaps one of them in three. Shadow chose not to play the game.

“It will,” he agreed. “In that state, I remain fundamentally myself. I make the same choices I otherwise would. In the moment, I am present and lucid. But after it ends, when I...revert...my memory of it fades. I experience it with the same hindsight as one might recall a vivid dream. Some aspects stand out – a coloured tapestry, a sound or voice, a location. But these are islands in fog.”

“And what do you recall, of the night of the attack?” asked the bloodhound named Calceter, almost solicitously. It seemed the man had resolved to make no repeats of his prior poor attitude. Acceptable, and as close to an apology as Shadow was likely to receive.

“My first memory after going to bed is the sense of an intrusion,” he began, matter-of-factly. “I awoke to the sound of climbing-tools against the stone of the balcony outside my bedroom window. I recall my hand upon the throat of a figure in a dark cloak, and his scream as I threw him back off it. My next recollection is...the curve of Baroness Rose's blade. In the hallway outside my bedroom. We hurried, I believe, to the room of Miss Ammeline Rose, her daughter. The Baroness entered first, and directed me to the staff quarters downstairs, to protect the domestic help from any further intrusions. I recall blood, and screaming; I am reliably informed by the staff themselves that four intruders fell to my hands...and to my teeth.”

“And may we see those teeth, Mr Erin?” asked the beetle lady, dark-hued and so far quiescent, to Calceter's right. It felt an unusually pointed request. But then, I do have unusually pointed teeth, Shadow thought.

“Is my current state, my normal state, relevant to the inquiry?” he asked simply. The beetle turned to make her case to the royal bench.

“I seek only to establish the extent of the changes wrought upon Mr Erin's...everyday shape,” she noted diplomatically. There was a pause, and Sir Abraham conceded with a suspicious nod.

“Mr Erin, if you would,” the human conceded, and Shadow felt the eyes of the room upon him as he opened his mouth. It hinged wider than it ought, he knew; a ripple of shock passed through the room as the nail-sharp, conical teeth were exposed. He left it thus for only four or five seconds before pressing his lips together once more, but he knew the damage was done.

“Thus, and so,” noted the beetle. “We can therefore imagine that when Mr Erin was in his altered state, his teeth must be similarly changed, and capable of quite savage work.” Shadow glanced at Lady Amaranthine, whose eyes had narrowed in suspicion. Good; he hadn't imagined it. The shift from second person to third, when speaking of him, meant the lady was no longer addressing him; she spoke to the courtroom, now. To the crowd. She was laying groundwork...though for what, Shadow had little idea.

“My next recollection,” he said aloud, to bring things back onto a safer track, “is of my cousin, Captain Silver Horizon. I am informed he witnessed me pursuing the last of our attackers onto the lawn, and dispatching him there. Shortly afterward, I reverted and lost consciousness. This is all I personally recall of my actions.”

“Unfortunate,” observed Lord Rossington, and here at least the motive was plain. He sought mawkish titillation, and little more.

“More fortunately, sirs, lady,” Lady Amaranthine interjected, rising to her feet, “I was present for much of Mr Erin's transformation, including its ending. I can corroborate his testimony, and fill in those gaps which might be relevant to this inquiry. However, I submit that the change of his shape is itself rather less pertinent than the identity of those who met their end at his hands that night.”

“This tribunal shall decide what is-”

“This court shall decide what is pertinent to the investigation,” interrupted the Princess, her voice like a knife wrapped in silk. There was no denying that Rossington trod upon thin ice, and he wordlessly bowed his head in concession.

“However, the offer for further testimony is accepted,” remarked the beetle woman, and the Baroness' eyes locked back onto hers.

“Yes, Lady Caliche, that is your prerogative,” Commander Tower affirmed, grudgingly. “This will be the final testimony given regarding the attack, by the defenders, until the interrogation of those taken prisoner is completed and their own remarks can be read. The victims of this assault have been victimised enough.” His tone was iron. His meaning was clear.

“Then if it pleases the court, I shall begin.” Baroness Rose stayed on her feet, as Shadow sank into his seat.

Her eyes, gleaming and diamond-hard, never left the beetle.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Leon Palace. The Guard Commander's Study.

Sonic Erin was not the callow youth Abraham Tower had expected, when he had invited the hedgehog to these chambers to speak together.

He had prepared a small speech on the etiquette of dealing with nobility, unclear as he was of the extent to which young Sonic had been educated in these things. Gratifyingly, this Sanctuary place – wherever it lay – did appear to have prepared him at least in part for the dealings he would have with others of rank. To keep his hand in at these things, Abraham had asked one or two leading questions about the temple – refuge of shadowy rumour as it was, he did hold some genuine curiosity on the topic. These Sonic had deflected with a gentle smile that told Abraham that he knew exactly what game was being played, and he had dropped the matter with a sense of satisfaction. At least the likely Prince Consort knew how to keep a secret, he'd mused, as he reached for the key to the study's lesser drinks cabinet.

“The signing-over of your lands is complete, I understand?” Abraham asked him, pouring a glass of gentle, midday wine. Sonic nodded, murmuring his thanks as it was proffered to him, the Commander beginning to pour his own.

“As of yesterday,” he affirmed, before taking a sip. “I now present myself as Duke Sonic Erin.”

“Then you're aware that you're to be granted a seat on the Ducal Council?”

“I'd inferred that would be the case.” Sonic made a face at the thought of sitting still for so long. But, for his duchy and for Blaze, he would endure it. “I suppose there might be a conflict of interest there, in the case of certain votes. But I would assume a ruler needs someone among her advisors whose main concern is for her, as a person.”

Tower paused at that, considering the youth. Barely an adult, and to be elevated to one of the highest stations in the land. It made sense, in every way but the practical: he was completely unprepared, with the loss of his parents so young. “You should be aware,” he began, carefully, “that where your loyalty shall be to the Princess, as she will be your wife when she takes the title of Empress...my loyalty lies to the Empire, not to the monarch. You will have a counterpart – an equal and opposite, in me, should things proceed as you wish them to.” As they should, he carefully didn't say. He did favour this boy, for political reasons as well as wishing Her Highness the best. But expressing it was not his station, and would detract from his point; the limit of his place was to describe their marriage as a future event, instead of a hypothetical, and to hope the boy deduced his meaning. “But that ought not to make us enemies.”

“I think it wise to hope it shouldn't, Commander,” Sonic replied, with a candour that drew a thin smile from the human.

“Under the circumstances, Sir Abraham will do, Your Grace. I don't believe it likely that Her Highness will act against the Empire,” Tower elucidated. “She has too much nobility in her, too much will to serve her people. But you must be aware that, if she ever did, it would fall first upon you to help her recover her sense of responsibility. And if that were to fail, it would be up to me to take the next steps. If a monarch harms the Empire, a Praetor - a man in my position - must step in to defend it from them.”

Sonic nodded, slowly. “I feel as if I'm going to do a lot of talking, in the future.”

“For the rest of your life,” agreed Tower, wryly. There was a pause, and one of them began to laugh, then the other. They would each hold a private opinion, forever, on which was which. Truthfully, it had become an almost homely moment of camaraderie, between two men whose concerns were rapidly becoming aligned in the form of the Empire and its monarch; it might have gone on to become downright friendly, had there not been a thunderous knock at the door of his study.

“Enter,” Abraham barked, all business once more, throwing on the mask of authority from long practice – but failing to entirely conceal his surprise, when the door was thrown angrily open and Baron Silver Horizon strode inside.

“Sonic,” he barked, and the Commander was instantly on edge. Horizon had been a career soldier. To eschew the niceties of etiquette meant only one thing: urgent, if not catastrophic, news.

“Silver,” the blue boy replied, bewildered. “What's the matter-”

“Shadow and Amy have taken the Erin ducal coach to Green Hills,” the pale hedgehog gritted out. “They left three hours ago. Amy left me a note, while I was training with the Murines – she insists they gained the Princess' blessing to do it, and promises they'll be all right.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Sonic, they anticipate an attack on your carriage. They intend to take the assault on themselves instead,” Silver explained, and there was a loud wooden clatter as his cousin's chair fell backward and struck the floor.

Sonic was on his feet, eyes flashing with fury. Without a word, he ran from the room, leaving the two older men alone. In the shocked silence following his exit, Abraham found Silver's gleaming amber gaze fixed on him. “Commander,” he began, rather more formally now that his immediate news was discharged. “I believe you to be a trustworthy man, and so assume you knew nothing of this. Am I mistaken?”

“You are not, sir,” noted Tower, as solemn as a headstone. “Had I been aware, I would certainly have informed you, as Duke Erin's protector. I must ask: through which channels were Lord and Lady Rose made aware of this impending attack?” He rose to his own feet, two or three times the height of the hedgehog. “And what else has been kept from me, regarding the safety of those under my watch at the palace?” After all, any noble within the walls was technically his charge, whoever else may be watching out for them.

Silver, to his credit, seemed to have rapidly reined in his anger over the dismissive treatment of his Duke's personal agency. He cleared his throat, visibly weighing options to himself, before meeting Tower's eyes. “I understand your position, Commander, and so please understand mine: I will bend on certain confidences here, but only so far. I have your word this information remains between us? – Excellent.” He drew a breath, and closed the door from across the room with a gentle, slow gesture.

“Lady Rose's gift involves a measure of foresight, concerning events in her personal future,” he explained. “It seems she witnessed today, some time beforehand, and began setting things in motion to bring these circumstances about. Presumably including the lack of a by-your-leave,” he added with some indignation.

“You mentioned she had the permission of Her Highness?” Abraham asked, and Silver nodded.

“And that, Commander, is what I fear most,” the hedgehog ground out, frustrated and helpless. “If the Princess has assisted my cousin and his wife in going behind Sonic's back...I truthfully don't know if he shall forgive her.”

======>>>>=======

“How long has this plan been in motion, Duchess?” Blaze asked, agog at how swiftly things seemed to have come together.

“Rather less time than you might think, I'm afraid,” Rouge replied, with a concerned glance at the piece of paper upon which she'd sketched out the general idea. Her explanation done, she consigned it to the hearth and let it begin to curl and blacken in the flames. “Amy Rose took me aside at my birthday celebration, with the initial idea. I agreed, and secured a personal favour or two from someone reliable and trustworthy – though perhaps it's better that Your Highness not know exactly whom, so you may truthfully say so if asked,” she added with a coy expression. “I believed I had more time to arrange things, but she spoke to me again when dear Sonic was signing his paperwork yesterday, and explained all must go ahead urgently. I was scarcely able to pull together both carriages in time, but they are most certainly on their way now.”

“Both carriages?” Blaze asked, sitting up. If Rouge had truly secured the use of one of the royal stables' vehicles, she must have been extraordinarily persuasive. The staff were eagle-eyed in their close and jealous guardianship of anything that might be considered a part of the royal livery.

“My dear princess, we are playing a shell game,” smiled Rouge, warmly. “Sonic is our ball, and we hide him and move our cups around the table, to fool our mark. But our marks are not fools; they only believe you to be one. They will anticipate a decoy. The trick of the shell game is not to ensure your mark picks the wrong cup, but to get the mark to believe the fundamental lie: that any of the cups are concealing the ball. That the ball isn't already up your sleeve and off the table.” She held up the index finger of each hand. “One of our cups is the Erin ducal carriage, and the other an unmarked and nondescript vehicle travelling a different route, in the same general direction. We took care that they both set off at the same time, to ensure our enemies continue to think us fools.”

Blaze settled back into her seat, mollified. “All right. So who shall be in the unmarked carriage?”

=======>>>>=======

The killers were clad in black, hooded, long-coated. A cliché, perhaps, given what he'd read of Solar literature in his time here. But they wielded professional-looking knives, right on the border of lethally long and manageably short. Knuckles waited until the carriage was stopped, and the first assassin was at the door and reaching to tear it open.

His fist smashed the door off its hinges, its solid wooden mass striking the hooded figure full in the face. His opponent was bowled off his feet, and slid to a halt with the door still atop him. A second later there was an awful, gurgling scream from beneath it as Knuckles' entire prodigious weight landed on it, at chest height.

“Zhol! Zhtel!” he called, and the curious, single-barbed, hook-like heads of the twins' short spears emerged ahead of them – both siblings steely-eyed and ready to kill, in defence of the Ambassador. Zhol threw her weapon immediately, hurling herself after it so quickly her victim didn't have time to hit the ground before she'd caught the haft and twisted it free of his chest. Behind her, her brother brought his weapon up to catch the blade of another of the killers, who'd presumed himself in a blind spot; a spin of the shaft had Zhtel inside the man's guard, and one heavy, sandalled foot slammed down into his ankle. A moment's shrieking agony was all it took, and Zhtel knocked out his other knee with the butt of the spear to bring the blade's hook-barb across his throat.

There was another high-pitched and enraged scream from the head of the carriage. This one was a war-cry, as the driver threw off her hood – Nemahl, her fighting-chain already slithering free of the leather sleeve that housed it. The fool ostensibly holding her at bow-point had taken his eyes off her at the explosive emergence of the others, and an instant's lashing-out wound the chain's weighted head around the weapon and his wrist to drag his aim as she hurled herself aside. The bolt thumped into the side of the coach as she hit the ground running, her body low – almost dragging her opponent from his feet as she hauled on the chain to throw herself into a rib-cracking kick. He hit the ground with blood spattering his lips; a loop of chain flashed around his neck, there was a quick, wet snap, and Nemahl released the tension to quickly throw herself toward her next target. As she grappled with him, a sixth man came around behind her – Knuckles began to shout a warning, but an arrow embedded itself in the last attacker's throat even as he raised his knife.

The fourth of the Echidna retinue, Kitem, stood in the carriage doorway with another shaft nocked to his shortbow – already scanning the area for another unattended target. There were none; as Nemahl kept her man occupied, Zhol practically strolled up behind him to drive her spearhead into his back. He coughed blood, and went down – leaving Nemahl staring at the blotch of red-stained spittle on the front of her fighting leathers. “I wish you had taken his leg first,” she complained in their own language, tearing up a handful of longish grass to begin to scrub at the mess.

“Such inefficiency you ask from me,” remarked Zhol, clasping her hands impishly behind her back with her spear still buried in the body. “A fight should be clean and elegant.”

“So should a man's last breath, when it's within spitting distance of my-”

“Attend!” called Knuckles, and they were silent. Zhol retrieved her spear as they moved to join him. “We're all unhurt? – Good. Thank you, all of you, for joining me in this.” The hulking crimson man lifted the door off the unconscious form of his first victim. “We have a gift for the Princess. Let us see to his wounds...and try to fix the door,” he added, looking at the broken doorway into the carriage with a flicker of chagrin.

=======>>>>=======

“A small group of skilled warriors who volunteered to be of assistance,” replied Rouge, pausing and looking toward the door at a knock.

“Highness, Duke Erin is here,” came Sergeant Lonergan's voice. “Seems a bit put out.”

Blaze stiffened, suddenly all apprehension; Lonergan was known to downplay the emotional states of visitors when they were truly upset, partly as a subtle warning to her and partly to attempt to make them quietly angrier in hopes they would make some misstep in the discussions that followed. That Sonic should be at such a point... “Let him in, Ezekyle,” she called, fighting to keep her voice steady. Rouge gave her a concerned glance as the door swung open and Sonic stalked forward.

His ready smile was gone. The seemingly eternal good humour in his eyes had gone out like a candle flame, and they were the bleak green of a telltale piece of malachite at the bottom of a poisoned goblet.

“My cousin,” he began rudely, without preamble, “informs me you sent my other cousin and his wife to fight assassins. Assassins who think they're going to find me there.” She drew a breath, but he wasn't remotely finished. “Silver is furious, but I think I have an even greater right to that anger. A trap for hired killers, and you knowingly sent my family as bait. Without even telling me.”

“You would have run to their aid and put yourself in harm's way,” she began, and knew as soon as it left her lips that it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

“I intend to,” came his curt reply. “As soon as I've finished speaking. You sent two of the last family I have in the world, to risk their lives on my account, and you didn't even let me know.” Rouge sat up as if to speak, and his eyes flicked to her immediately. “You're not surprised to hear it, Duchess. Your own idea?”

“An idea that came first from Lady Amy Rose, after her gift foretold it to her,” Rouge replied, carefully. “Duke Erin...I ask you to breathe deeply, just once. Your cousin and his wife volunteered for this. They seek only to keep you safe.”

“Yes, I've noticed that pattern in him,” Sonic replied, as cold and smooth as a well-laid cart rail, and with only one destination to his words. “Princess. I love you, but I am...furious. This is a greater blow to my trust than I ever thought might come from you. Why did you think-”

“Because I'm frightened!” she interrupted him, standing on shaky legs, her own emotions spilling past her control. “I can't lose you, Sonic. I cannot. They'll kill you if they can, and they can. Please,” she implored him, reaching her arms out to him. “Things will be fine, your – Shadow and Amy,” she corrected, emphatically, “are skilled fighters and have surprise on their side. They can win that fight. Please. Wait with me, and welcome them back.”

“As his sheltered baby cousin, who will never face a threat without his permission,” Sonic snarled, “until the day a threat comes up that he hasn't foreseen...and that I won't know how to deal with, because he's never let me. I expected this from him. He's got form. But Blaze, you had no right,” he told her, simply, like a knife in her chest. “I do love you. I'll swear any oath you want that I do. But at this moment, I don't feel like I can trust you.” He stepped back, and tears started from her eyes. He tore his gaze away, forcing himself not to see them, and a part of her took heart from it – that he knew his resolve would crack if he looked on her weeping. “I'll return. I promise. If you'll still have me. But I must go and save my family.” He marched to the door, and was gone.

Chapter Text

FL 1193: Leon City. High Court, Primary Courtroom.

“Then there was no indication that Mr Erin's physical state was in any way altered from...what we see today, before the night of the intrusions?”

Amaranthine Rose had dealt with wave-of-soldiers strategies from an enemy before, though only once or twice. Her military service had been an eventful one, at times, and on occasion the enemy had had the numbers to try to swamp a position she held. She remained proud that against such repeated, relentless attacks, she had ensured the soldiers under her leadership held firm.

Against this unceasing assault of repetition, however, she could see the distant end of her patience, like a painting of an explosion at the end of a long hallway. “As I have stated categorically and under oath, Lady Caliche, there was no prior sign at all that Shadow held the potential for this defensive reflex,” she affirmed, adhering to her story. She wasn't sure what the beetle intended, by nibbling away at the edges of Amaranthine's prior testimony; there were no falsehoods in it, no cracks or gaps between truths that might take some wedge and uncover a lie. She had been careful, however, to describe the Rose Dragon phenomenon as something that had appeared solely as a method of protecting Shadow's person, and those of his loved ones.

“And the creature has made no appearance since?” the beetle asked her, and it took all of Amara's willpower not to visibly roll her eyes. As it was, she succeeded in disguising the thwarted urge as a glance around the courtroom, as if taking in their audience. She froze for an instant – was that Duchess Chiros? Here, of all places? She must be truly ostracised by the other ducal leadership, then, for this to be her entertainment for the afternoon.

Well, then, perhaps I might entertain her. Gaia knows nothing else shall come of this for us. “That would be correct. Mr Erin has had no reason,” she clarified pointedly, “to make that sacrifice and undergo the transformation again in Blumenheim's defence.”

“Sacrifice?” asked Lord Rossiter, tilting his head just a little. Amara focused on him, and kept her expression grave as she nodded.

“Indeed,” she replied. “While Mr Erin's recollections of the process are, as he said, limited...I recall the size of the Rose Dragon. I remember its might. No normal body could wield such strength. While the process of reverting was a visibly unpleasant one, and doubtless decidedly awful to experience...the initial transformation into such a shape, which can strike at a man bare-handed and leave him looking as if he were shot by a cannon, must be a truly nightmarish agony.” She looked at Shadow, and let him see the gratitude in her eyes. He returned it, immediately and twice over, in an unspoken moment that felt...rather like absolution, she decided, though she couldn't quite say for whom. “To know that Mr Erin would willingly put himself through such suffering in the defence of my home, my family, and my people, strikes me as selfless in the extreme. I have thus had no qualms in making it clear to all that they are his home, and family, and people, for as long as he should wish them to be.”

“You intend to...adopt the gentleman?” Lord Calceter asked, with a raised eyebrow and a tone that bordered on open scoffing. Amara shook her head levelly.

“Nothing so formal. Merely the acknowledgement that Shadow Erin has my blessing, as Baroness of Blumenheim, to live out his days there as a welcomed and beloved member of our community. And that if the Rose Dragon should ever be pressed into service, to rear its head once again,” she added, her gaze raking the court in a glance that combined motherly declaration and protective warning, “whoever has stoked such wrath shall surely deserve what happens next.”

=======>>>>=======

Amy Rose's ongoing tussle with the forces of generalised mayhem had reached a new stage.

Such was not to say that she had fully reconciled herself to her position; even in the full understanding of her eventual role as Baroness, and the utility of this brief practice at holding the post, she nevertheless regarded the concept of gentle, harmless havoc as something of a long-time ally. This week had so far felt rather like a betrayal of her lifelong comrade, to the extent that one could even try to stab a force of nature in the back.

She had at least had a reply from Constable Lightfoot, this morning. It felt close to laughable, how sincerely he had expressed contrition for the state in which she had encountered him. He had further supplied the details of the appropriate punishment for the young apple thieves. To be precise, the law classified the act as Petty Theft, and the perpetrators as Merry Youths Or Otherwise Minor; the penalty therefore was a sentence of two days for each stolen item, to be spent assisting the victim of the crime about their tasks under supervision. The three boys had been informed, this morning, that they would be spending the next twenty-two days assisting the orchard's crew while closely observed by a trusted adult. One of their mothers, looking promisingly furious at her boy's cavalier disregard for the concept of mine-and-thine, had volunteered with a gleam in her eye that spoke of mighty judgements and terrible retributions should any of the trio attempt any rannygazoo.

The Constable's letter had contained one more piece of news: legally, the man was obliged to ensure Blumenheim was supplied with at least one physically-able officer of the law at all times. His own lamentable state meant that, until he was returned to his full fitness, his place should be taken by another. To that end, he had written by express post to the nearest regional police headquarters in Marble Valley, and requested that a temporary replacement be fielded to reinforce his jurisdiction. He had received a return letter only the day before, notifying him that one Officer Jewel Chaplet had been sent upon her way and would arrive with all haste.

We're to have a new police officer, Amy had considered grimly, upon reading the news. I shall have to speak to Mr Lightfoot again. It wouldn't do to have certain aspects of the smuggling issue trampled upon by a well-meaning and by-the-book interloper, after the situation had been handled with such delicacy thus far. Young Lewis Beaqi had remained in Rose Manor, and for lack of anything better to occupy himself had volunteered to work in the scullery and kitchens. He was a lively lad, by all accounts, quick-witted and willing about the tasks set him. Amy considered it a blessing, sitting at her mother's desk and musing upon it, that he had been able to find a place in-

-He shall be a wise confidant and faithful companion to my husband and daughter both, she remembered, and her eyes nearly crossed. With a hastily-ingrained reflex, she froze; this wasn't the first future-memory she had stumbled upon while seated at her mother's writing-desk, and the first few times had caused her to flinch so firmly that she had spattered pages before her with ink, and had to begin them again. These moments of what she'd flippantly named precollection had been coming thick and fast, since she'd seated herself here the day her parents and Shadow left for the capital. Perhaps, she had reasoned, it had been a matter of location. She would one day begin spending a great deal of time at this desk, and it stood to reason that she would be here for at least one or two major events in her life – or in the affairs of her territory.

The majority would remain Most Secret, Amy had quickly decided. She would never tell anyone of the vision she'd had of how difficult it would one day be to stand up from this chair, with the exhausting additional weight of her unborn child within her. Likewise, she would never speak of a moment's gazing out from her bedroom balcony toward the Great Turquoise, whereupon she had remembered a blue hedgehog she'd never seen before, and a shocked exclamation and offer of a pasty from her father to the mysterious youth.

Amy was forced to school herself to patience, a rather new experience in itself, and maintain inwardly that these things would become clear, in time. What she had not expected was for her earlier visions of Lewis as Shadow's page – which had bedevilled her from the moment she set eyes upon the boy, and led to the plan that caught the smugglers – to unlock another future-memory. She nearly didn't want to examine it too closely; her thoughts had slid off the words my daughter, with the practised ease of a precognitive who wished not to ruin her own surprises, but they lingered in the periphery of her thoughts like-

-She shall have grey fur, like both of her grandfathers. “Blast,” she muttered, pushing back the chair from the desk and taking to her feet. Evidently, to remain here was to tempt revelations for which she was not prepared or equipped. She had nearly reached the door when there was a knock upon it; a pull of the handle revealed young Lewis.

“Pardon, Miss,” he began, still refreshingly unpractised at deferential address, “there's a lady in the hall to see you. Says she's the new police officer. Mr Thrace advised me to come and tell you, and then stay out of sight,” he added, almost pleadingly. Amy nodded her agreement.

“Along that way,” she advised him, gesturing to his left. “Grace and Mercy should be doing some cleaning. You'll know them when you see them. If you let them know I've sent you to be out of the way, and ask them how you can be of help, they should find something to keep you occupied until this is dealt with for the afternoon.” His grateful nod and retreat toward the eastern wing of the manor gave Amy room to start downstairs, where Mr Thrace would doubtless have found a drawing-room in which to temporarily park their visitor. A brief conversation with the silver fox led her to the second drawing-room, where she found a compactly-built and businesslike beetle lady with the most startlingly beautiful, iridescent carapace she'd ever seen.

“Good afternoon,” she began, after a brief and panicked fumble for the proper form of address. Throwing the inner dilemma over her shoulder, she stepped forward and offered a handshake; they were to be cooperating in the safe running of Blumenheim, and it seemed only proper to approach it as two professional ladies with a common goal. “I beg your pardon, I was seeing to some paperwork and had little warning of your arrival. My name is Amy, I'm the Baroness' daughter; my parents are in the capital at this moment.” She wasn't sure how much the newcomer had heard of their situation, after all.

The beetle's no-nonsense demeanour never faltered as she took Amy's hand and shook. “My Lady,” she acknowledged, all seriousness. “Constable Jewel Chaplet, at your service. I'm given to understand that the man I'm here to replace is incapable?”

An interesting way to put it, but Amy knew she could do no less for Jonathan Lightfoot than to be entirely honest. “Ah, perhaps temporarily indisposed is a better term,” she began, with a ready smile. “Constable Lightfoot was apprehending a rather large criminal, who has since been transported to prison with his compatriots. Unfortunately the man fell bodily onto him in the process, and broke several of his ribs. The medicine for his pain leaves him rather incoherent for large portions of the day, but his first thought was to send for assistance. And here you are,” she finished, confident at least that she'd painted him in a reassuringly competent light.

“I see,” mused Jewel, her antennae twitching as her brow knitted in thought. “Then are there any ongoing legal affairs of which I should be made aware?” Amy blinked, and a momentary panic overcame her as she realised she had no understanding of the legal ins and outs through which the redoubtable rabbit had navigated young Lewis for his safety.

“Ah...that may be something best discussed with Constable Lightfoot in person,” she began, self-effacingly, hoping to cover for it with her own inexperience. “I must confess, this is my first time taking my dear mother's place, even temporarily; my understanding of the law is perhaps not where it should be. If you'd like, we might go along and see him now? Depending on his medicine, he may or may not be lucid,” she added, purely for clarity's sake and to manage the new Constable's expectations, “but if not, Miss Temme is our village nurse and manages his doses. She could supply us with a better time for a visit, if we have no immediate result...” She was already ushering the beetle from the room, and relaxed into a steadier stream of idle chatter about Blumenheim itself as they left the house (pausing only for a word to Mr Thrace as to their destination) and began on the path down to the village.

Perhaps, with careful juggling of this new presence, Amy dared to hope she might yet pleasantly surprise her parents.

=======>>>>=======

“You would like him, Shadow,” Aidan Rose was saying. “Sterling chap, kind, brave and a true friend all through my schooldays. Perhaps the only fellow I've seen who might incline his head downward to look you in the eye, what?”

“A tall gentleman, then?” Shadow asked, his hands clasped behind his back. Beside him, Lady Amaranthine matched their pace, though she looked rather more troubled than Shadow currently permitted himself to feel. After the tension of the morning and early afternoon, merely the act of idly chatting about an unrelated topic was as rain to a parched garden; he felt his soul rise and bloom again, just a little, from the refreshing experience of Baron Rose singing the praises of his oldest school chum. Even now, on their way back through the courthouse's echoing marble-floored halls for the afternoon's final few hours of hearings, the dread of the next few hours was thoroughly blunted by the grey hedgehog's cheery ramblings.

“Certainly not an average one, what?” Aidan chirped, all sunshine. “More the large-economy size. Hay barns see him walking down the street and ask one another, I say, did you ever lay eyes on such a monolithic cove in all your – oh, I do beg your pardon,” he trailed off, at the respectful approach of a lady to their trio. Shadow came to attention, recognising the snowy-white fur and tourmaline gaze of Duchess Rouge Chiros.

“Good afternoon,” she began, with a smile just on the earnest side of coy that was nevertheless filled with its own warmth. “I must beg your pardon, Baron Rose. I would merely like to ask, if I might speak with Mr Erin for a moment or two? A lady's promise that I shan't trouble you for long,” she added, raising her hands placatingly as the Baroness tilted her head in silent speculation. “I merely feel compelled to discover what sort of gentleman can spark such rumours of savagery and darkness, and – well, I'm sure you must have heard them all,” she added, flapping a hand dismissively. “I make a point never to allow such things to dictate my conclusions to me. I suffer quite terribly from rumours myself, you see. They plague me so, nearly every week.” Her languid, long-suffering tone made Shadow think of the way Ammeline's aunt Filaurel had once complained of her flat feet and the pains they caused her; an aunt of his own had once spoken of her frequent headaches in just such a theatrical drawl.

“Then if I may ask, Your Grace,” the Baroness interjected, in a curiously cautious tone that Shadow felt nearly bordered on the defensive, “what sort of a gentleman do you see before you?” The bat's eyes lit up, and an impish smile crossed her full, rouged lips while she leaned coquettishly forward, as if making a closer examination.

“Well, a tall one, to be sure,” she began, cheerfully. “Powerful and long-limbed, imposing and stern. With eyes that...seem to have seen rather more than is spoken. Regal indeed, in his bearing; certainly born to be a Duke, and raised to it. But – ah!” she paused, raising a finger as if a discovery had been made. “A man in love, as well. Small wonder to see you so ready to protect your home, then, Mr Erin,” the Duchess added, with a wink so outrageously teasing that Shadow immediately perceived it to be all artifice. “A gentleman protecting the lady who holds his heart...I can only commend you on your self-control, indeed, at leaving some alive.”

“I say, if they happen to pull one into the courtroom with pie in his hair-” began Aidan, ready and willing to helpfully point out his own handiwork, but he quickly fell silent as Shadow shifted his weight.

“I thank you for your consideration in speaking to me, Your Grace,” he began softly. “And likewise for your forbearance in determining my character for yourself, rather than by listening to whispers. One truly never knows what lies beneath faithless mutterings, until one perceives a gap in the veil they cast.” He held her gaze, and watched it sharpen as his meaning sank home. All knew the rumours of the Pawned Lady, of course, and how she had ostensibly risen to her position. Yet she had immediately detected not only that his heart was in the keeping of another, but that there was more to his story than the court at large had been told.

These thoughts seemed to churn within Shadow, as wary of strangers as he must force himself to be. He remained so occupied with them, indeed, that he barely had the presence of mind to click his heels together and add his own well-wishes as the Duchess bid her goodbyes; he felt adrift in a sea of motives and secrets, and uncomfortably aware that he had just been comprehensively assessed with near-casual ease, by an accomplished expert at the trick of reading people. So lost was he, in those next two or three minutes, that only the arrival of a harried-looking bailiff before them drew his attention. The vulpine guard seemed to have been running, and from the relief plain in his expression, it was himself and the Baroness the man sought.

“If you'll come with me, sir, ma'am,” the fellow managed, and Aidan took a step back to let officialdom have its way. “You're required in the courtroom immediately, by order of the Lord Regent and the tribunal.”

This seemed rather more urgent than reconvening after luncheon. “What is it, man?” asked Lady Amaranthine, with her usual hard-wearing practicality.

“The two assassins in the cells, ma'am,” came the blunt answer. “The ones taken alive. They've been murdered.”

Oh, damnation.

Chapter Text

FL 1197: Leon City.

The instant Sonic left the front gates of Leon Palace, his aspect shifted. The bitterness was swept off his face, even as he strode unhindered between the guards. He was a known fixture now, after all. He heard the creak of leather in their gloves as their hands tightened on their halberds, when tiny flickers of blue lightning began to play around his feet and course up his legs, but he kept his gaze resolutely ahead. His thoughts felt lighter; he'd said his piece, and he would deal with the rest later. Freed of the anger, his soul took flight, and he felt the power rise within him like a cyclone of motion ready to happen; all else was to be set aside, and taken up when he slowed down. Now was no time for recrimination. Now was for movement. Now was for speed, beyond anything he'd ever achieved. He had no time to assuage the guards' wariness for ill intent; he didn't need it. The world crackled and blurred, and he vanished.

Half a mile westward of the palace gate, he lost some speed weaving through a denser crowd – enough for a world of statues to briefly become sluggishly mobile once more, until he threw himself against a sturdy-looking wall and let it become a floor, moving to rooftop height for a clearer path. Orienting himself toward the western city gates once more, he began to accelerate once again – each step pushing him faster, the rush of air against his ears once again becoming a soft whine as he passed into the state of pure, soundless motion.

Returning to ground level as he passed through the western gate, Sonic was careful not to touch anyone; at this speed, flesh might part like too-warm cheese. He left a single perfectly-marked bootprint of crushed cobble and mortar, just beyond the threshold of Leon City, and then the road opened up before him. In his wake, a hard slap of air ruffled fur and manes, knocked off hats, and left one guard's helmet clattering on the stones before it was hastily retrieved. He was gone before they knew he was there, but behind him the wind howled its protests at being so audaciously outpaced.

His strides lengthened further. Further. Each step was a longer leap than he'd ever made before, but his legs were a blur with how quickly they came. His body burned with effort, then the pain faded as lightning poured from him and set the world in stone; the plains around the capital became a painted and motionless tableau in which only he existed, instants of pure solitude when he accelerated growing longer and flowing together as he hurled himself up into what had to be hundreds of miles to the hour. Somewhere down this road into Erin Duchy, two of the last of his loved ones rode confidently into danger. They would show the threat an awful time, he knew, but they would need to be consistently lucky against trained killers. Killers who only had to be lucky twice.

Save them, he ordered himself, as gleaming mist began to ripple in a cone around his face, the air tearing itself apart before him. His legs were a blur, but each footstep was dozens, hundreds of feet after the last. They need you. Nothing has ever moved this quickly without a charge of gunpowder behind it, but their troubles keep you moving faster. This is a race against death itself, looming over your family. You were too young, before. Smuggled away, but your salvation was never a retreat. Never a retrieval. It was the drawing back of a fist. Today you are the blow that is struck. You will land first. There was a clarity to it, near to tranquillity; out here, among the world but on the knife-edge of perception, he would keep pace with a bullet. And yet, with Miles' creations on his heels, the spilled power arced back into him and could be pushed into the cycle of raw force moving him forward. Another surge of strength existed within him now, a deep, still, silent reservoir of untapped power. He could feel it, he could reach it...

An observer, keeping up, might have seen the blur of his feet become a figure-eight of incredible, impossible motion. A thunderclap ruffled his fur as he slipped free of the reach of sound itself, the turf tearing itself apart at his touch – and then that too began to fall behind, as Sonic Erin stepped into the fullness of his power and opened the air around him like a seam coming undone. Eighty miles outside Leon City, a lumberjack spat on his hands and raised his axe – and then something flashed past a hundred paces to his left, followed by a thunderclap from a clear sky that set the trees swaying and green leaves falling around him. A hundred and ten miles from the city gates, the silvery ribbon of a river arced gracefully across the landscape, and was suddenly torn up into twin rainbows as something crossed them faster than sight. The impact of his wake spread the colours wider, into an iridescent mist that delighted the river-boatman's son who watched it happen. Forty miles further on, Labyrinth Lake lay across the land like a great dark blue-green sheet of irregularly-edged glass; the road curved around it, and not even this miracle of motion was capable of carrying him across its breadth. Sonic gritted his teeth, followed the road, and began to curve around the edge of the body of water that marked Erin Duchy's northeastern border. His homeland welcomed him, and the water rippled as the conical wave of his passing battered at it.

No carriage is that fast. I'm nearly with you. I'll save you both. His eyes widened in a sudden surge of fury that nearly robbed him of his momentum as his hyper-sharpened senses, attuned to see so far ahead he could react to things half a mile away in the split instant before he reached them, caught sight of moving shapes clustered around a familiar carriage. And then I'm going to bloody kill you for this.

=======>>>>=======

“They come,” Shadow had growled suddenly, some two minutes earlier. Amy sat up, reaching under the seat for her hammer. Shadow had done the same with his greatsword, but rather than grasping it, he propped it against one end of his seat and moved to the other. “Is it any use, if I beg you again not to look?” he asked her miserably, beginning to doff his travelling leathers. She shook her head, and once her husband had ensured that his clothing would be spared the ravages of what would yet come, she laid a hand upon his. Already, she felt him tensing, tendons and muscles flexing.

“I shall be beside you in all things, Shadow Rose,” she told him, though her heart tore to see fear in his eyes. “You have nothing to fear from me. Our drivers are sworn to secrecy, and shall assist where they can. You, in whatever shape you may, need only do as your conscience directs. And I promise,” she added impishly, “I'll still love you in the morning.”

“I know it well, angel,” he promised, and he kissed her, naked though he was. She returned it, giving him this sweetness, this reminder of what waited for him when all was done. That he would still have a wife, and she loved him with all that was in her. Then he pulled away, and bade her back away with a hasty gesture as his breathing began to scratch in his throat. His skin...she pressed a hand to her mouth in a horrified reflex, as she likewise pressed her back to the wall of the coach. His skin boiled, seething like fluid beneath his fur as his very bones creaked and groaned like strained wood. Whatever had warned him that they were observed, that they were approached now, seemed to have had its fill of waiting. His tail lashed, snapping from side to side before a horrible crackling, snapping noise filled the carriage. It lengthened, whipping briefly before he controlled it; the wicked blade-like tip it now sported would not harm her, and she trusted him to make sure of it. A pained, panting grunt turned into a snarl, and a hand clapped over his mouth to stifle what swiftly became a scream, a wail of pain and misery as the shape of him changed. It was uneven, limbs shifting and lengthening one piece at a time, different limbs undergoing different journeys toward symmetrical goals even as Amy felt the coach draw to a halt and angry, familiar voices filtered through from the driver's seats. They were being stopped.

Jet and Storm knew better than to make their own move before their enemies were distracted. Shadow had promised the brothers sufficient spectacle to take every eye off them, and expressed his trust that they would make best use of the relatively low profile they would briefly enjoy. Amy forced herself to trust that they would keep their positions and play their roles as harmless drivers, to remain a low priority for those aiming weapons. She kept her eyes fixed upon her husband, as his body tore itself apart, flowed like wet clay, his lips drawing back to bare his conical, predatory fangs. To either side of his eyes, and above them, two new pairs opened as someone tried the door.

An impossibly long arm lashed out as the coach door was opened, grasping whip-fast at a throat and dragging the intruder inside as Shadow's seventh, central eye opened. All were fixed upon the suddenly terrified assassin, a mustelid of some description who wore a ragged eyepatch; the professional-looking blade in his hand slid free to clatter to the floor of the coach as he beheld madness and death. Amy's husband opened his maw, strings of saliva webbing between his fangs where his agony had cost him some personal control, and screamed like nothing else in the world. Amy was cast instantly back, four years falling away from her to place her back in her bed in Rose Manor the first time she'd heard that unholy shriek. Yes, she thought to herself, in some oddly-tranquil oasis somewhere within her. This is what he suffered that night. He has nothing to fear from me today, as then.

Except that I might bring down more of them than him. She hefted her maul with grim resolve, and as Shadow surged from the carriage door like some serpentine beast of dark legend, still hauling the interloper by the neck, she followed in his wake. A blade had swiped belatedly at him from one side of the doorway; evidently they'd had a backup plan, in case the first man was accounted for swiftly. Shock at the emerging nightmare had slowed his reactions, and Amy hopped down from the carriage to pivot smartly on one foot and turn the hammer's downward momentum into an upward swing that stove in ribs behind the dark lamellar protecting them. Immediately she was tugging her weapon free of the collapsed chest and casting her eyes around for her next target. Her mother had taught her well, concerning the principles of melee combat against multiple opponents, and her tutor in hammer-work had further warned her that sheer inertia would slow her defences. The heavier the weapon, the more openings in one's guard, and there were few heavier than this.

It turned out she needn't have bothered. Every eye was upon Shadow, as he took his first victim's still-flailing form and hurled it against another. Before their bodies met, he was turning, bringing those seven staring eyes to bear on another enemy. Another target was grasped and dragged in, his throat crushed in one hand. That vicious, darkly gleaming tail lashed out, swiftly whipping across the face of a fourth man behind him and tearing away the lower jaw without slowing down, before driving firmly – almost spitefully – down into the first two men where they lay atop one another. Four dead, in fewer seconds. Another shriek escaped him, shorter and higher-pitched, as if challenging them; he was frenzy, and terror, and darkness. He was a creature that seemed as if it should never stand in broad daylight. He was a thing that should not exist, and he howled his challenge and intent to tear apart anything that threatened him and his. Then he surged toward his next choice of enemy, his limbs gripping at the turf and wrenching him forward along it, as desperate blows were aimed and missed, shakily aimed arrows sailing over his head or thudding into the turf before him.

That wouldn't do, she decided, and threw herself forward with the hammer held low, the nearest crossbowman only registering her approach after it was too late. He dropped the weapon and reached for a knife, but she planted her forward foot and turned her next step into a half-leap that brought the weapon upward into his jaw to shatter it. He collapsed like a bag of old clothes, and Amy managed to turn her shoulders a little to bring the hammer around, conserving what momentum she could so that she could use its swinging weight to borrow that inertia right back. When she was properly maintaining these motions, hammer and wielder became two halves of the same dance, and to keep the swing going was to remain deadly.

An arrow whipped past her head, making a sound like a flicky's wings. She instinctively lowered her stance, turning to behold her assailant in time to watch a thrown cudgel reach him with a hollow CLONK, laying him low as Storm Babylon loped over to retrieve it. The crack of a horsewhip followed, as Jet staggered away from another fallen, beaten man with his palm pressed to a bloodied thigh. In his other hand gleamed the heavy knout he'd used to urge the horses away from Leon City with all their haste, and he wielded it like a scourge aboard a pirate vessel of old, belabouring those about him with the long, braided leather and a screech of “Bloody cheek of you, you pack of filthy buggers-”

“Awful sorry about his language, Ladyship,” Storm began, catching up to her with his club in hand. “Jet's not a quiet man when someone's bloodied him. Takes it personal-like. Worse, they shot at a lady. Not polite.”

“Decorum forbids my echoing him in public, Mr Babylon,” Amy panted, hefting her hammer again, “But I assure you, I'm thinking it. How many of these vermin-” She ducked as a knife sailed by; not thrown, or not deliberately, but slipped from a flailing hand as her husband tore open a chest with his mighty, terrible claws. They dropped behind a large rock near the road, just back from where the carriage had stopped. “Great Gaia, I hope the other party didn't have this many to deal with, there must be a dozen...” She froze, as a thunderclap reached them from across the lake. “Oh,” she trailed off, turning to look. Storm followed her gaze, shading his eyes before returning to keeping watch.

“Dust column across the lake,” he noted, casting around for any enemies that might have spotted them where they hunkered. “Might be reinforcements, but nothing moves that quick...”

“Retribution does,” whispered Amy. “Get to your brother, Mr Babylon, we have seconds. Ensure you both have your ears covered. Go, now! SHADOW!” she bellowed. “COVER YOUR EARS!” Shadow did as she bid without hesitation, three or four of his eyes flickering to her briefly before he dropped his current victim and placed those massive palms over his relatively unchanged ears. The assassin before him scrambled back, grasped at his knife and got to his feet to hastily throw himself forward, and died.

Time stood still. Amy gazed on a tableau she would never forget: the knife left its owner's hand as his grip slackened. The owner himself leaned back, as if preparing to perform what her father called one of those jolly fun sort of duck-under-the-bar dances, the sort where having a brandy first rather helps things along; before him, Shadow's lethal tail was pressing forward to impale him, but was too late. Upon the man's face stood Sonic Erin, lightning-wreathed as if Lord Chaos himself had sent a bolt of divine judgement upon their battle. One boot-sole was planted flat against the killer's features, which were no doubt already unrecognisable beneath it. Both skull and neck were starting to do strange things, as all of the young Duke's force was transferred into them and the hired killer's entire skeleton was immediately transformed into so much wet gravel.

Sound returned, like an explosion. Sonic had already leapt off the dead man, somehow catching his knife out of the air, and had spared Amy a single glance filled with betrayal before lightning crackled about his heels and propelled him off again. She resolved to face that music when it came; uncovering her ears and taking up her weapon once more, she straightened up to look around her, but Sonic was already everywhere her husband wasn't, and wherever the lightning struck, a cloaked and leather-clad corpse was left in its wake. The Babylon brothers had been bowled over by the hammering wall of wind that had followed Sonic here; they took their feet again, glancing around frantically to try to locate the source of the one-second hurricane.

“Gentlemen! Prisoners!” she called to them, and received a nod from Storm before he began to urge his smaller brother toward one or two limp forms the albatross had laid low. Amy caught sight of Sonic from the corner of his eye, as Shadow tore an arm from another man and hurled him aside with blood arcing from the wound. He had locked his captured knife with another killer, who had just produced a second weapon; the blue hedgehog's short, involuntary cry of pain as the smaller blade slid up his forearm in a desperate slice was followed by a tearing-metal shriek from his transformed cousin, whose fist arced in and flattened half of the murderous sellsword's skull with a sound like a coconut breaking.

There was a long pause, as breath was caught. Amy looked around frantically, but no more attackers seemed forthcoming; all at once, her strength threatened to leave her. She planted the head of her hammer on the turf, leaning upon it and letting the trusty weapon take her weight as Sonic tried to glare into all of Shadow's eyes at once. He took a deep breath, and Amy squeezed her eyes shut.

“What the bloody hell did you think you were doing-”

=======>>>>=======

It had only been five minutes, if that, since the Erin ducal carriage had been stopped. Amy already felt as if it'd been an entire evening. She had moved swiftly, upon seeing the blood soaking Sonic's sleeve, and retrieved certain prepared supplies from the coach. She would have to thank the Babylon brothers for procuring them, later; they had certainly done their new Duke a service with it, atop the other work they had performed today. A pity, really, she thought sourly as she wound bandages slowly and carefully around Sonic's forearm. He's certainly not in a mood to appreciate it.

The atmosphere around the carriage rang with tension. Sonic's silent seething was a near-mirror of the wordless, accusing rage clouding his features and thoughts the day they'd found one another in the marketplace in Leon. He glowered at nothing in particular, no doubt going over what he intended to say, so that he could be all the more precise and correct when he did give voice to his grievances. Marshalling his thoughts in such a way was a superb negotiating tool, she knew, and would serve him well in the future...but futures were the crux of the problem, were they not?

“All right,” she murmured finally, taking a looped pin from the medical kit at her feet and securing the end of the fabric. “Has the stinging stopped? I wish I knew what he'd put on you.” Jet Babylon had provided a small bottle of something yellow and strong-smelling, which he had explained to have superb properties for cleaning a wound. A very new thing indeed, he'd explained, developed only the past year or two. Some medical fellow in Dhole worked it out, I swear by it these days.” He had been delaying the treatment of his own leg wound while Amy dithered over using it on Sonic's arm, and so she'd accepted gratefully and handed the hawk a roll of bandages for his own use elsewhere.

“Only the cut hurts now,” Sonic replied flatly, without moving his gaze from whichever blade of grass had his attention. “And the perfidy.”

Amy remained silent for a few seconds, as Shadow prowled up on all fours with those eyes flickering and glaring this way and that. Sonic looked up at him, and visibly fought not to recoil. “Nnnho mmorrrrre,” Shadow ground out, still unused to using such a mouth for speech. “Alonnnnne.”

“You alone are to blame?” Sonic asked him shortly, and Amy shook her head.

“He means we've no more unwanted company,” she replied, as her husband shuddered as with a sudden cold flush. Sonic looked at her, at last, while she began packing things away. “He's been circling us to be certain.” Shadow gave a low, mournful sound, and shook his head as if to dislodge something; he staggered, suddenly, and dashed around the log on which they sat. It was so sudden that Sonic visibly flinched, but Amy placed a hand on his shoulder and shook her head when he turned to look. Instead, she kept those green eyes on her own as she moved to stand before him. Her mother had done this for her, once before; now she did it for her Duke. Over his shoulder came unnaturally deep and chugging sounds that became retches, as Shadow doubled over and heaved. There was a strange ripple of motion along his longer, wilder spines as his insides convulsed, his head hung low as oily, tar-like black fluid gushed past those gleaming teeth. It seemed neverending, but each shocking rush of it shrank him a little; his tail shortened, his arms likewise, and while his eyes squeezed shut on the first emetic convulsion, only his original pair opened again.

“What is he-”

“Sonic,” Amy interrupted, her hands upon his shoulders, before she checked herself. No. Respect him. The last time he'll ever put up with this was five minutes ago. “Your Grace,” she corrected, and Sonic's furrowed brow slackened, taken aback at the sudden deference. “Shadow must go through this when he reverts. It distresses him greatly. I beg that he be allowed his dignity...and that you not turn to look at him when he has finished, until I fetch his clothing and help him into it. Please,” she added miserably, guilt gnawing at her for asking more of him after what they'd done. If Sonic was angry enough to deny this to Shadow, their relationship might never recover.

“...Was this done to him?” Sonic's face had sobered, and Amy gripped the promising start with both hands and nodded. Her cousin-in-law's face fell a little, internalising the news. “Then...has it happened often?”

“This is the second time I've seen,” she explained, maintaining eye contact, not allowing Sonic's gaze to drift away again. “I know of a third, which I believe was the first. The one that broke him free.”

“And this...happens each time?” Behind him, the sounds of Shadow's stomach emptying continued, interspersed with agonised, mournful groans recognisable as the voice of the man Amy had married. She nodded silently, and then turned her head to look at the carriage.

“Will you be kind?” she asked softly, returning her gaze to Sonic. “You're angry. You deserve to be. But with me, most of all. I saw this, in a vision. I led us here. I set this up. I can explain my reasons, but...”

“But I'm in no mood to hear them,” Sonic agreed, stonily. “The one thing I asked him not to do. And you heard it, then. The one trust I asked him to extend me.”

“And I betrayed it,” Amy agreed quietly. “And you are my Duke. I acted against your express wishes, and I truly don't know if the law counts it as a ducal command since it came before you assumed the station.” She cast her eyes downward. “I know I see it as one. I disobeyed it, whatever the case, and I conspired with my husband and two of your subjects to do so. The brothers came out of familial loyalty; Shadow, out of love for myself and for you. You know that love compels, Your Grace,” she added, raising her eyes to meet his again, keeping her language formal even in this plea. “I alone had no such compulsion. So if anyone is to be punished, it would rightly be myself, over others.”

“And yet you ask me to be kind,” Sonic noted, simmering. She swallowed hard, and nodded once.

“Not to me, Duke Erin. I beg you to be kind, and return to the carriage, without looking behind you. And whatever sentence you hand down for my disloyalty to my liege lord, I will accept.” The blue hedgehog stared at her in seething silence for a moment longer, before his shoulders sagged gently. Some of the immediate fury seemed to go out of him, and he stood as smoothly as if he had paused to rest after his run.

“I'll return to the carriage. I presume Shadow's clothing is there. Accompany me and retrieve it,” he told her frostily. “When my cousin is recovered, we shall all return. Including the beaten fools the brothers have secured us. And on the way, I'll consider your sentence,” he added, giving her a sharp look that seemed out of character for him. Her heart tore a little just to know that she had done this to him, had pulled the eternal cheer from him and made him face such grave and personal disappointments.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied, demurely. For once, she embraced the word. It seemed the least punishment she deserved, and she might as well inflict something upon herself. Shadow would no doubt attempt to be self-sacrificing about all this when he was master of himself again, but she would get ahead of him about that, this time.

The Babylon brothers met them at the coach, with the three thoroughly sedated living prisoners stowed atop its roof and bound firmly down; it seemed one of the brothers had made use of a bottle of ether with which they had rendered the unfortunate survivors unconscious. One had a broken arm, but Sod him, he's the one who cut me, beg pardon for the language had been Jet's official statement on the matter. Returning to Shadow with his clothing was a matter of moments, and by then her husband had recovered enough to haul himself up on shaky arms to receive her help in grateful, near-infirm silence. Fully presentable once more, he permitted himself to be led to the carriage, and met Sonic at the door.

There was a long pause, fraught and frosty, before Sonic pulled his cousin into an embrace tightened by desperation and worry. Shadow flinched, at first, but slowly his hands came up to return it. The taller hedgehog seemed almost incredulous, to have been granted this, but Sonic's fear for them had only added to his anger, and each of them knew it.

“I'm beyond angry, cousin,” their Duke whispered, in a voice that shook only slightly. “But I'm glad you're alive. There will be a consequence for what you did today, Shadow Rose, and I'll hear no apology from you. Not yet. You won't promise me that this shall never happen again,” he added, holding his towering cousin at arm's length and meeting that crimson gaze resolutely. “I'll promise that to you, myself. This shall never happen again. Do you understand?”

Shadow stared at him for a moment, in shock. It occurred to Amy that, despite Silver's casual testimony concerning Sonic's delivery of orders at the party at Dry Lagoon, neither of them had ever heard the new Duke Erin give a command before today. She felt her eyes prick with a tear or two, as her husband's faint but permanently-etched scowl softened a little. A gentle smile curved his lips, just a little.

“Yes, Duke Erin,” he whispered, drawing his cousin into his arms again.