The Phoenix and the Dove

Lady Violet DeLuca has grown to hate her aristocratic background and dreams of a different life full of freedom and adventure.

Then she gets kidnapped.

A terrorist group known for their loathing and attacks on members of royalty want to make their mark by taking one of the most loved daughters of a noble and "executing" her.

But what happens when one of the terrorists fall for Violet?

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2. Prologue II - Will's Beginning of the End

‘Stockholm syndrome’, they said. Violet apparently had a severe case of Stockholm syndrome. You know, that one that sounds made up, where kidnap victims fall in love with their kidnappers who string them along. Complete bollocks. They sent a psychiatrist in to diagnose why a titled Lady would ever fall for a common orphan terrorist (Detective Inspector Emerson informed me of this in a way I was sure never to forget). He told me this on the way - hand-cuffed, of course - to a little room then pushed me into it and left me there; locking the door behind him.

            Oh, God. What have I done? Six months ago I had a – well, not a normal life but a routine life. Now it’s all gone wrong. Saying that, I would do it all over again if I had to. It’s so been worth it. She’s worth it. I wonder what’s happening to her now. She’ll be treated like an outcast: “a disgrace on the family”, they’ll say. I hope she’s alright.

I let my mind drift to what Violet will be doing right now. I can just picture her in a room by herself, alone. Even my imagination makes her so upset that I feel my heart twinge. I don’t know what she would care most about: us being caught, or her being shunned by her family. ‘No. Don’t think like that...’ I mumble. I always did have trust issues but if these last few months have taught me anything it’s that you sometimes have to let your guard down, especially around those you love.

Just then D.I Emerson enters the room. He swaggers in cockily and I have an urgent reflex to jump up from the chair and punch him straight in his arrogant, sneering face. I then remember I’m hand-cuffed and that it wouldn’t help my current predicament. ‘So, Stark. Ready to tell the truth, scumbag?’ He pulls up a chair and sits on it the wrong way round – legs either side of back rest – his face about ten inches away from mine.

‘Depends,’ I reply in an equally cocky manner. ‘Are you going to stop being such a conceited arsehole?’ Emerson’s features contort in rage and he pulls me from my chair by my collar. When both of us are drawn to full height I am near enough a whole foot taller than him, not that he’s going to realise that fact. I snigger as I think Little Man Syndrome. He makes up for his height with attitude. Emerson must have noticed the looks I was giving him and tightened his grip. ‘Look here, you little shit! I have been treating you fabulously so far so I would less your attitude with me! You need to write a statement saying what’s happened, or what you reckoned happened. Lie if you want but whatever you write will be used in court.’ He then pushes me back into the chair.

I wonder what he’s doing as he takes off the handcuffs. I then, however, realise that I need to write somehow. Emerson slams the paper and pencil on the table and stands up but before he leaves he turns around and starts to talk to me first. ‘I’ve got a good bit of advice for you, dickhead. It wouldn’t hurt you to remember what you are.’

‘Oh yeah? And what exactly am I?’ I ask.

‘You? You’re worthless scum. You’re the kind of person who the death penalty was invented for. You’re a terrorist. You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being and you’re lower on the food chain than a cockroach! You’re parents should have done the honourable thing and killed you while you were still in the womb! And I don’t know how you even dared even go within a hundred metres of the Lady Violet DeLuca, never mind claim that she loves you! You, William Stark, a worthless cretin who doesn’t deserve anything in the world, never mind someone like her.’

At this I shoot up from the chair (, upending the table as I go. I go right into his face and say ‘Ah, now it all makes sense. You’re not getting any. You just can’t stand the fact that me, a terrorist on the run from the law, can get a girl and you can’t. Don’t worry, mate. If you just pull your head out of your arse and get a bit of Botox and fashion sense you might get lonely widows who are desperate.’ At this point I don’t care how far I push him; I just want to get to him. What a prick.

Infuriation is all I can see in his eyes once I finish my little speech (which I am very proud of). In his fury Emerson punches the left side of my face which knocks me off balance. I fall to floor, not able to get up from shock and being too dazed. While I’m still on the floor I Emerson gives me a good, hard booting right in my ribs that turns me on my side. I feel the mixture of the coldness of the stone floor and the burning sensation of the punch and kick while as I hear the door open, shut, then lock.

My mind still races at the things he said to me. I’d been called many things in my life – and some worse things that the knob had said – so why does it bother me this much. I then realise why: him mentioning Violet had touched a raw nerve. I can’t understand how that girl had made such a huge impact in my life.

 I try to pull myself up using the ledge of the window I can feel. I then regret turning over the table as I have to put it the right way up so I can move easily. After the table is back to normal I notice the paper is lying on the floor next to the pencil and as I sigh I pick them up. Through the window I felt earlier I see her. Violet. I could tell it was her even thought her beautiful face was blocked by her long, curly mane of hair. The light shade of brown reflected the light from the spot lamp and radiated around the room. She looks upset and ready to kill as she writes and writes.

Well, if she is I might as well get started. I shuffle my way into the chair, still in pain from the beating and now the handcuff. ‘Okay then,’ I say to myself. ‘If they want a statement I’ll give them one. I’ll turn it into a novel “The life and times of a misunderstood freedom fighter”!’ This will be the best statement they have ever read...

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