Helena's Legion (EDITING)

TWO

The candle stubs are short today, Francine thinks as she plucks them from the candelabras and sconces, letting them roll into the basket slung on her arm with muffled clonks. The stone corridor is cold and drafty, making it difficult for her to light the new candlesticks she places in each fixing.

Paintings of long-dead royals watch her as she works in silence, stopping to lower her eyes to the stone floor whenever a person of any importance walks past.

She hears footsteps behind her and turns quickly, glancing to see who approaches. She exhales in relief as a familiar feminine figure enters her periphery.

"Come on slow-poke," teases Vatre. "I've got all the candles on my side done already."

The older girl reaches into Francine's basket of fresh sticks and spills some into her own, taking position beside her. Francine smirks.

"I bet yours are all loose in their holders," she replies, looking at Vatre as she lights another candle. The pair sidle along the wall in sync.

Vatre beams, her golden irises sparkling in the renewed candlelight. Francine glances at the thick brown hair under Vatre's bonnet, how the loose strands grace the curve of her swan-like neck. She reaches a hand to the back of her head to reposition her own bonnet.

A shriek startles Francine, and the two girls turn and bow their heads. Francine watches in the corner of her eye as Princess Rowena rounds the corner, white hair whipping behind her as she chases her little brother down the corridor, boots clicking against the stone. Francine's breath catches and her cheeks flame red-hot. When they disappear around the other corner, Francine finds her eyes stuck to her clogs.

Vatre straightens and turns back to the wall, reaching for the next withered stub in her basket. She glances at the puny girl, still frozen beside her.

"Not still thinking about your spill with the Princess, are you?" She asks. Francine starts and turns back to the wall, cheeks growing hotter. She snatches the next candle from its fixing.

"No."

After a pause, Vatre puts a soothing hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure she hasn't given it a second thought since. I mean," Vatre removed her hand. Francine forced herself to blink, "she's not her sister. No offence to Her Majesty, but," lowering her voice, "there's something not quite right in that pretty head of hers. Doesn't seem like she's enjoying the luxury of being Queen, I guess one could say." The pair shuffle along the wall some more. Francine pretends to ignore Vatre's smirk as she leans to whisper into her ear. "In fact, I was cleaning her chambers the other day and I found some indiscreet-looking powder on her side table. Not to say that she has some sort of ailment of the mind, but it sure-"

A thundering parade echoes into the hallway. Vatre's devilish grin disappears and the two girls turn and bow their heads a second time. Francine watches as the Queen, barefoot and rigid, marches down the corridor with the stone-faced General and scowling Council members following hastily behind. The two girls offer a quick and shallow curtsy, not that Her Majesty's entourage would have noticed.

As they leave, Francine exhales a breath she had been unconsciously withholding. Vatre makes big, comical eyes at her, which Francine always seems to find comforting.

"Whatever it is, it must be important."

--- 

Helena paces in front of a cell, the cold wet stones stinging the bottoms of her feet. The reek of urine and faeces assaults her nose - not even breathing through her mouth can purge her senses. Nevertheless, Helena hardly notices as her mind races, which it hadn't stopped doing since the start of their journey down to this forgotten part of the castle. She feels Marcus's eyes watch her as she walks back and forth. Sir Gregor stumbles down the stairs, bits of clothing still requiring tying and fitting. Captain Doran, who had been waiting for them upon arrival, seems to muster the nerve to speak first.