Cecily had been very disappointed when she'd figured out that Edmund wasn't going to be competing in the Tourney. Obviously he wouldn't, being as spineless and selfishly proud as he was, but she'd hoped... partly so she could see him, partly so she could watch him getting hurt. So far she'd only seen him get hurt three times - once by Francois and the other two very weak slaps on her part. She'd have liked to see him pummeled.

She ran her fingers lightly over the front of her dress. It was starting to show more, this awful bump of hers, and while she was quite fond of it she wished it would go away. There'd be no strings at all if this child wasn't around - she could seduce Edmund as much as she liked and Ewan wouldn't even be in view. Not even peripheral vision. Not even in chameleon vision.

She smiled a little and went to find Ewan. It wasn't so much for the romance of it all - standing in between sweaty men trying to gouge holes in each other's flesh wasn't exactly poetic - but so she could dispel all these rumours about her. That stupid girl in Harleston had told almost the whole Kingdom that she was pregnant, so she'd been in the spotlight for quite a while. At least, until those rumours came out about Ewan... if he disappointed her that was the end of him.

"Ewan," she called, spotting him in the crowd. No doubt he was thinking about some sort of planetary phenomenon - that or just being his depressing self. He'd been so much more interesting when cracking jokes for her, not to mention more attractive. Nowadays he looked pale and wan. She didn't - she was quite surprised about the glow she had from being with child. Maybe it was just the knowledge that she was secure. Or maybe, most likely, that she was loved.

Ewan had been brooding. His first match wasn't for a couple of hours, and he wanted nothing so much as to be alone... but obviously, that wasn't about to happen. The events of the past few days crashed over him like waves. First, Aoife... their child... of which he could hardly think without rendering it in the abstract. He had no idea, really, how he felt about that. At the moment all he could feel was anger. This was what had separated Aoife from him. They'd fit together like two halves of a globe, and now it was all in pieces. Ice and fire and blood.

When had he become one of those men? He had no idea. When had the thought of a woman turned him cold and hot at once? The thought that she was his sister hovered far away now. He felt simply that she was him, and he was her, and he could never forget that the only happiness he had ever known...

Once, he'd believed in God.

Someone was calling his name, and he thought for one fevered moment that it was Aoife--but it was only Cecily. He swung around, blinking blurrily. He knew he looked a fright; there were circles sunk deep beneath his eyes, and he hadn't been able to swallow food for a day.

"Cecily," he said quietly, looking at her. Now that his mother had pointed it out to him, it was so obvious. "How are you?" He stuck his hands into the sides of his belt and looked away from her gaze, settling his own on a point just over her shoulder. "My mother's told me--look, I just wanted to let you know I don't care, all right?"

He really did look disgusting. She couldn't quite believe it. Everything about him - his hair, his eyes, his breath - reeked. He was drowning in repulsiveness and she almost couldn't stand to be near him. Oh, what had happened? The carefree Ewan who had made her laugh with jokes about marriage was standing in that ring and seemed unable to think of anything good. But then he had to, now. If he called off the engagement he'd be ruined for sure.

Cecily wondered if she might be able to hook some other, less revolting man, and run away - but running away meant no Edmund and no chance just to see him, to watch him as hopelessly as a caged songbird scanned the skies. Because while he could forget her she couldn't erase him from her memory. He was part of time, she had spent a part of her life with him, how could she forget that? The happiest times of her life they had been too.

She was by no means hopeful. She had given up on him. She had given up on his love and the happiness that would have come with it - it would not happen to her. She smiled at Ewan and moved her hands from her stomach, placing them firmly on her hips and replying pleasantly to his conversation. "Well, thankyou. This Tournament seems like it'll be stocked with disaster," she grinned, casting a glance towards a couple of poorly equipped boys no doubt aiming for glory.

She continued to smile and look at him, despite what he said. This was a game she had to play - people could see any shock she displayed, including Ewan. She couldn't. But if he knew... she didn't even know what he knew. And she couldn't risk him telling everyone. But if he did know about the child, how could he be fine with it? He obviously didn't care a speck for her. But if she'd been him, she'd have been dreadfully jealous. It showed the differences in personality after all.

Ewan took her by the elbow and pulled her aside, into the shade of a spreading yew tree.

"Look, Cecily, I'll accept a lot, but not lies. My mother's told me, and so have several others, that you're with child." He sighed, closing his eyes. If only Aoife were in her place-- "I just wanted you to know, as far as I'm concerned it changes nothing. You're safe, all right?"

She seemed to be recoiling from him in disgust, so he backed away, his eyes downcast. "God knows I've committed my share of sins. If you're in love with someone else you can't have, well..." He shrugged. "But if you can--if I've entrapped you in some way--look, I'll give up my claim if that's what you want."

He hunched his shoulders, chewing at the side of his lip, where skin flaked away from dryness. He hadn't even drunk any water today. Maybe that was the source of his dizziness. Maybe he was sickening. Ewan didn't particularly care, and he thought back to what he'd read in Galen about the disease of the broken heart. It was just as potent as the plague, he had read.

He wasn't too rough when he pulled her aside, but he wasn't too gentle either. It quite obviously wasn't a lover's caress, nor an enemy's tug - it was a firm grip and guidance, as one would expect from a family friend or a competitive peer. And that was all she was to him. An escape from duty, really. But by marrying him she gained duty; duty to be a mother, a wife, a friend and a confidante. He had the duty to be a father and a husband, but if he didn't no one would care. He could drink until insanity poured out his ears and all anyone would do was shake their heads and turn away. But for her? No.

She didn't say anything to his comments about being with child, just watched him to see if he'd say anything more. He did, and his words washed over her and unhinged a few tightly coiled springs in her stomach. She didn't show it visually, but her whole aura seemed to relax more and she flashed a show of white teeth and was on the verge of saying something when he spoke again.

Cecily's eyes flickered a little, but she couldn't tell him about Edmund. For one, she didn't love the man. She hated him. And for another, she could get Edmund if she really wanted to - well, get him as much as was possible. She could sleep with him every day if she wanted to; surely that counted as getting him? Getting with him, certainly.

"I assure you, Ewan, that I love no man. The disgusting scrap of a man who forced this untimely child is worth nothing to me. I hate him, truly," she said, with only a little anger in her voice. She knew the polite thing to do was to return the question, to say that she would let go if he needed her to, but she wouldn't. She wouldn't let this chance go.

Instead she stepped up to him, brushing some hair from his forehead. By the way he'd said it, he obviously wanted someone he couldn't have - or maybe he could, just wasn't allowed to. Either way it wasn't his fault, and while he could fall to pieces over it she couldn't. Cecily smiled a little and brushed down the shoulders of his doublet, tender by her standards, and organised him so he looked a little more presentable, then she linked her arm with his and started to move him away.

She might think of another man sometimes, but this one was here and she'd try to support him as best as she could - after all, he'd done the same for her. "Oh - we should go and watch Francois and Nicholas battling it out," she grinned, gesturing towards the area, "I'd love to see Francois getting what he deserves, wouldn't you?"

"I assure you, Ewan, that I love no man. The disgusting scrap of a man who forced this untimely child is worth nothing to me. I hate him, truly."

Ewan swallowed. It was hard to hear those words without somehow thinking of Aoife saying them about him. And why wouldn't she hate him? In the clear, cool light of distance, he could tell that what had happened was all his fault. If he hadn't been so jealous over her suitors, she might have chosen one of them. Even the gypsy would have been a better choice for her than he was. Even the execrable Lord Smith would have been a better choice. Of course, mused an insidious voice in his head, she might still have miscarried someone else's child and called it God's fault. God! But no... there was something different about the taboo that bound them.

Maybe it was only what people believed, but belief had weight, like thick, suffocating smoke. It poured through his own lungs and clouded his eyes, and he couldn't help but agree--what they'd done was more than wrong. It was wrong in a primal way: brothers and sisters couldn't lie together. Never mind that the Egyptians, or so he'd heard, made a practice of marrying brother to sister. Never mind that in some distant time it had been a sacrament, and not the source of damnation.

Cecily stepped closer, and he was amazed that her eyes were kind. He'd thought his sin came off of him in a reek like crushed garlic. But no; she brushed back his hair, and tugged his clothes into place. She wasn't an unattractive woman, and his fear of women seemed to have seeped away like water water from an unsound vessel. He didn't recoil from her, but he didn't particularly desire her, either. All sensations felt similarly leaden now.

Her lighthearted words shocked him out of his blankness. "What--who?" Oh--that one. She'd arranged her arm through his, and he set off walking beside her, though in truth she was the one guiding him. "But he's one of the Duke's friends. Why do you dislike him? I've been away from Marcheford, you see--my family's been--" He looked away. "Besides, I try not to listen to gossip." What might they have been saying about him? The worst he'd heard was a rumor that he was a sodomite, but that, he supposed, was far more benign a bit of hearsay than the truth. Still.

Of course she'd care when she found out about him, but she couldn't really say much. His world was stocked with drama, but he'd had more of a chance than her to get things right. She'd had only a couple of days with Edmund - a couple of crazy, fast-moving days that blinkered and fettered on her timeline and made everything else glow a little too. She was a little bewildered when she heard Ewan's talk - surely he knew Francois? - but then she explained it to him with a little laugh.

"Ewan, Francois is one of the most unbearable people in the Kingdom. Most people hate him, and it's uncommon for him to get noticed for something good... He fought the Duke of Pemberton, did you know that? It was a fist fight and he dragged out a dagger and stabbed him. Apparently he also has a son, and a woman he hasn't married." She didn't think much about gossiping about Francois - he didn't qualify as an actual person. He was just a fiend, that man.

She was going to thoroughly enjoy him getting hurt.

"Tell you what," she said, still leading him along, "we'll have a bet. I reckon Francois isn't going to last two minutes out there - what do you think?" Her eyes sparkled with the prospect of Francois's pain - not the most friendly happiness, but one she was happy to harbor. After all, he'd tried to hit on her then turned around and stabbed the man she love- no, hated. So maybe she should thank him after all.

She turned to Ewan again, brushing away such thoughts, and glanced him over surreptitiously. It wouldn't be hard to get him cleaned up. She needed to spend more time with him, help him over all the stuff he was going through, try to recreate the Ewan she'd known. A little attention would probably help a lot. And for the sake of all the people around them, she had to create the illusion that they weren't completely awkward around each other - a hard one, true, but not impossible, especially if he played along.

"Oh." While the man sounded despicable, Ewan couldn't say his own sins were any less. And while cheating in a fight was something he would never consider... he knew how often rumors were distorted. If anyone deserved the gravest censure it was he. But now that he thought of it, he had heard this Lord François's name in conjunction with something. Witchcraft, that was it. And that sent a chill down his spine.

If there were any accusation he would face--worse than that of incest--it would be witchcraft. He could face a quick execution, as long as he knew Aoife was safe from it. But the long, slow torture of the Inquisition wasn't something he dared dream of. And now his faith had run out. What would he have to say if questioned on his belief in God?

But he didn't need to worry about it. He was only paranoid because he was in Harleston, surrounded by the religious and women in head-coverings and heavy crosses.

He took her arm in his and led the way to the ring where he recognized the cousin of Ashton's Duchess, apparently a popular man with women, and the black-clad, gaunt Lord François. He'd seen him with Duke Alden, he realized. He looked much more like a scholar than a warrior even with that battered prize-fighter's nose, but the match was a rousing one, and he had to admire both mens' techniques.

"Look," he told Cecily in an undertone, ducking his head toward her as they approached the stands, where they had a clear view of the duel. "Notice how they're both perfectly balanced--" He frowned fleetingly. "I'm sorry. You don't like to be lectured--I forgot." There was no harshness in his comment, only regret. "I can't take your bet, though. The match is a close one. Tied, so far." He nodded at the tablets that served as a scoreboard. "Besides, it's silly to bet with your own fiancée." The ghost of a smile.

He obviously didn't know Francois very well, if all he said was 'oh'. Anyone who knew Francois would branch off into a long discussion about how foul the man was, his many bad qualities, his past, his future, everything about his present... It was irresistible. There was something about insulting a fiend like him that brought people together.

He led her towards the area, and she let him. Usually Cecily would have tried to stand evenly with him so they could walk side by side, but he didn't seem incredibly himself today and she wanted to make him feel more important. Besides, she'd look like the humble housewife if she trailed after him... she hid a smile behind her hand and pretended she was brushing hair from her forehead.

"No, no," she said, looking up at him, "I don't know much about fencing. I've tried it, of course, but ended up hitting myself, mainly." She preferred riding. Fencing required too much skill for her - too much steadiness and practice. She preferred to just go with things, instead of having to command them, and from what she'd seen and tried of fencing it was much too hard. "Please continue."

A half smile, half frown appeared on her face. "How so? If I should bet with anything it should probably be with someone whose money I'm using, hmm?" Now that she thought about it, he probably would hold most of the money. She had some, of course, but he had most of it, and would have hers besides. She didn't much like that idea. She could take care of her own money fine, she didn't need him taking the lot and squandering it on whatever it was he did.

"And really, I'm sure I'd win anyway. Francois was walking around bruised the other month from a couple of scraps he got into." She turned back to the match, watching the silver flitter and swirl.

Ewan was about to say something about women and fencing, which would usually cause a physical fight with his sister... but he felt his throat close up before he could speak. He couldn't speak of her, nor even think of her, within the hot flame of jealousy, rage and sadness igniting.

"When did I ever say I would choose to bet against you?" he said, throwing a brief, forced smile at Cecily. "After all, betting usually presupposes a disagreement. I think this match'll be close, I'm not about to put money on it, and betting is..." Ewan had never been a gambling man. His morals had been of utmost importance. But he had let those go; or he had let some of them go, and not the rest?

He'd taken part in barracks talk enough, hadn't he, listening to his friends go on about bedding whores and gambling away a year's allowance--but he'd never done any of it. No, he'd skipped straight on to the things even the worst of his companions considered unforgivable. Moderation in all things? He really ought to have listening to Aristotle.

"Very well," he said at last, turning to Cecily. "I'll bet you fifteen gold--and I'll put my money on the Lord François. If you'll tell me why you hate him so much. Is there a story behind it?" He vaguely recalled, now, he'd heard something about the man having an illegitimate child. It couldn't be with Cecily, could it? It was only fair he knew, after all, since he was the one marrying her. But he tried to couch it in teasing terms, as the man he'd once been might have done.

She tried not to laugh at him then, but it was hard. He was so very serious - wasn't willing to bet against his own fiance, even for fun. But then he seemed down and laughing at him wasn't exactly going to help him open up. He seemed to have something on his mind, a large thing, and she would try to make him feel better about it. 'Try' being the operative word.

They stood in silence for a while, watching the fencing, and Cecily could see Francois's mouth moving - arrogant threats, no doubt. If she wasn't prejudiced against Francois she'd see that it was very hard to pick a winner - they were almost equal, except for the fact that Lord Nicholas was lighter on his feet. A very attractive man, she thought, but it was a pity he was such a vain man. It was easy to tell from his clothing that he was used to fancy outfits, and she wasn't too fond of a man who liked frills more than she did.

She turned in some surprise to Ewan, when he finally relented and agreed to gamble. She hadn't expected he'd actually do it - she'd figured he'd mumble away and change the subject. But then he did, in his own abstract fashion, and she was left to explain her dislike of Francois. Fifteen gold didn't sound too unreasonable, either.

"He's a coward," she said shortly, "he's a coward and a cheat. He thinks he can get any woman he wants, and he plays them. They're each a game to him. He runs away from his problems and forces them on others, and, as I've mentioned before, in a fist fight between the Duke and him he scrapped all dignity or morals and stabbed him when they'd both agreed to no swords."

A very simple reason to hate him. "Fifteen gold sounds fine, but I'm sure you'll be less than thrilled when I win," she said with a competitive little smirk. "Oh, and Ewan - thankyou. For understanding, I mean. If there's -" she hesitated "- if there's anything you want to tell me, just say. I won't judge, I swear."

Ewan frowned, listening to her, feeling as though pieces of the puzzle were fitting themselves into place. She'd spoken very ill of the father of her child, and now, her words about this Lord François were very rancorous. It fit with the man's general reputation; but at the same time he had heard only the occasional grumble over the Duke's choice of friends--nothing all that accusatory.

"Cecily," he said quietly, his eyes going to meet hers, though his hands remained at his sides, twitching a little, "If he took advantage of you--" His gaze slid down her body, a kind of creeping horror overtaking him. He'd just bet on the man, allying himself with someone who might have... He looked back up at Cecily. "You don't have to be afraid to tell me if that's what happened. I'd--" What, duel him?

Her comment almost passed him by.

And oh... oh... how much wanted to tell her. To tell someone. But if she'd in fact been raped, then her situation was entirely different.

And then there was the matter of Aoife. If she took it into her head to tell someone else, it wouldn't only mark his own death sentence--it would be hers as well, or at least her disgrace.

So he ignored the question for now. But it pricked at him. After all, he was marrying this woman, and she deserved to know the state of his soul. Still.

He waited for her to answer his question.

She glanced up at his renewed awkwardness, wondering what on earth he had thought of now. Probably remembered that a new planet had been discovered or his favourite type of plant was flowering. Maybe his favourite philosopher had spouted a new quote or his mother had finally cleaned his boots - any of them seemed likely for Ewan. But then it wasn't his fault... he was still moping around in the way she had after Edmund, so something must be up.

His words took a while to sink in. "Francois... taking advantage of me?" Then she laughed, incredulous laughter. Where had he got that idea from? If Francois had raped her she'd have spread the story as far as she could and confronted him about it, too. Mind you, the man wouldn't be able to - she knew how to wield a dagger well enough.

She snapped out of her laughter soon enough, and it was replaced by disgust. "Francois - no! Ugh! Never, not him, ever - he's a disgrace to Adesia, but not... not in that way... He couldn't, really, he's too..." she trailed off, too amazed that Ewan could think such a thing. She took deep breath to calm herself. "Ewan, if Francois raped me, I'd duel him myself. I appreciate your concern, but..."

Somehow she thought herself much more capable of facing a man with a sword than Ewan. Maybe it was his shyness, or his awkwardness, or the way he couldn't put one word in front of another half the time. Her smile grew again and she turned to watch the fencing again. Hit missed for Nicholas, damn it, and... hit missed for Francois too! She sighed with relief.

"No, Ewan. The man who created this child... I hate him with all my heart, but he didn't take advantage of me. He just toyed with my dreams and threw them away," she shrugged, pushing away the emotion that had begun to grow on her. "Have you ever felt that way?"

Ewan took a deep breath and shut his eyes to the match for a moment.

"Yes. I have felt that way." More than felt it, he still did; it gnawed at him. When he wasn't thinking of Aoife he was thinking of the child they might have had, or the family they might have had if she had run away with him. But she hadn't. Why not? She'd been eager enough, at the beginning, pressing him to forget his inhibitions... but no... for all he had constantly declared himself her elder brother, the one responsible... how seriously had he taken that position? No, the betrayal was his, but it still stung; it twisted at his heart.

"I don't see how anyone could leave a woman he loved behind, and certainly not his own child," he added, at last. Who was it? He didn't wonder as a rival, because to him, Cecily and indeed all women currently had the sex appeal of marble statues. Interesting to look at, but fundamentally lifeless, unreal. "I was lucky enough, for a brief moment--if there had been a way to hang onto that I would have given anything--" A mad gleam shone briefly in his eyes, and went out.

He glanced up at her suddenly. "I'm sorry. That's maudlin, and you were expecting me to spout off about Kepler or Aristotle." The clash of swords and exchange of insults in the ring was a distant background now, and he was hardly so much as thinking of his own match to come. Or he couldn't let himself think it.

He thought that this might be the moment to reassure Cecily that he at least wouldn't leave her (though he wouldn't love her, either), but it struck him that his promises really couldn't be trusted. After all, he'd promised Aoife he'd take care of her... all of this 'taking care,' that was the problem--the realization hit him at gut level, but he wasn't sure what exactly he'd realized, so he sook his head slightly and looked back to Cecily. "I've lost someone I loved, too, you see."

"Well, he can," she said a little snappishly, because she wanted to believe it was true. Why wouldn't it be? He'd said it over and over and he wasn't the type to lie, or back down on something he'd said... yet he had. She was a jumble of confused and hopeful thoughts that commanded her attention so that she had to look at them and keep thinking about them... even when she didn't want to.

A little crease appeared on her forehead. She hadn't really thought about him ever loving someone... he was Ewan. Either the object of his affection had a very reserved social life or were incredibly desperate. Like her. Because when she thought about Ewan being in a relationship she thought of him stopping in the middle of making love to discuss what Aristotle had said. That thought brought a mischievous smile to her face and she stifled it with the back of her hand.

Ewan had better not leave her. If he did she would literally track him down and blackmail him into it. She'd threaten to tip off his mother or his Duke or just spread the rumour around that he was impotent. She wasn't in any mood to mess around with this marriage - and now he'd literally imprisoned himself in her clutches. Not that her clutches couldn't be nice... and he was more likely to get nice if he didn't threaten her with scandal.

"I'm sorry, Ewan. Do you think she was the one for you?" She assumed that his mystery lover was dead, or why else would he have lost her? If she was idiotic enough to fall for him in the first place there was no way she'd miraculously become intelligent and drop him. He wasn't that bad, Ewan - the biggest problem with him was that he wasn't Edmund and never would be.

"I did think so." Ewan's voice sounded very far away. He looked sideways at Cecily. Now that he knew it, he could see the obvious bulge of her pregnancy, and it made him think of Aoife. If only she hadn't lost it... they would have run away together. He wouldn't be here. Aoife would be his. They would have their own child and their own life. Instead, as though in penance, he had Cecily, someone else's child, a reminder like the ghost of hope; and she loved someone else, too.

It was only fair, really. He didn't deserve better, and she needed to marry someone.

"But we..." Ewan leaned against the fence, balancing on his elbows, and put his head in his hands. Oh, why not. He didn't want to lie--he'd even managed to avoid directly lying to his mother--but he couldn't tell her the whole truth, either. "We lost a child, and she decided that God disapproved of our... of us. So that's why I'm not at my, you know, my most chipper right now."

He pushed back from the fence and rocked on his heels, his arms folded across his chest. "I know you think I'm silly, or awkward. But I'm not just a plaything."