---------------------------------------------------------------------- Angels Over Albion: "Hollow" attacked abused and totally devastated by Zoe Ness ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Emilia dragged herself languidly across the room and, upon reaching her ornate full-length mirror, she collapsed in a delicate heap. By now, the tears were streaming down her face, leaving black mascara stains on her shining cheeks. She had never wanted to be the queen. Clutching the wooden mount of the mirror, she hauled herself towards her reflection, wiping the tears from her face and sweeping the mass of wet hair off her brow, as she looked through blurry eyes at the image in front of her. A portrait of a young woman, exhausted and desperate, stared back at her. Cheeks all red and smudged, blue eyes deep with concern and worry crying the constant sobs of one who's afraid they've lost the most important battle they can face, the battle with themselves. Hardly a picture of royalty, thought Emilia, with a hiccup of laughter. The Inner Sanctum had snatched Emilia as a child, unable to take responsibility for their claims; Emilia was appointed queen to speak to the public on their behalf. This arrangement pleased the Inner Sanctum, being both beneficial regarding their lack of support and saved them from facing the backlash of mass opposition to the ideals and demands they set. However, it had left Emilia lost. Her childhood had ended when she was only eleven years old, and with her childhood, Emilia had lost something else. A part of her that could never be regained, her dreams and her true identity had become smothered with robes and jewels, decision making and an empire moulded by her directions. Again, Emilia lifted her face up, meeting the upturned face of her reflection. The realisation that she was just the Inner Sanctum's puppet had been something that had dawned on her long before now, the current wave of emotion that had hit, emerged with the realisation that she was nothing else. Pulling the sheets off the bed behind her, Emilia sat cross legged on the floor, shrouded with the duvet, and wishing for the life of her, and the future of Albion, that she could fall asleep and wake up to find that the Inner Sanctum, the Parliament of Crows and her own royal status, nothing but a sour dream. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Chance breathed out a deep sigh. His back arched against an old brick wall of a now decrepit glue factory, watching the smoke gently curdle as it escaped from his mouth and the end of his cigarette and continued its quest to fill the atmosphere. 'Fuck it' He muttered, pulling his long trench coat tighter around himself and trying to huddle himself deeper into the collar. Stubbing the cigarette butt out onto the cold red brick work, Chance pulled another out of his pocket and had lit his next before the embers of the last were fully extinguished. The snow had begun to fall now. For the last few days, the clouds had looked almost bloated with the threat of the oncoming weather, and had boasted a vaguely pink glow. Now they had given up on any fight to hold onto their wondrous possession and had opened up, sprinkling the fine powdered flakes down, dusting the city with a its cold white snow. Inhaling deeply on the cigarette and cupping his free hand around the glow of the flame for warmth, he looked up to the sky. 'Fuck'. The time was now getting on for mid-afternoon, the sun already losing what power it had and disappearing in shame down towards the horizon, knowing it was no match for the icy chill that was slowly taking over the city. Chance reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a tarnished gold plated stopwatch attached to a long thick chain, which was attached again to the inside of his pocket with a small pin. The watch was Chance's only possession that he still carried with him, apart from his various lighters bought from various market stalls and his constant soft packets of Marlboro. It had been a present, a present from his wife Josephine, just before she'd gone. He supposed that she'd left him for another man, and 'why not?' he mused, she'd been beautiful, elegant and he'd treated her like shit. The last thing that he'd heard about her was that she had been murdered. Bludgeoned to death in an alleyway in Soho. Hit across the back of the head with an iron bar and again in the back. She'd been robbed of all possessions, even her coat. The police had guessed it was due to the collar, it had looked like fur. It would have been fake, Josephine would not have abided animals being killed purely for her coat, but the murderer wouldn't have known that, not until later. That was the one thing that gave Chance any comfort. The face of the murderer when he tried to sell it. As for the reason of the murder, It was simple, there was none. It was England, there weren't many nice people around. 'Fuck it!' Chance uttered for the last time, pulling away from the wall, and began to walk down the narrow back street, as the pace of the snow quickened and the flakes began to swirl around his feet. Finally, the back street veered of to the right and ended at the entrance of a small, homely looking pub. Chance pushed open the door and strode in. The bar stretched the length of the pub, with vague attempts at decorations strewn over the beer taps and hanging from the overhead beams. Christmas was beginning to become a faded memory of last year, replaced with the arrival of a brand new year already looming into a murky future. Due to the weather conditions, warnings had been aired over the radio and television that all in the London area should not leave their homes until the worst of the snow had been and gone. Thus the pub was relatively empty. A scowl deepened over Chances face as he made his way down the three steps that led towards the bar. His gaze now fixed upon a young man sat on a bar-stool engaged in animated conversation with the unimpressed bar man. 'The trouble with Dickens was he never fucking shut up did he? I mean, at least Shakespeare knew where to stop. But Dickens, he never changed the fucking record, did he? It's a load of fucking shit!' The man gestured wildly to the copy of "David Copperfield" that was on the bar. 'The truth is that Charles Dickens just couldn't fucking write.' The man paused to catch his breath and was suddenly aware of the figure of Chance that stood behind him. 'Ah Livingston', he said. 'It's three o clock, Dudley' 'Bloody Hell mate, I didn't realise the time' 'We were meant to meet over two hours ago.' 'As I said mate, I didn't realise, I got here early and I thought I'd have a drink or two first.' Joseph Dudley's smile deepened, as he did his best to try to look sober, and to look serious. 'You're fucking pissed aren't you?' Chance sat down on the torn bar stool next to Dudley. 'You're talking with a Mancunian accent, again.' Dudley face relaxed into his usual broad grin. 'And anyway, Dickens can't fucking write.' Chance continued. 'Two Jack Daniels please, mate' Dudley asked the bartender. The drinks were poured and the burning in his throat helped Chance to forget the cold and the two hour wait. There were more important things to discuss. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Emilia awoke, a tangled mass of tearstains and aching joints. Her eyes opened involuntarily and surveyed her position. Tears stung her half-closed eyes as her surroundings began to sharpen in focus. Her mirror reflected nothing but an exhausted and broken girl. Emilia leaned closer to the mirror and watched the weary girl copy the movement , the actions were hers, but the image lacked all of Emilia's spirit, the eyes were deadened and the flicker of life and excitement had been quenched. The girl in the mirror had become a regular sight as of late, and had become more and more prominent as the angels had continued to batter her down and attach the strings. They were in control, and Emilia found herself wondering if there was ever truly a time when they had no power over Albion, and no power over her. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Dudley's head swam, he could taste a fuzz in his mouth and a steady drum beat played across the back of his head and marched over one eye. He felt the solid wood of the bar beneath his forehead and slowly holding onto his head he looked up at the bar tender, peeling away the Dickens paperback that had stuck partially to his face. Squinting upwards Dudley grunted something intelligible only in his own mind, and waited for an answer. 'He's gone' the bartender told him, 'that feller you were with, he left, half hour ago, more or less'. It took a while for this information to sink in to Dudley's alcohol soaked conscious. 'The feller I was with?' Dudley blinked and strained to focus. 'You know' the barman said 'Tall, dark coat looked quite ill'. 'Chance' thought Dudley leaving his stool and stretching. On legs that were filled with pins and needles Dudley hobbled up the few stairs that led to the small door of the pub, and stepped into the fresh and biting winter air. So he had been speaking to Chance. The smokey image of Livingston Chance, sat on a barstool that appeared in his conscious mind, clarified his thoughts as real and not delusions, now if he could only remember what Chance had been saying he knew he'd be really getting somewhere. Dudley huddled down inside his oversized army green parka, and placed his hands in two of the many coat pockets. The weather had worsened whilst they had been inside the pub, and now Dudley's vision was limited by the large flakes of snow that blustered all around him. Dudley cowered into a street corner and lit another cigarette. The wind howled, attempting to rip his parka even wider open, Joseph shuddered yet refused to give in and zip the parka up, instead, he attempted to warm himself, without much success, over the embers of the steadily burning Marlboro in his hand. He had to sober up, and he had to think, hard. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- The hollow feeling in Emilia had grown and twisted into a shape that filled her entire body. She placed her hands on her stomach and groaned inwardly. Emilia stood tall breathed in and then exhaled in such a manner that her form appeared to crumple as the air escaped her lips. Ms Emilia Ness looked every part the expected picture of a young queen. Her ash blonde hair pulled back away from her supposedly royal features and pinned ceremoniously in ringlets that fell in a fixed order down her back. Only when her face was cleared of hair and the obstruction of streaming tears was it possible to see just how young the Queen truly was and how much fear dulled her eyes and emotions. She now knew apathy, fear and depression. Her time under the power of the Inner Sanctum had impressed those ideas upon her, squeezing out emotion and love and fighting to turn the young girl's fair heart to one of solid stone. And they had almost succeeded. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- The Earl of Leicester pulled one hand back through his bedraggled hair and pulled his cigarette to his lips with the other. Dudley had been thinking hard, or as hard as he could have done with the stinging in his tired eyes and the dull aching at the back of his head. He was running late as per usual, only this time his parka was strictly against the rules. Hunting in the cupboard he pulled out a tattered and ripped leather jacket that appeared as if it has served several people very well. It wasn't strictly in keeping with the rules of appearance for a meeting at the House Of Lords, but at least it was black, he mused. His 'friendship' with Mr Livingston Chance had always been of an un-obvious nature. A shadow of himself that seemed to drink, smoke and swear even more then he was known to, 'Christ' he thought. Chance wasn't just a 'bastard'; he was 'The bastard, not to be fucked with'. At first their alliance had appeared to be a good idea. Dudley would be the first to admit that he rubbed people up the wrong way, irritated the fuck out of them would be a better way of putting it. Often enough he had ended up curled up in the corner of some nameless alleyway at some unknown time in the morning his body black and blue and the red brown stains of encrusted blood hanging from his lips or nose, due to his loud smart mouth and drunken abuse. It was a wonder to the majority of the Albionic government that the Earl was still alive. However, to those that lurked in the taverns and back streets of the city it was well known that serious harm to Dudley would bring Chance out from the woodwork, or wherever it was that he disappeared too, and as keeping Chance at bay was there foremost worry, one more wise-ass roaming the streets wouldn't make too much of a difference Dudley, himself, wasn't entirely sure why he was under the protection of one such as Chance but at first he'd welcomed it, the knowledge he wouldn't wake up in the gutter every morning was almost dreamlike to Dudley. His rise into the government however had proved their alliance more difficult to maintain. No longer needing protection from anyone but himself, the reason for their friendship became even stranger to both of those involved. Livingston Chance became even more notorious amongst people and angels alike. It was now dangerous to be seen near him, but there was something comforting in the smell of stale and cigarettes and the stench of whisky on his breath that made Dudley feel relaxed. Checking the time Joseph Dudley ran out the door towards the House Of Lords, after all he thought to himself, he couldn't make the lady wait. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- The Lords had gathered in the grand meeting room, all rising from their seats as 'Her Royal Highness' was announced. Emilia ever self- conscious, allowed herself to be led in, amongst the ovation of men. Her gaze was cast down towards her feet and it was not until she caught sight of a pair of faded grey trainers amongst the sea of polished black shoes that she looked up. Catching Dudley's eye a small smile began to spread at the corner of her mouth. Unfortunately she was there for a reason, as the angels messenger, as the angels dummy. Clearing her throat she waited until the clatter of the seating Lords was complete. Emilia remained upright, her eyes desperately focusing on Joseph as if only he could save her from the confines of the angels manacles. Taking in a deep breath Emilia stepped forward hesitantly as if into the pit of lions. 'Our laws have been reconsidered and an extra amendment has been made'. She bit her lower lip nervously, hating every minute of the attention and the message she was giving. 'From this day forth it has been agreed that this state now disowns the actions of such dissidents as Livingston Chance and the organisation that he represents.' A murmur of acceptance rose from the table as the Queen turned her royal back on the gathering. Notes were written down, the new law has been put to a majority vote and had one with almost a unanimous vote. Emilia stifled a silent sob as plans went forward to excommunicate Chance from the people of Albion. Her back quivering up and down she left the conference room and walked alone out into the gardens. Joseph had recoiled not in shock, it was understood that as soon as Chance's organisation could be severed that it would be, but from Emilia's resigned attitude. 'She's given up' Dudley mumbled quietly, his voice on of utter despair. 'My good lady has given up'.