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Fitz glances over to look briefly into King Edward VI’s deep brown eyes and finds himself unable to look away. The King is breathing heavily, his hands shaking, and if they weren’t already locked in a heated staring contest, Fitz would think the King was terrified.
His eyes hold no fear, though. He stares at Fitz without flinching, contemplative like Fitz is a difficult puzzle that he needs to solve.
“How can I trust you?” he asks.
Fitz has no response. The King shouldn’t trust him –it's unreasonably stupid– and no average person would. It's kill or be killed out here. Nobles always are just a bit too naive, though. Fitz shrugs his shoulders and gives the King a little smirk. His Royal Highness is all out of options at this point.
They are all out of options, Fitz reminds himself. He had tried, he had tried so hard to get the King out of this horror show of a chapel from the get-go.
Fitz had come up with a perfect plan to get out of there, with minimal casualties and everything, yet he’d been refused. All they’d needed to do was knock out the incoming nuns, sneak past the king's evil grandmother, and voila they’d be able to escape. It was supposed to be simple.
The King nods slowly at Fitz’s non-committal response, his eyes hardening.
“Fine.” He grits out. “Lead the way, I guess.”
Fitz lets a grin slide onto his face and solutes once before turning around and sliding against the door to a common area in the chapel. The King follows behind slowly and nods his head in agreement when Fitz signals them to be quiet. The chapel’s walls are illuminated only by the moon’s faint glow. The nuns shouldn’t be out walking the halls, but they can’t be too cautious.
Fitz peaks his head into the room, and he closes his eyes briefly, and lets out a small sigh; the room is empty.
Without waiting to check any further, he runs into the cavernous room. Now that they’re here, all Fitz needs to do is get the key from the King’s grandmother’s room. He tries not to think too deeply about that whole situation or what could happen if he was caught. He’s Ethian so they wouldn’t hurt him, right? He desperately hopes not.
Grabbing the King's arm and dragging him closer to the wall, Fitz levels him with his best glare.
“Do not move,” he says, gripping just a bit tighter onto the King's arm. “I’ll be back soon.”
The King starts and opens his mouth to say something –to complain, most likely– but Fitz is already turning around and letting his body shift. The key, he has to find the key.
Sprinting through the halls, Fitz makes it a total of two minutes before he’s being grabbed from behind. Of course, something had to go wrong. He thrashes, claws, and hisses, at whoever has a hold of him to no avail. His captor only laughs at his struggles. Fitz’s eyes burn as he feels a white-hot rage wash over him.
He keeps scratching at the hands holding him but it's no use.
His legs buck out wildly, trying to kick and claw at anything to create a distraction. All he succeeds at is hitting air and causing the hands around him to tighten that much more.
“Keep still, kitty.” his captor says, the creepy smile on their face pulling at their scars, and Fitz can’t help but flinch.
Suddenly, the nun reaches behind her and grabs something from the shadows of her robes. The hallway they are in is dark, the shadows along the walls long and haunting, and Fitz can’t see clearly. Be it from lack of light or the fury mixed with fear making it difficult to concentrate. Fitz can’t see what they are holding. He would be the last to admit it, but it’s terrifying.
The nun is still holding him and Fitz’s eyes are moving back and forth, back and forth, trying helplessly to find a way to escape. It’s no use, though, as not a second later, he is being flung into complete and total darkness.
He tries to dig his claws into the rough fabric of the bag keeping him prisoner, but it doesn’t rip. He keeps trying anyway.
Eventually, Fitz feels the bag start to move. Back and forth, it sways as the nun walks. He doesn’t know where they are taking him, but he knows that it can’t be anywhere good. The nun mutters to themselves as they walk, but Fitz can’t hear what they’re saying.
As they walk, Fitz continues to try to scrape at the inside of the bag, his tail whipping around wildly as he does. His heart is pounding and he can't seem to think clearly. Every thought is a muddled mess of anger, fear, and pure aggravation.
He doesn’t know how, but he can pinpoint the exact moment they walk into a new room. Maybe the air is different, maybe Fitz just knows the chappel that well, or maybe it's the King.
His majesty’s voice is rough, tinged with terror and reluctance equally.
“Fitz?” he asks.
Fitz hisses in response. If he could make enough noise, hopefully, the King would be able to hear him before the nun got a hold of him.
He doesn’t know why he cares what happens to the King, though. It’s not like these insane nuns were doing anything different than he was. Well, maybe it was a bit different, but either way, they were all just trying to use the King for their own gain–
Fitz pushes those thoughts away. Dwelling on any kind of morals put a bit of a damper on things, as if being stuck in a sack did much better.
“Afraid your pet cat isn’t going to come to your rescue this time, Your Majesty.” the nun sneers. “Go back to your room, and this kitten won’t see what it feels like to be thrown into a stone wall.”
The bag Fitz is in sways heavily as if taunting the King. Fitz howls and begins scratching anew, he could only trust himself, no use waiting for the King to make a run for it. There is a bit of commotion outside, but Fitz is too caught up in his ceaseless clawing that he barely has time to brace himself before impact.
Only that’s not what happens.
“Wait!” the King yells, his voice much closer than before. “Wait. I’ll go with you. Just– don't hurt him.”
There is a moment of silence where both Fitz and the nun are silent. He doesn’t know what the nun is thinking, but at the moment, Fitz can’t register anything being said. The moment ends and they are moving again; the new quiet is deafening and almost too much for Fitz to bear. He does though, still reeling.
The King's steps echo on the stone floor, each beat steady until they’re not.
The bag is dropped on the ground, Fitz with it. The nun yells.
The King screams back. There is the tell-tale swish of a blade whipping around and a responding grunt.
With more conversation than Fitz is able to comprehend at the moment – these people are in the heat of battle, Fitz thinks, how do they have the time to continuously talk to each other?
He takes a moment to contemplate what his life had become before without warning, there is a heavy thud. The sound reverberates through the room as metal objects are thrown to the ground.
Inexplicably, Fitz’s fabric prison is looser than it was before. His endless scratching must have made some headway.
Light pours into the sack, momentarily blinding him, as he scrambles to gain his bearings.
He shakes it off as quickly as possible, though, and without further contemplation, rushes out of the bag and transforms back into a human– just in time to see the king being choked practically to death by the nun on the table in the middle of the room.
Fitz doesn’t spare a single moment to think about how stupid he’s going to feel later and picks up the closest object he can find. A large shovel.
He has no clue why a group of nuns would have a shovel. Maybe one of them just really likes gardening? He tries his best not to think of the other more murderous things someone could do with a shovel. It’s not like he was about to be any better if he sat for a moment to think things through.
Before he can second guess anything, though, he’s sprinting behind the nun and swinging it down as hard as he can.
The nun crumples to the ground. Fitz carefully drops his weapon of choice eyeing the nun like she’s going to pop back up at any moment. The King breathes heavily, staring up at the ceiling.
After a second, the King is looking up at Fitz, a spark of humor in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he says, grinning.
Fitz looks over to the King with a grin, the rush of adrenaline making it difficult to fully process anything.
“No problem.”