Uneasy Alliance

The cottage stood deep in Wychwood Forest, isolated enough that smoke from its chimney would go unnoticed by any passing travelers. Bobby observed the structure with a clinical detachment that came naturally after billions of years of existence. A simple gamekeeper's dwelling, abandoned to the elements after its occupant succumbed to the sweating sickness. Now it served as temporary sanctuary for a blood-soaked princess and her otherworldly companion.

"Kat and Thomas should have reached Woodstock by now," Elizabeth murmured, prodding the meager fire they'd built in the stone hearth. "They'll realize something's amiss when we don't arrive."

Bobby sat opposite her on a rough wooden stool that creaked under his weight. He'd donned garments taken from the dead men, though none had possessed his exact proportions. As Elizabeth glanced away, he surreptitiously allowed his nanites to subtly restructure the fabric, adjusting seams and dimensions until the previously ill-fitting clothes conformed perfectly to his frame. The transformation was so subtle and quick that when Elizabeth looked back, she blinked in momentary confusion, unable to pinpoint what had changed.

"Your governess strikes me as a practical woman," he observed, his voice carrying the cultured accent of an educated Englishman—one of countless linguistic adaptations his nanites had assimilated over eons of existence. "She'll assume you've been captured or killed and alert your allies accordingly."

Elizabeth nodded, wincing visibly as the movement aggravated her injuries. With his enhanced vision, Bobby could see the extent of damage beneath her skin: hairline fractures along two ribs, severe bruising across her torso, micro-tears in facial tissue surrounding her split lip and swollen eye. Nothing life-threatening, but certainly painful for a baseline human.

"Cecil will mobilize resources to find me," she agreed. "Though whether that benefits or endangers us remains to be seen." She sighed, allowing her royal posture to slacken slightly in the privacy of their hiding place. "Northumberland clearly wants me eliminated before Edward dies. If he believes his assassins succeeded, perhaps that buys us time."

"Time for what?" Bobby asked, though he already knew the answer from countless similar conversations across infinite timelines. The specifics varied, but the fundamental human drive for survival remained constant.

Elizabeth met his gaze directly, Tudor determination evident despite her battered appearance. "Time to counter-move. Time to secure allies. Time to ensure that when my brother dies—" she swallowed hard, grief momentarily visible beneath political calculation, "—the succession proceeds as it should, with Mary taking the throne."

Bobby tilted his head, feigning curiosity though he'd already mapped the political landscape of Tudor England within moments of arriving in this timeline. "You support your Catholic sister's claim? Despite your religious differences? Despite knowing the persecution she'll likely unleash on Protestants like yourself?"

"I support the rightful succession," Elizabeth replied carefully. "Mary is Edward's heir by our father's will and by birth. I am third in line, after her. To upset that order invites civil war—a price too high for England to bear."

The fire crackled between them, sparks spiraling upward into the smoke-blackened chimney. Bobby watched her through ancient eyes, seeing not just the battered seventeen-year-old girl before him, but the potential quantum states of the woman she might become—the monarch who would launch England toward empire, the virgin queen who would sacrifice personal happiness for national stability, the ruler whose reign would usher in a golden age of exploration and artistic achievement.

"In my dreams," she continued after a long moment, "you helped me navigate the years between Edward's death and my own ascension. Mary ruled before me—five years of blood and fire, they called it—but eventually, the crown came to me as it was meant to."

"Your dreams showed you the future?" Bobby asked, already knowing the nature of her visions. Her brain had developed rare quantum sensitivities—not tremendously unusual in the vast spectrum of human genetic drift, but certainly uncommon. Such mutations occasionally produced individuals capable of perceiving probability states across timeline variants.

"Fragments only," Elizabeth admitted. "Sometimes clear visions, sometimes mere impressions. I saw ships breaking against rocks in a great storm. I saw myself dressed in armor, addressing troops. I saw..." She hesitated, uncertainty crossing her features. "I saw England ascendant, our ships crossing oceans, our flag planted on distant shores."

"Your visions aren't certainties," Bobby said bluntly, abandoning the pretense of scientific explanation he might have employed in other circumstances. "They're glimpses of probability—what might happen if events unfold according to certain patterns."

Elizabeth straightened, momentarily forgetting her injuries. "You know of such things? Of seeing beyond the present moment?"

"I know many things," Bobby replied with deliberate vagueness, a habit developed over eons of existence. "Your dreams show possibilities, not inevitabilities. By acting on what you've seen, you've already altered the potential outcomes."

Elizabeth fell silent, contemplating this information. After a moment, she rose painfully from her seat and moved to a small shelf where a clay jug stood beside wooden cups. Pouring water for them both, she returned to the fire, offering one cup to Bobby before resuming her place.

"What are you, Mr. Kestrel?" she asked directly. "No man could do what you did today."

Bobby accepted the cup but didn't drink, the tepid water holding no appeal for his nanite-maintained physiology. "What do you think I am?"

"In my Catholic sister's understanding, an angel or demon," Elizabeth replied thoughtfully. "In the Protestant view, perhaps a manifestation of God's will made flesh." She studied him over the rim of her cup. "But I suspect the truth lies elsewhere entirely."

"Oh?" Bobby felt genuine curiosity about her assessment.

"You're a man of science, are you not? Your references to probabilities and realities suggest knowledge beyond our current understanding." Elizabeth set her cup aside. "My tutors exposed me to natural philosophy—what some might call the nascent field of science. Roger Ascham encouraged particular interest in astronomy and mathematics."

She leaned forward slightly, wincing again as her ribs protested. "You speak of other realities. These concepts align more with natural philosophy than religious doctrine, suggesting you possess knowledge rather than supernatural power."

Bobby laughed suddenly, the sound startling in the cottage's hushed atmosphere. "Knowledge? Power? They're the same fucking thing in the end, aren't they?" He waved a dismissive hand. "Let me save us both time. I'm what your age would call a god, though I find the term distastefully imprecise."

Elizabeth's composure slipped momentarily, her eyes widening. "Blasphemy," she whispered, glancing instinctively toward the door as though expecting the church authorities to burst through at any moment.

"Truth," Bobby countered. "Though not in the sense your religions conceive of divinity. I wasn't born divine—I became what I am through science so advanced it would appear as magic to your finest minds." He leaned forward, fixing her with an ancient gaze. "I've lived for..." he paused, considering how to express a timespan that transcended conventional measurement, "...longer than human civilization has existed. I've watched kingdoms rise and fall, seen empires born and die."

The Tudor princess stared at him, processing this information with remarkable composure despite the implicit challenge to her worldview. "If you possess such power, why help me? What is one human kingdom to a being who has witnessed the birth and death of empires?"

The question intrigued Bobby. Most humans in similar circumstances would have fixated on his claim of divinity, demanding proof or cowering in religious awe. Instead, Elizabeth had immediately grasped the central paradox of his intervention. Perhaps that's why he found himself drawn to her timeline—this peculiar combination of pragmatism and vision that characterized the monarch she would become.

"Boredom, perhaps," he replied with calculated callousness. "Or curiosity. When you've existed as long as I have, novelty becomes the ultimate currency."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed slightly, her political instincts detecting the partial truth. "There's more. You spoke of 'displacement' earlier—of arriving here unintentionally. You're trapped, aren't you? At least temporarily."

Bobby's respect for her intuition increased marginally. "Perspicacious of you, Tudor. Yes, I'm 'trapped' in this timeline for now, though that's an oversimplification of a complex quantum state." He set aside the untouched cup of water. "I occasionally experience... involuntary relocations across time and dimensional boundaries. Eventually, the process will repeat and I'll be displaced elsewhere. Until then, I need occupation."

"And you've chosen to occupy yourself with my ambitions?" Elizabeth asked, her tone suggesting she found this difficult to believe.

"You summoned me," Bobby reminded her. "Named me specifically. That suggests a connection worth exploring."

The fire popped loudly as a log collapsed into embers. Elizabeth jumped slightly at the sound, her nerves still raw from the day's violence. After a moment of composed silence, she continued her questioning.

"In these other... realities you've visited, did England prosper under my rule?"

Bobby studied her with ancient eyes, seeing both the battered girl before him and the monarch she might become. "In most variants where Elizabeth Tudor ascends to the English throne, yes. Your reign typically marks the beginning of England's emergence as a global power—economically, culturally, and militarily." He smirked slightly. "You're generally remembered as among the greatest monarchs in your nation's history, though historians tend to gloss over your more ruthless decisions."

Something like fierce joy flashed across Elizabeth's face before royal discipline concealed the emotion. "And if you help me, will this reality follow that pattern?"

"That depends," Bobby replied, leaning forward with sudden intensity. "On whether you're willing to accelerate the process."

Elizabeth's bruised face registered confusion. "Accelerate? What do you mean?"

"Your visions showed Mary ruling before you—five years of religious persecution, economic decline, and political mismanagement." Bobby gestured dismissively. "Necessary suffering to maintain the rightful succession, you believe. But what if it isn't necessary at all?"

He rose, pacing before the fire with contained energy. "With my abilities, Elizabeth Tudor, I could place you on the throne directly after Edward's death. No waiting for Mary's disastrous reign. No thousands burned for their faith. No Spanish marriage threatening England's sovereignty."

Elizabeth's expression hardened. "You speak of bypassing the rightful succession. Of usurping my sister's claim."

"I speak of pragmatism," Bobby countered sharply. "The same pragmatism that allowed you to execute thirteen men today without hesitation or remorse. You didn't capture them for trial. You didn't extract information about who sent them. You killed them efficiently and completely." He stopped pacing, fixing her with an ancient gaze. "The death of a few to save the many. Isn't that the principle you applied this afternoon?"

Color drained from Elizabeth's face, leaving her bruises in stark relief against pale skin. "That was different. They were actively attempting to rape and murder me."

"And Mary's supporters will actively attempt to burn Protestants, execute your allies, and surrender English sovereignty to Spain," Bobby replied coldly. "The scale differs, but the principle remains. Eliminating threats before they fully materialize."

Elizabeth rose unsteadily, pain forgotten in her agitation. "You suggest I murder my own sister? My father's firstborn?"

"I suggest nothing," Bobby said, his voice softening slightly. "I merely observe that your dreams present one potential path to the throne, while reality offers alternatives. Mary need not die—she could retire to a comfortable exile, perhaps. Or take vows in a convent, satisfying her religious inclinations without inflicting them on a nation."

He watched Elizabeth closely as she processed this suggestion, noting the subtle calculations visible in her expression. The Tudor capacity for necessary ruthlessness warred with her genuine belief in legitimate succession. For a moment, he thought ambition might triumph over principle.

Instead, Elizabeth shook her head firmly. "No. Mary is the rightful heir. I'll not overthrow God's chosen order, no matter how expedient." She straightened, wincing as her ribs protested. "God preserved me today for a purpose, Mr. Kestrel. Perhaps that purpose includes patience as well as ambition."

Bobby suppressed a smile, oddly pleased by her resistance to temptation. Most humans offered such power would succumb immediately. "As you wish, Your Future Majesty. Though you should know that your dream's version of events isn't guaranteed. My very presence has altered potential outcomes."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Elizabeth asked warily.

"Meaning your path to the throne may differ from what you've foreseen," Bobby explained, retaking his seat. "Your dreams showed one probability stream. By summoning me, you've created ripples across those probabilities. Mary may rule for three years instead of five. Or seven instead of five. Edward might linger longer than expected. Northumberland might succeed in placing Jane Grey on the throne as Edward's successor."

Elizabeth paled further at this last possibility. Lady Jane Grey—their cousin and Edward's preferred Protestant heir—represented Northumberland's attempt to maintain religious and political control after Edward's death. If the Duke succeeded in bypassing both Mary and Elizabeth in the succession, all her dreams of eventual rule would evaporate.

"Then I need you more than ever," Elizabeth said decisively. "Not to place me directly on the throne through violence, but to help me navigate these altered probabilities until my rightful time comes."

Bobby regarded her thoughtfully. "I'm not a chess piece to be deployed according to your strategy, Elizabeth Tudor. If I agree to help you, I do so as an ally, not a servant. My actions will be my own, not yours to direct."

Elizabeth hesitated, clearly weighing this stipulation against her need for supernatural assistance. After a moment, she nodded cautiously. "Provided your actions don't needlessly endanger innocent lives—"

"I've existed for countless millennia," Bobby interrupted irritably. "I've witnessed civilizations rise and fall. I've seen the birth and death of entire species. I don't require moral guidance from a seventeen-year-old, however royal her bloodline."

He regretted the harshness immediately, watching her flinch as though physically struck. For all her political acumen and Tudor determination, she remained a young woman who had nearly been violated and murdered mere hours earlier. Her attempt to establish limits was not unreasonable given the devastating power she'd witnessed him display.

"Forgive me," he said more gently. "What I meant to convey is that I'm not bound by the same moral frameworks as sixteenth-century English society. I'll respect your wishes regarding intervention, but I reserve judgment on what constitutes necessity or innocent life."

Elizabeth studied him warily, calculation visible behind her bruised features. After a long moment, she offered a compromise: "Then let us agree that major interventions—those affecting matters of state or involving significant violence—will be discussed between us when circumstances permit. In urgent situations where consultation is impossible, you'll act according to your best judgment, but with the understanding that my throne depends on public perception of legitimacy."

Bobby nodded, impressed by her diplomatic finesse despite physical exhaustion and emotional trauma. "A reasonable arrangement."

The fire had begun to die, throwing the cottage into deepening shadow as night pressed against the small windows. Elizabeth moved to add another log, wincing visibly as the motion stressed her injured ribs.

"Speaking of your actions today," Bobby said as she settled back into her seat, "I noticed you killed all thirteen men without hesitation. Quite enthusiastically, in fact."

Elizabeth stiffened. "They meant to rape and murder me. Should I have offered them tea first?"

"Not at all," Bobby replied, amusement coloring his tone. "I merely observe that you could have preserved one or two for questioning. Discovered who specifically ordered your death, what intelligence they possessed about your activities, whether they had associates watching for their return." He raised an eyebrow. "Instead, you executed them all with remarkable thoroughness. One might almost think you enjoyed it."

The Tudor princess flushed, anger temporarily overriding royal composure. "You dare suggest I took pleasure in such violence? I did what necessity demanded!"

"Did you?" Bobby asked softly. "All thirteen deaths were necessary? Not one man might have been more valuable alive than dead?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again, uncertainty flickering across her features. After a moment, she replied more carefully: "Perhaps I acted excessively. The attack... unsettled me."

Bobby nodded, understanding completely. Something else had caught his attention during the princess's violent response to her attackers—a brief flicker of memory that had surfaced during her most vicious kill. The image had been crystal clear despite its brevity: a tall, handsome man with a neatly trimmed beard forcing himself upon a younger Elizabeth, his hand clamped over her mouth as she struggled beneath him. The memory carried a name: Thomas Seymour, her former stepmother's husband.

"Understandable," he acknowledged, choosing not to mention what he'd glimpsed for now. "Though worth reflecting upon. A monarch must balance justice with pragmatism. The dead tell no tales, provide no intelligence, serve no further purpose."

Elizabeth absorbed this criticism with surprising grace given her exhausted state. "You're right. I acted from emotion rather than calculation." She managed a faint smile despite her split lip. "Not very Tudor of me."

"On the contrary," Bobby replied. "Quite reminiscent of your father in his later years. All destruction, no discrimination."

Rather than taking offense at this unflattering comparison, Elizabeth laughed softly, then grimaced as the movement pained her injured ribs. "My tutors speak more delicately of my father's... enthusiasms."

"Your tutors didn't watch Henry execute loyal servants for minor disagreements," Bobby said dryly, though in truth he'd only witnessed such events in similar timeline variants, not this specific reality.

Elizabeth's eyes sharpened with interest. "You knew my father?"

Bobby waved a dismissive hand. "Not in this particular timeline. I've encountered variants of Henry Tudor across multiple realities. The specifics differ, but certain...temperamental constants remain."

This revelation seemed to disturb Elizabeth more than his earlier claims of godhood. "You've met different versions of my father? Of me?"

"It's not worth fixating upon," Bobby advised, recognizing the existential crisis threatening to overtake her practical focus. "This reality—this Elizabeth Tudor—is what matters now. Your decisions, your actions, your future."

She accepted this redirection with visible effort. "And what of our bargain, Mr. Kestrel? You will help me navigate the years until my rightful coronation, and in return...?"

Bobby considered for a moment. In countless previous timeline interventions, he'd demanded various forms of payment—knowledge, resources, worship, even human sacrifice in particularly primitive societies. But what could this damaged teenage princess offer that held any value to a being who had witnessed the heat death and rebirth of multiple universes?

"In return," he said finally, "you will foster England's scientific development when you become queen. Mathematics, astronomy, natural philosophy—encourage these studies rather than suppressing them as threats to religious orthodoxy."

Elizabeth looked puzzled by this request. "That's all? You want me to support scholars?"

"I want you to plant seeds," Bobby clarified. "Seeds that will grow into knowledge that eventually leads humanity beyond the confines of current understanding. Trust that it serves my purposes, Elizabeth Tudor. And coincidentally benefits your realm."

Elizabeth studied him for a long moment, her shrewd political mind clearly trying to identify hidden pitfalls in this arrangement. Finding none apparent, she nodded slowly.

"Agreed, then. You help me survive until my coronation, guiding me through these 'altered probabilities' you mention. I support scholarly pursuits when I take the throne." She extended a hand, royal dignity intact despite her bloodied appearance.

Bobby took her offered hand, amused by the formality. Through his enhanced touch sensitivity, he detected her involuntary flinch at contact—not from pain but from the subtle wrongness humans invariably sensed when touching his nanite-maintained skin. Most described it as similar to finest silk layered over steel, possessing both unexpected softness and unnatural firmness.

"Agreed," he said, releasing her hand after the briefest contact. "Though you should know that I may be displaced from this timeline before you claim the throne. The quantum mechanics controlling my transitions aren't entirely predictable, even to me."

"Then we must make efficient use of whatever time we have together," Elizabeth replied pragmatically. "Beginning with immediate concerns: I need to contact Cecil without revealing my survival to Northumberland's faction. I need clean clothing and safer lodging than this cottage. And I need a strategy for the coming weeks while Edward still lives."

Bobby nodded approvingly at her focus. Despite her physical injuries and the day's trauma, she had pivoted immediately to practical considerations. This ability to compartmentalize emotion—to function effectively amid chaos and threat—was precisely what had made Elizabeth I such an exceptional ruler in most timeline variants.

"The clothing and lodging are easily managed," he said. "As for contacting Cecil without exposing yourself..." Bobby smiled, already formulating approaches that would leverage his unique capabilities. "I believe I have several options worth considering."

Elizabeth returned his smile despite her split lip, the expression transforming her battered face with surprising warmth. "I'm beginning to understand why my dreams showed us as allies, Mr. Kestrel. Your perspective is... refreshingly direct."

"You mean I don't kiss your royal arse like your court sycophants?" Bobby replied bluntly, deliberately using crude language to gauge her reaction.

To his mild surprise, Elizabeth laughed—a genuine sound despite the pain it clearly caused her. "Precisely. Though perhaps we should work on your courtly address before introducing you to actual nobles."

Bobby found himself enjoying her resilience. Humans were rarely this adaptive to paradigm-shattering revelations, particularly humans from pre-scientific eras. Most collapsed into religious hysteria or denial when confronted with beings like himself. Elizabeth Tudor, however, had seamlessly incorporated his existence into her worldview and proceeded with practical planning.

"I'll make an effort to sound appropriately deferential in public," he promised with mock solemnity. "Though in private, expect nothing but unvarnished truth. You'll get no courtly flattery from me, Princess."

"Good," Elizabeth said firmly. "I have enough flatterers and sycophants. What I need is someone who speaks truth, however uncomfortable."

She rose painfully from her seat, moving toward the narrow pallet in the corner—a straw-filled mattress that had likely hosted numerous vermin since its owner's death. "I must rest if I'm to think clearly tomorrow. My body aches abominably."

"I could heal you," Bobby offered casually, as though suggesting a minor favor rather than a miracle by sixteenth-century standards.

Elizabeth froze, turning to face him with carefully controlled expression. "Heal me? Completely?"

Bobby nodded. "Your injuries are minor from my perspective—some bone microfractures, tissue damage, nothing particularly complex to repair."

Hope flashed across Elizabeth's face before suspicion replaced it. "At what additional cost? Our bargain is already struck."

"No additional cost," Bobby assured her, amused by her wariness. "Consider it a practical necessity. You'll function more effectively without pain distracting you."

Elizabeth hesitated, visibly weighing religious prohibitions against pragmatic need. After a moment, practicality won. "Very well. How is it done?"

Bobby rose, approaching her with unhurried steps. "I simply need to touch you. The process is painless but might feel... unusual."

Elizabeth straightened to her full height—unimpressive compared to his towering form, but maximized by royal posture that transcended her physical limitations. "Proceed, then."

Bobby placed his hand against her forehead, skin-to-skin contact allowing his nanites to interface with her biological systems. Through this connection, he could perceive her entire physiology: the hairline fractures in two ribs, the tissue damage around her eye socket, the internal bruising across her torso, the micro-tears in her split lip.

As the nanites began their work, Bobby deliberately probed deeper, confirming what he'd glimpsed in her memories during the violence earlier. The incident with Thomas Seymour was starkly evident in her neural pathways—a traumatic memory she'd buried beneath layers of practiced control. The attempted violation hadn't progressed to rape, but Seymour had clearly assaulted her, his intentions unmistakable. The memory was intertwined with shame, fear, and a cold fury that had found its outlet in today's bloody revenge against men who triggered the same fundamental terror.

"This will feel warm," he warned, then directed a carefully controlled swarm of nanites through his fingertips into her system.

Elizabeth gasped as the microscopic machines entered her bloodstream, spreading throughout her body with impossible speed. They targeted damaged tissues with precision, accelerating her natural healing processes by thousands of times while maintaining perfect biological fidelity. Bones knitted, bruises dissolved, torn skin sealed perfectly without scarring.

The entire process took less than twenty seconds. When Bobby removed his hand, Elizabeth stood before him completely healed, her face restored to its natural pallor and symmetry, her body free from the injuries inflicted earlier that day.

She raised trembling fingers to her formerly split lip, finding it whole and unmarked. Her hand moved to her ribs, pressing experimentally against the spot that had caused such pain moments earlier.

"My God," she whispered, genuine awe overtaking royal composure for the first time since they'd met. "How did you...?"

"Science," Bobby replied simply, returning to his seat by the fire. "Techniques so advanced they appear miraculous to your era's understanding, but operating on entirely natural principles nonetheless."

Elizabeth continued exploring her restored body with wondering fingers, flexing limbs that had been painful to move just moments earlier. "This is... I have no words."

"'Thank you' generally suffices," Bobby suggested dryly.

Elizabeth immediately composed herself, Tudor pride reasserting control over momentary wonder. "Of course. Thank you, Mr. Kestrel. Your assistance is most appreciated."

Bobby examined her with ancient eyes, seeing not just the physically restored teenage princess but the multitude of potential futures branching from this moment. In most timeline variants, Elizabeth I ascended to the English throne after Mary's death, launching a golden age of exploration, artistic achievement, and nascent scientific inquiry. But his intervention had already altered those probabilities, introducing new variables into equations that had previously been relatively stable across reality variants.

Would this Elizabeth still become the Virgin Queen, sacrificing personal happiness for political stability? Would she still defeat the Spanish Armada, establishing English naval dominance for centuries to come? Would she still foster the intellectual environment that would eventually produce Newton, Harvey, and Bacon?

Or had his arrival in this specific timeline introduced changes that would cascade through future events, creating a variant Elizabeth whose reign differed significantly from the historical norm?

The uncertainty intrigued him—a novel sensation for a being who had witnessed countless variations of human history unfold with tedious predictability.

"You should sleep," he said finally, noticing Elizabeth's continued examination of her healed body. "Your mind needs rest even if your physical injuries are repaired."

Elizabeth nodded, moving toward the pallet with newfound grace, her movements no longer hampered by pain. "And you, Mr. Kestrel? Do you require rest as well?"

"I don't sleep," Bobby replied simply. "At least, not in the human sense. I'll maintain watch while you recover."

Elizabeth hesitated before settling onto the rough pallet. "Mr. Kestrel?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you agree so readily to help me? The truth, if you please. Not platitudes about curiosity or boredom."

Bobby studied her for a long moment, weighing how much to reveal. The truth was layered and complex—spanning multiple realities, timelines, and personal motivations that this young Tudor couldn't possibly comprehend. Better to give her something partial yet sincere.

"Several reasons," he finally said, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "First, your ability to perceive fragments of potential futures—to dream of me specifically—is exceedingly rare. In all my existence, I've encountered perhaps a dozen beings with comparable talent."

Elizabeth's eyes widened slightly. "You've met others with such dreams?"

"Different manifestations of similar sensitivities," Bobby clarified. "Your mind possesses unique structures that allow glimpses across variant futures—what your era would call prophecy."

He paused, deliberately studying her with an intensity that made her flush slightly. "Second, I find myself... interested in you personally, Elizabeth Tudor. Not merely as a historical figure of significance, but as an individual." 

Her blush deepened, though she maintained steady eye contact. "I'm hardly remarkable, Mr. Kestrel. Not yet, at least."

"On the contrary," Bobby replied. "Even now, you demonstrate qualities I've rarely observed in combination. Political acumen paired with genuine vision. Ruthlessness tempered by principled restraint. Ambition governed by patience." He smiled faintly. "In my experience, such balanced contradictions typically produce either catastrophic failure or extraordinary achievement."

Elizabeth absorbed this assessment with surprising composure. "And which do you anticipate from me?"

"That depends entirely on the choices you make," Bobby replied. "Which brings me to my third reason. I'm... unconventionally invested in this particular island's destiny."

"England?" Elizabeth asked, surprise evident in her tone.

"Britain," Bobby corrected. "This foggy, rain-soaked archipelago has featured prominently in several of my previous experiences. I have a certain fondness for what this island might become under the right leadership."

Elizabeth considered this, clearly sensing he'd omitted significant details but tactfully choosing not to press further. "And these reasons were sufficient to commit yourself to my cause?"

Bobby shrugged. "I also enjoy disrupting predictable outcomes. Fate, destiny, predetermined historical patterns—these concepts offend me on principle. By intervening in your timeline, I've already altered probabilities that were relatively stable across multiple variants."

"You're saying you help me... to spite destiny itself?" Elizabeth asked incredulously.

"Partly," Bobby admitted with a ghost of a smile. "Though I wouldn't phrase it quite so melodramatically."

Elizabeth shook her head, bemused by this revelation. "You're a strange ally, Mr. Kestrel."

"I'm not human," Bobby reminded her bluntly. "My motivations won't always align with your understanding."

Elizabeth nodded slowly, exhaustion finally beginning to claim her despite her fascination with their conversation. "I suppose I must accept that," she said, settling onto the pallet. "At least for now."

"Sleep," Bobby advised, his tone gentler than before. "Tomorrow we begin reshaping your future."

Elizabeth arranged herself on the rough bedding, her newly healed body allowing her to find comfort even on the primitive mattress. "Goodnight, Mr. Kestrel," she murmured, her eyes already closing.

"Rest well, Elizabeth Tudor," Bobby replied softly.

As her breathing deepened into sleep, Bobby remained motionless by the fire, his ancient consciousness processing multiple strategic pathways simultaneously. The simplest approach would be non-intervention—allow events to unfold as they had across countless timeline variants, with Mary ascending after Edward's death, ruling disastrously for five years before Elizabeth finally claimed her throne.

But that path was tediously predictable, and Bobby had developed an aversion to predictability over his billions of years of existence.

The memory he'd glimpsed of Thomas Seymour's assault on Elizabeth added complexity to his calculations. Seymour had been executed for treason in this timeline—Bobby had absorbed enough contemporary history to know that much—but the attempted rape of the princess had not featured among his formal charges. Instead, Elizabeth had been caught in a scandal of supposed inappropriate relations with her stepmother's husband, the blame falling partially on her despite being the victim.

Such injustice was tiresomely common across human history, but it explained Elizabeth's particular vehemence against her would-be rapists today. It also suggested potential vulnerabilities that Northumberland might exploit—rumors of Elizabeth's "immoral behavior" could be resurrected to challenge her royal legitimacy.

Bobby needed subtler methods—a way to ensure Elizabeth's eventual ascension without directly harming Mary or Edward, yet accelerating the process from the traditional five-year wait.

His mind calculated probabilities with quantum precision. Mary's disastrous reign typically featured five key elements: religious persecution, the Spanish marriage to Philip II, economic mismanagement, loss of Calais, and failed pregnancies leading to her death without an heir.

What if he could manipulate one or more of these factors? Not prevent Mary's ascension, but perhaps shorten her reign or mitigate its worst excesses?

The Spanish marriage offered possibilities. If Mary never married Philip, England would avoid entanglement in Habsburg conflicts. The religious persecution might be less severe without Spanish influence encouraging Counter-Reformation zeal. Mary's phantom pregnancies might be avoided entirely.

But preventing the Spanish match would require subtle political maneuvering, not brute force intervention. Mary's councilors would need to be influenced, alternative marriage candidates proposed, diplomatic relations with Spain complicated...

Bobby's ancient consciousness branched into another possibility simultaneously. What if Mary's health deteriorated faster than in typical timeline variants? Not through poison or violence, but through subtle biological manipulation that appeared as natural illness? His nanites could theoretically accelerate existing conditions—Mary's documented mental instability, her gynecological problems, her tendency toward depression.

Yet another pathway unfolded in his calculations. What if he engineered a foreign threat significant enough to require national unity? A crisis that demonstrated Mary's inadequacies while highlighting Elizabeth's capabilities? The Tudor dynasty had always solidified power through external conflict—perhaps that pattern could be exploited.

Or perhaps the answer lay in Edward himself. The boy king's tuberculosis typically claimed him in July 1553. If his condition stabilized temporarily—not cured, but prolonged—it would delay Mary's ascension and give Elizabeth more time to prepare her position. With Bobby's nanite technology, such medical intervention would be trivial.

As the night deepened around the small cottage, Bobby continued plotting, his consciousness simultaneously exploring dozens of potential strategies, calculating probabilities, and mapping consequences across timeline variants. Whatever path he chose would need to appear natural to human observers while fundamentally altering established historical patterns.

By dawn, he had formulated a comprehensive approach that satisfied his criteria—a plan that would accelerate Elizabeth's rise to power without directly harming her siblings, avoid civil war, and completely fuck with the predictable flow of history as he'd observed it across multiple timeline variants.

He would begin tomorrow, using Elizabeth's need to contact Cecil as the first step in a complex sequence that would ultimately rewrite English history.

The prospect pleased him immensely. After billions of years of existence, genuine novelty had become the rarest and most precious commodity in Bobby's experience. This intervention promised something he hadn't encountered in countless millennia: unpredictable outcomes.

* * *

Elizabeth woke at dawn, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings and the absence of pain she'd expected upon waking. Memory quickly reasserted itself—the attack, Kestrel's intervention, her complete healing. She sat up, finding her strange ally exactly where she'd left him the previous night, still seated by the now-cold hearth, apparently lost in thought.

"Do you truly never sleep?" she asked, stretching experimentally and marveling at her body's complete restoration.

"Not in ways you would recognize as sleep," Bobby replied, his focus immediately returning to the present moment. "My consciousness processes information continuously, though I occasionally enter efficiency modes that resemble meditative states."

Elizabeth nodded, accepting this explanation without further questioning. After yesterday's revelations, little about this being could truly surprise her now. "We need to make contact with Cecil," she said, immediately focusing on practical concerns. "And I need appropriate clothing if I'm to travel without drawing attention."

"Already arranged," Bobby replied, gesturing toward a bundle near the door that hadn't been there when Elizabeth fell asleep. "Clothing suitable for a merchant's daughter. Not what you're accustomed to, but practical for our purposes."

Elizabeth blinked in surprise. "When did you...?"

"While you slept. I visited a nearby village and acquired what we need."

"You stole these things?" Elizabeth asked sharply.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Would you prefer I explained my true nature to the local tailor and requested her assistance for a fugitive princess?"

Elizabeth sighed, conceding the point. "I suppose theft is the lesser sin in these circumstances."

"I left payment," Bobby said, surprising her. "Gold tucked beneath the shopkeeper's door. More than the items are worth."

Elizabeth studied him curiously. "You have access to gold?"

Bobby shrugged. "I can manipulate matter at its fundamental level. Creating gold is trivial—simply a matter of rearranging elements."

Elizabeth stared at him, trying to process the implications of this casual statement. "You can... create gold at will?"

"Among other materials, yes." Bobby's tone suggested this ability was unremarkable from his perspective.

Elizabeth's political mind immediately calculated the potential advantages such power offered. "That could prove extraordinarily useful," she murmured, already envisioning how access to unlimited wealth might secure allies and influence.

"It could also collapse your economic systems if deployed carelessly," Bobby warned. "Flooding markets with gold devalues the currency. I've witnessed empires fall through such miscalculation."

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. "A limited application, then. Strategic rather than abundant."

"Precisely." Bobby seemed pleased by her quick grasp of the principle.

Elizabeth rose and moved to examine the clothing bundle. Inside she found a simple wool dress of dark brown, clean undergarments, sturdy boots, and a woolen cloak with hood. The materials were coarse compared to her usual attire, but well-made and practical.

"These will serve," she approved, then hesitated. "Would you mind...?" She gestured toward the door, suddenly conscious of her need for privacy while changing.

Bobby's expression showed mild amusement at this human modesty but he obligingly moved toward the door. "I'll wait outside."

Once alone, Elizabeth quickly stripped off her blood-crusted clothing from the previous day. Using water from a basin near the hearth, she washed away the remaining evidence of yesterday's violence before donning the new garments. The simple dress felt strange against her skin accustomed to finer fabrics, but it fit well enough and would allow her to pass unremarked among commoners.

When she emerged from the cottage, she found Bobby conversing with a small bird perched on his outstretched finger—a thrush that seemed unnaturally comfortable in his presence. As Elizabeth approached, the bird chirped once more and flew away.

"Making friends?" she asked, adjusting the hood of her cloak to better shadow her distinctive Tudor features.

"Gathering information," Bobby corrected. "Birds observe much that humans miss."

Elizabeth decided not to question this further, instead focusing on their immediate plans. "How do we proceed? Cecil must be informed of my survival without alerting Northumberland's faction."

"I have several methods available," Bobby replied, studying her closely. "Some more... conspicuous than others."

Elizabeth waited expectantly, but he offered no elaboration. After an awkward moment, she prompted, "Such as...?"

"I could simply transport myself instantly to Cecil's location and deliver your message directly," Bobby said casually, as though suggesting nothing more remarkable than a brisk walk.

Elizabeth blinked. "You can... travel instantly? Like spirits in the old tales?"

"Better than spirits," Bobby replied with a hint of arrogance. "I can physically transport myself across substantial distances with precise accuracy. Distance is largely irrelevant to my methods."

Elizabeth processed this claim with remarkable composure, though her widened eyes betrayed her astonishment. "That would certainly solve our immediate communication problem."

"It would," Bobby agreed. "However, I question whether revealing my existence to Cecil is strategically sound at this juncture."

"How so?"

"Currently, you alone know of my capabilities," Bobby explained. "Every person aware of my existence represents a potential security vulnerability. The more who know, the more likely information about me reaches your enemies." He raised an eyebrow. "Consider me your hidden advantage—your ace in the proverbial hole."

Elizabeth considered this perspective, her political mind weighing options carefully. "You make a valid point. The fewer who know of your... unusual nature, the more effectively we can deploy your abilities when truly necessary." She paced a few steps, thinking intently. "But this creates a practical problem. If you're to accompany me publicly, we need a plausible explanation for your presence."

"I've considered that," Bobby said. "The most logical cover would be as a wealthy merchant—perhaps one with foreign connections. It explains my occasional unusual mannerisms, potential access to resources, and proximity to political information without requiring noble credentials that could be easily verified."

Elizabeth nodded approvingly. "A merchant with continental ties—perhaps Germanic or Dutch, explaining any accent peculiarities. Such men often maintain relationships with court officials for trade purposes."

"Precisely," Bobby agreed. "I can create the necessary documentation and credentials. Gold solves most practical problems in commercial contexts."

"Speaking of which," Elizabeth said with sudden sharpness, "you earlier warned against creating wealth from nothing due to economic destabilization. Yet you propose to fund our activities using precisely such methods. Isn't that hypocritical?"

Bobby laughed, genuinely amused by her directness. "Perceptive challenge, princess. But there's a crucial distinction. Creating wealth from nothing would indeed destabilize economies. What I propose is fundamentally different."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the blood-stained dagger Elizabeth had used to dispatch her attackers the previous day. "Consider this common blade. Ordinary steel, mediocre craftsmanship, minimal intrinsic value."

Before her eyes, the weapon began to change. The metal rippled like liquid, blood stains disappearing as the entire structure reconfigured. The plain hilt transformed first, developing intricate scrollwork in what appeared to be solid gold. The blade narrowed and elongated slightly, developing an elegant curve and mysterious symbols etched along its length in what looked like silver inlay. The transformation completed in seconds, leaving Bobby holding what appeared to be a priceless ceremonial dagger that might belong in a king's treasury.

"I haven't created wealth from nothing," Bobby explained, handing her the transformed weapon. "I've merely rearranged existing materials into more valuable configurations. The total matter remains constant—it's simply organized more... profitably."

Elizabeth examined the dagger with unconcealed wonder. Even to her untrained eye, the craftsmanship appeared supernatural in its perfection. "This must be worth..."

"At least a hundred times its original value," Bobby confirmed. "The principle can be applied to any material object. Common stones become gemstones. Plain metals become precious alloys. Crude objects become masterworks." He smiled slightly. "The wealth isn't created from nothing—it's transformed from something of lesser value."

"Fascinating distinction," Elizabeth murmured, still examining the dagger. "Though I suspect economic philosophers might debate whether the effect differs meaningfully from wealth creation."

"They might," Bobby conceded. "But the practical impact is vastly different in scale. These transformations are limited by available materials and attract less dangerous attention than suddenly appearing gold bars."

"And you propose to fund our activities through such transformations?"

"Among other methods," Bobby replied. "Wealth—true wealth—is the foundation of power. Your nobles understand this intuitively, though they couch it in terms of land and titles. Without financial resources, even the most loyal retainers eventually rebel or betray. With sufficient wealth properly applied, virtually any obstacle can be overcome."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed slightly. "You speak as though you intend to control England's wealth."

"Not control," Bobby corrected. "Influence. And not just England's. My intentions extend further than a single island nation's economy."

Before Elizabeth could pursue this concerning statement, Bobby pivoted to practical matters. "We need to reach Cecil. I suggest a compromise approach. Instead of revealing my nature to him directly, I can transport us near Woodstock—close enough to make contact through conventional means, yet bypassing the dangerous journey."

Elizabeth studied him for a long moment. "You would take me with you in this... instant transportation?"

"I can. Though I should warn you, the experience can be disorienting for humans experiencing it for the first time."

The princess squared her shoulders with Tudor determination. "If this is the most efficient path forward, so be it." She hesitated. "What must I do?"

"Simply maintain physical contact with me," Bobby instructed, extending his hand. "Close your eyes if you wish—many find it less disorienting."

Elizabeth placed her hand in his, immediately feeling that subtle wrongness of his skin that was neither completely warm nor completely cold. "How long will this take?"

Bobby's lips curved in amusement. "No time at all."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to question this cryptic answer, but before she could form the words, reality seemed to stretch and snap around her. There was no sense of movement, no rush of wind or changing pressure—simply the cottage surroundings instantly replaced by a dense copse of trees overlooking a distant manor house.

She staggered slightly, a wave of nausea washing over her. Bobby's steady hand prevented her from falling as her equilibrium slowly returned.

"What... how...?" she gasped, struggling to process what had just occurred.

"Don't overthink it," Bobby advised. "We were there, now we're here. The mechanics would be meaningless to you without centuries of scientific context."

Elizabeth took several deep breaths, fighting the disorientation. When she had composed herself sufficiently, she looked around with growing recognition. "This is Woodstock," she confirmed, spotting familiar landmarks. "Less than a mile from where Kat and Thomas Parry would have taken shelter after realizing I was missing."

"Precisely," Bobby confirmed. "Close enough to make contact through ordinary means, but we've bypassed three days of dangerous travel."

Elizabeth's mind raced with implications. "With this ability, you could place me anywhere in England instantly. You could extract me from danger at any moment. You could—"

"I could do many things," Bobby interrupted. "But each use of such obvious power increases the risk of discovery. We must be judicious."

Elizabeth nodded slowly. "Of course. Strategy over spectacle." She straightened her clothing and adjusted her hood more securely. "We should proceed toward the manor. By now, Cecil will have been notified of my disappearance. If he's followed standard procedure, he'll have representatives here seeking information."

Bobby gestured for her to lead the way. "After you, Your Future Majesty. Let's see if your William Cecil is as resourceful as history suggests."

As they began walking toward Woodstock Manor, Elizabeth found herself studying her impossible companion with renewed appreciation. Whatever he truly was—god, demon, or something beyond human comprehension—his abilities represented power beyond anything she'd imagined possible. With such an ally, the path to her throne might indeed be shorter than her dreams had foretold.

The real question was whether his agenda truly aligned with hers, or if she was merely a momentary diversion for a being who measured existence in millennia rather than years. Only time would reveal the truth—and time, it seemed, was the one commodity Robert Kestrel had in truly infinite supply.