11 December, Year 32 of King Frederick V of Monrique's reign

Western Bordeux Dungeons, Bordeux

Monrique

Her gaze remains fixed on the ceiling.

The Duchess watches a small sprig of ivy revolve above her, slowly, constantly. In a place where all else is dead, it is kept alive, against all possible odds, by a sliver of light that shines through an indiscernible hole in a corner. Bright green against the grey stone ceiling, it is hard to miss, and even harder to ignore.

Indeed, it was the first thing she noticed when she was first brought here.

The Duchess sags against the wall. She is too weary to even be irritated by the drops of ice cold water that roll down from the ceiling, and seep through her dress, or even by the chilly breeze that blows right at her from the underside of the dungeon doors every now and then. She wraps her arms around herself, in a subconscious attempt to defend herself against the cold that is laying siege to her body, and the deafening silence that is waging a war against her mind.

Taking a shuddering breath, she closes her eyes, and fixes the image of the sprig of ivy behind her eyelids. Her trembling, chapped lips part slowly to release a cloud of mist carrying the same words she has been chanting over and over again to keep a hold on her fleeting sanity and memory.

I am Lady Therese Diane Jeanne Isabelle De Beauharnais, the rightful sovereign Duchess of Roche and a Lady Justice of Monrique. I will turn five and twenty next month, if I live to see the day of my birth. I was arrested by the Monriquan Armed Forces, and brought to Bordeux Dungeons by brute force some time ago on the orders of our ever kind and gracious monarch, His Majesty King Frederick V of Monrique.

I am Lady Therese Diane Jeanne Isabelle De Beauharnais, the rightful sover -

At that very moment, the silence is shattered.

Her eyes fly open. Her arms tighten around her body.

Someone is coming.

She hears the synchronised thunder of the boots of the army officers, loud and clear through the walls she is kept within, storming towards her dungeon cell with all haste. She quickly sits upright, and smoothens her wrinkled dress, just as the dungeon door flings open.

"Stand back, wench."

A couple of female Corporals, supervised by a male Captain, barge into her dungeon cell. They proceed to inspect each and every corner, meticulously checking for any possible weapons or means of escape that she may have managed to procure, or miraculously create, under her tight imprisonment.

Throughout the inspection, the Duchess sits as still as she can, her eyes noting the tensed stances of the army officers, and their troubled countenances. She deduces that something is amiss, but keeps a tight hold on her tongue to stop herself from questioning them and aggravating them further than they already seem to be.

When they complete their search, the Captain turns to her. "It is commendable that you have not stirred up trouble for the army during your imprisonment thus far," he sniffs disdainfully, suspicion flashing in his eyes, "unlike most of your other fellow inmates."

The Duchess meets his stare evenly, not bothering to stand up. "Thank you. I try my best."

Unable to discern if she is truly sincere, or is simply humouring him, he lets it go. "In any case, keeping your good behaviour in mind, we have decided allow another prisoner to share her imprisonment here with you," he continues with a frown, "we are, unfortunately, running out of dungeons to host offenders."

"Indeed?" she answers with mock surprise, "I wonder why."

He narrows his eyes. "Watch your tone, wench," he warns, before looking behind, "bring her in, Corporals."

In response to his order, a body of a slightly built woman is forcefully flung across the threshold, a few steps away from where the Duchess is seated.

A weak, pained groan leaves the woman's lips, as she lay on her front like a ragged poppet on the stone-cold ground. Her arms are tied behind her back with thick ropes that cut deeply into her skin. Several blue-black bruises also spot her bronze arms, alternating with blood red gashes and cuts.

The Duchess stands up, appalled. The Corporals did not behave so brutally even with her.

"What in the world - "

Before she can express her outrage at such unnecessary ruthlessness towards someone who is clearly defenceless, the army officers march out of the dungeon without another word. The door closes firmly shut once more. The footsteps fade away as suddenly as they had come.

In the meanwhile, the woman seems to have trouble reviving. The Duchess forces herself to move, and hurries towards her. Kneeling down, she helps her untie the knots of the rope that bound her hands, careful not to cause her more pain than she already is in, and turns her body upright to face her. When she sees the countenance of the woman, however, she is stunned into silence once more.

"Harrington?"

Lady Katherine Harrington of Johanne, Archery Mistress of the Monriquan Armed Forces is she, whose face the Duchess is barely able to recognise, due to the many painful scratches that have marred her cheeks. However, despite her exhaustion and heavy injuries, her grey eyes still flash with a familiar defiance that allows the Duchess to confirm her identity without another doubt.

A small smile tugs the Archery Mistress' lips up at the sight of the Duchess. "Fancy seeing you here, De Beauharnais," she croaks wryly, stretching her arms with a wince, "this is hardly a place I would expect Duchesses to frequent."

Holding onto the Duchess' hands, she pushes herself up with a grimace into a sitting position, and leans against the wall behind her. The small movement has cost her what little remained of her energy, and she pants heavily.

"And this is hardly a place I would expect army officers, let alone Archery Mistresses, to frequent," the Duchess is quick to remark sardonically, "what did you do for your own colleagues to treat you with such callousness?" She gestures to her many injuries.

The Archery Mistress closes her eyes. "My colleagues are not wholly responsible for these injuries," she admits, "they only did what they had to - which was to arrest me, bearing in mind the severity of my accused crime."

"Which is?"

Her eyes darken. "Attempted murder."

The Duchess raises her eyebrow. "One is not imprisoned for simply being accused of murder," she points out, "there must be evidences, witnesses, and those take weeks to be processed by the Court of the Lady Justice - "

"You will be surprised, De Beauharnais," she sighs heavily, "at how such a process can be speeded up a thousand-fold when the accuser is a Queen Consort of Monrique, and the accused in question is an impoverished noblewoman with no political or social connections except for her position as an Archery Mistress in the army." She points to herself to establish that she is the accused in question.

The Duchess' eyes widen. Queen Consort Eleanor Seymour, fondly known by Monriquan as Good Queen Ella, is well-known for her sense of righteousness and justice. Till this day, the Duchess has never heard of the Queen accusing or sending anyone to the dungeons without a fair trial, or proper investigations at the very least, even when her husband is inclined to.

"Queen Eleanor?" the Duchess blinks in shock now, "but why? Who does she think you are out to kill?"

The Archery Mistress simply shakes her head, and remains silent. Deep in her thoughts, she absent-mindedly traces the cuts on her arms.

Sensing that she is troubled, the Duchess wisely chooses not to press her question. Instead, she tears a portion of her gown, wet it with the water dripping from the ceiling. She gently cleans the blood off her friend's wounds on her extremities, worried that they may fester and cause her health to deteriorate further.

As she finishes nursing the last of her injuries, the Archery Mistress shakes herself out of her reverie, and smiles weakly at the Duchess. "Thank you, De Beauharnais. 'Twas very thoughtful of you," she remarks, "and such kindness makes one wonder why you have been imprisoned here."

"I have been accused of treason," she answers quietly, "and in a way, I suppose the accusation is true."

The Archery Mistress' forehead creases. "And why is that?"

A faint twinkle enters her eyes. "I have been up to a little mischief these few weeks, along with a few others," she shrugs, "and I refused to obey the King and his Crown Council's orders to cease. Oh, and I may have laid a few threats of my own on them...enough to frighten them into locking me away from the world."

She chuckles scornfully, as she shakes her head. "Blithering idiots," her voice is soft, "as dangerous as I may be, imprisoning me is not the solution to their problems."

The Archery Mistress sits upright, astounded. "You threatened the King of Monrique?" her eyes are almost bulging out of her sockets, "how? Why?"

The Duchess remains silent, hesitant.

"De Beauharnais!" she winces at the effort it takes her to raise her voice, "you cannot tell me that you publicly threatened His Majesty, of all people, and still expect me not to ask you all about it!"

The Duchess bursts into laughter for the first time in days. "You seem to be very curious about my circumstances, Harrington," she answers softly, "as much as I am, I admit, about yours. If you tell me about yours, I will tell you about mine. Does that sound fair to you?"

"Now?" the Archery Mistress is surprised, "but it is a very long tale."

"And we have all the time in the world. Neither of us will be leaving this dungeon any time soon, bearing in mind the severity of our accused crimes," the Duchess echoes her friend's words, amused, "how about it, Harrington?"

"All right," the Archery Mistress chuckles, "well..."