Secrets and Stolen Swords(Bloodkiss/Raziel)

Caoimhe hurried down the hall, rushing from her father's room. He was delirious, in and out of fever dreams for days. And now his walls were being attacked. With him on his sickbed and his best knights away, his men were at their wit's end. It was utter chaos in the barracks, and they would all pay if the men couldn't get their heads straight. It had been foolish of her father to send off all the worthy knights. Now the men had no leader. Well, she would see that an end was put to this nonsense. She ducked into the armory, dimming her lantern. All of the men were either on the walls, or asleep, giving her just enough time to spirit away some equipment while it was still dark. She snatched up the things she would need and made her way out of the castle proper. She pulled her hood up around her face and snuck out into the village with her things and her horse. When morning came, she would assume the guise that might very well save them all. But it needed to appear real. She needed to go out into the woods, and from there she would dress as her father's most favored knight, and she would bring order to this madhouse.

She hurried to don the armor, the sun already peering over the horizon. She tugged her hair up and pulled the helmet over her head, slapping the visor down. If anyone paid enough attention to her, they would see right through her ruse. She was short, much shorter than the man she impersonated. And she was far too feminine to ever be mistaken for a man. So she padded herself with several tunics, and she would have to stay upon the horse to appear taller. She was riding a huge warhorse, and the damn thing made her appear small even after all of her preparations. She only hoped that her guise would last long enough to lead her men to victory. She kicked the beast into a full gallop for the castle. The men at the gate knew the knight's flag she bore and allowed her entry without hesitation, cheering for the man that would organize their ranks. She made quick work of gathering everyone in the bailey and directed men to posts and lined up their ranks. She hoped they wouldn't think it queer that she had given not one verbal command, only signals. But no one seemed to question it. She glanced around the bailey, surprised at how quickly they had worked. They were ready.

She led the men out through the porticullis, ready to meet their rival's forces. She drew her borrowed sword from its sheath, glad for all those moments spent watching her father's men practice and for having snuck off and practiced on her own many days, when she should have been studying. She had disliked her tutors, and she was intruiged by swordplay, and had secretly practiced it when she could for many years. She raised her sword and motioned for the men to charge forward, eager to be done with this ruse quickly. If she were injured badly enough or captured, everyone would know her secret. She would no doubt be put to death for such an impersonation, and she would rather not die.

Caoimhe struck out with her sword, but was not quick enough, encumbered by the padding she'd worn to appear like Alexander. She was dragged from her horse and across the field to their leader. She fought back the tears that rose to her eyes, wishing she had died on the battlefield. Her secret would be found out, and they would doubtless do worse to her than end her life. The few men that were left fled, hurrying to the castle keep to regroup. She didn't blame them. But she had to find a way to escape before they knew her identity.

Caoimhe took a deep, shuddering breath, wiggling her wrists in their bonds. They had tied her hands too tightly, and watched her too closely. There was no way she could escape. And now she had to face her fate. She was on her knees before these men, but she would not beg or plead. She held her back straight, her chin high, and would face her captors with defiance to the end.

Caoimhe spat at his feet and made a move to bite his hand. "Don't touch me with your filthy hands." Her hair had tumbled out of the helmet and fell across her face and shoulders, the red-gold strands bright against the dull grey armor. Her arm ached where she had been hit and knocked from her horse. She wouldn't be surprised if some of her ribs were broken. Her horse had run off after she was wrenched from the saddle, and she could only hope that he lived.

She winced, the blow sounding throughout the room. Her cheek throbbed, the pale skin bright red from his strike. She glared, watching as he sent the man to deliver the message. There was no way for her to escape now. Her only hope lay in her father's men. Mayhaps they would remain organized, even in the face of defeat, and come to her rescue.