Aleksander sat on the train with his legs dangling out of the box car. He was staring straight ahead, watching the world blur into a single point, barely hearing the hiss of the steam or the clack of the wheels against the rails. The boy's bracelet was digging into his ribs and he closed his eyes. He could have simply shifted, let the bracelet slide deeper into his coat pocket, but he did not.

He had been on the train for several hours, but he hadn't moved once. One of the soldiers had tried to start a conversation, to congratulate him on defeating one of the enemy's blessed warriors, but the man had quickly left after Aleksander completely ignored him.

He couldn't get the sounds out of his head. The splintering of bone. The last dying gasp. The muffled thud as the body of the boy— the boy he had once known— hit the ground. They played in his mind like an orchestra and they wouldn't leave him alone.

He'd given the boy the chance to run. Why didn't he run? But he knew why. Coward, his comrades would have called him. Weak. Useless. Their pride was worth more than their lives, and he'd been that way once too. Now there was only one thing worth more than his life, but it certainly wasn't pride. He didn't have any left.

He was lost in his thoughts until someone jostled his shoulder.

"Sir," said the young soldier in his native language, "we've arrived."

Aleksander curled his lip. He'd never gotten used to the way these people talked, how ugly it was compared to his language. It grated at his ears and oftentimes, he wanted nothing more than to strangle the person talking so that they'd stop. Even the choking noises would be more melodious.

He rose to his feet, shoved past the soldier, and stepped off the train. The wind was howling and it nipped at any bit of skin exposed, but he didn't care. He would stand out here all day and all night if it meant avoiding what was to come.

It was with great reluctance that he made his way into the city, and even greater reluctance that he lifted his eyes to look up past the smokestacks and steeples to see his destination-- the queen's castle.

Had he been an ordinary person, he would have been in awe of Castle Avmakt. The white marble was smooth and shining, almost luminescent in the moonlight, the towers seemed to stretch into the mist, and the trim of the roof was real gold, bright and gleaming. It extended as wide as the hill it rested upon, almost as wide as the city below. Peace had been made there and wars had been declared. Murders had been committed in many of the bedchambers and executions near the lowest tower. It was a place of history and a place where history would continue to be made.

He hated Castle Avmakt.

He wanted to shatter the hundred windows, topple the high-rising towers, and tear it all apart, walls and columns and even the ground it rested on. He wanted it to be nothing but rubble, and then he wanted the rubble ground into dust, to be scattered into the wind and carried far, far away from him.

As if you'd have the strength for that, he thought, and turned his head away.

Every step he took toward the castle felt heavier and heavier, as if he still had chains around his ankles. The old Aleksander would have taken one look at this castle and laughed, walked right up to it and fought his way to the throne room. The man he was now was barely keeping himself from running until he couldn't even see the border of this country any longer.

He passed through the gilded iron gate, soldiers following close behind. Their rifles were at the ready; they may have called him 'sir', but they were willing and able to shoot him at a moment's notice. He could hear the scuff of their boots against the cobblestone, the low murmurs between two of the soldiers at the back of the group. Maybe if he strained his ears, he could tell what they were saying, but what did it matter? Life, love, the war— what was it to him?

At the doors to the castle, there was a familiar man waiting. Aleksander instinctively reached for the knife on his belt before remembering that he did not carry one now. Years of habit were hard to unlearn.

The man nodded once to the soldiers and they left immediately. He then looked over at Aleksander, a slight smile on his face and a tilt to his head as if asking a question: Well? Will you?

Aleksander was faster. He was stronger. He could end this man before anyone even had a chance to react... but then he would only manage to kill one person, out of the many he wanted dead. So he dipped his head ever so slightly: Not today.

Smile widening, the man said, "It's nice to see you again. I always miss you when you go."

"What do you want, Marek?"

"From you, nothing."

No, you already got what you wanted from me, he wanted to say. You already took everything.

From the look on Marek's face, it was clear that he knew exactly what Aleksander thought. But all he said was, "Walk with me. The queen wishes to see you."

As they went through the hall side-by-side, Aleksander ignored everything there: paintings, décor, chandeliers, even guardsmen; all of his attention was focused on one thing, and that was Marek's face. The man's voice was always calm and always soft, regardless of the situation, so the only hints as to what he was planning would be found in his minute facial expressions. Even after over two decades, Aleksander still found it very difficult to read Marek.

The drawback of it was that he had to keep his eyes on Marek, even though all he wanted was to never see his face again. The two of them looked all too similar— Aleksander's nose might have been crooked from all the breaks, but he and Marek shared the same angular features. Marek's hair was swept back and styled, but it was the same rich, dark brown. They even had the same build, wiry but strong. The only differences were between their eyes and their clothes: blue eyes like a frozen lake and a sharp, tailored suit for Marek, and stormy grey eyes and the navy soldier's uniform for him.

Whenever Aleksander saw his own reflection, he hated it both for showing his face and for reminding him of Marek's.

"I notice that you're missing something," said Marek, not bothering to look at him.

I notice that you sound just like them now.

"Ru— the queen will not be pleased."

Aleksander stared at him. Marek did not make mistakes when he spoke. It simply didn't happen. So to correct himself in the middle of a word... it was his way of making it stand out. The queen. Marek had stopped in the middle of her name, which meant...

What are you up to?

"You're capable of speaking, you know."

"I'm capable of many things," said Aleksander through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I'm sure."

The two continued in silence, although they occasionally glanced over at each other, gauging and assessing. It wasn't long before they reached the end of the hall, and the guards pushed open the doors.

----------

If there was one person he wanted to kill more than Marek, it was the woman in front of him now. She was lounging on her throne, long legs stretched out in front of her, and the tinted light coming from the stained glass rose window shone off of the gold of the throne and of her hair. Her chin was propped on one pale, delicate hand, and her eyes were bright and full of mirth as she looked down at him. But Aleksander's eyes were focused on the silver bands around her wrists. He had to fight the urge to snarl.

The herald beside her called out, "You stand in the presence of Her Majesty Runa Aldasdottir, Queen Regent of Riken and its Territories, Keeper of the Faith, and Defender of the People."

They were words that Aleksander had come to know well, despite his complete lack of interest in learning the language, and even now he had trouble keeping himself from snorting at them. Defender of the People, he thought. Who are they trying to fool?

The queen looked down at Marek, but said, "Aleksander," and beckoned him closer.

He didn't dare ignore her. "My queen," he said, bowing low. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some of the other people of the court look over— even after years, his accent still clearly showed through any words he spoke.

"I take it that you succeeded in driving back the moravskene."

He nodded once.

"A verbal answer would be nice."

"Yes, my queen."

"And did you succeed in the other endeavor?"

Aleksander pulled the bracelet out of his coat pocket, turned, and handed it to Marek, who gave it to the queen.

She slid the bracelet onto her wrist with all the others, tilting it to watch the light shine off the wolf's head. "Very nice," she said, "but also not what I asked for."

Yet you have no problem displaying it like a trophy, he thought, but said nothing.

She finally deigned to look at him, a small smile playing on her face. "Kneel."

He did so without question, hiding a wince as his knee hit the floor hard. While he would not look up at the queen, he did see Marek off to the side. There was a look on Marek's face, one of amusement, but Aleksander had the feeling that it wasn't directed toward him.

The queen stepped down from the throne and Aleksander watched as the blue-and-white shoes grew closer and closer to him. Or more accurately, closer to Marek.

"Look at me," she commanded.

He did, and felt the usual rush of hatred at the sight of her, this time accompanied by the slightest twinge of something. Had he looked at the boy like this? Chin raised, corner of the mouth slightly lifted... and those eyes. Those same eyes he had killed the boy for having, now focused on him. Pointless. It was pointless.

"Maybe next time," she said, "you won't fail."

The two walked away and left Aleksander kneeling.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The light through the window was warmer but dimmer, casting a glow directly into his eyes. He bowed his head, ignoring the pain that flared in his neck from having been bent for so long. His whole body ached: his muscles were trembling, his spine felt as if it were made of slowly-melting iron, and his knee screamed from being pressed against the cold, hard marble for so long. But he didn't dare rise— he knew that the queen would find out, and he knew from experience that whatever pain he felt now would be nothing compared to then.

He took in short, sharp breaths; anything deeper caused his ribs to flare up like a branding iron was being pushed into them. He wondered vaguely what the others of the court thought, if they had come back multiple times to still see him here, kneeling. Did they pity him? Did they laugh? Did they think he deserved it?

You do deserve it, he told himself. Whether you followed her orders or not.

He knew it. He hated it. But just because he hated the truth didn't mean it was going to change.

The sharp clack of shoes behind him alerted him to another's presence. Male, clearly, but that was confirmed when the man spoke, voice low: "Aleksander."

He closed his eyes. "What," he bit out.

Marek came in front of him and crouched so that they were at eye level. With the light blocked, Aleksander raised his head to meet his eyes.

"You can stand now."

He gave Marek a look, searching for any hint of amusement or deception. It wouldn't be the first time he'd lied, and wouldn't even be the first time he'd lied to cause some small, petty torment. Although, if he stood and it turned out that the queen hadn't approved, the torment would be neither.

When he saw nothing, he decided to stand. It was worth it to unbend his spine, even if he was beaten for it. But when he tried to, a lightning bolt of pain lanced up his back and he slumped forward, chest hitting the ground. He had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from letting out a cry.

"Aleš," Marek said concernedly, and reached out to help him.

At the nickname, he growled and shoved Marek's hands away. "I don't need your help."

"You do." Marek helped him up and looped his arm around Aleksander's shoulder.

They made their way slowly toward the doors behind the throne, and one of the guardsmen held it open for them, revealing the narrow spiral staircase that stretched up to the top of the tower.

"I know," Marek said. "I know it hurts, but—"

"How could you possibly know?"

Marek was silent for a while, simply guiding him up the stairs one at a time. When they reached the landing for the second floor, he said, "I don't enjoy seeing you like that."

"Do you think being nice will make up for what you've done?"

"No," said Marek. "I doubt you've forgotten anything."

And he hadn't. He could still hear them, could still see the blood—

"Good night, Aleksander." They'd reached his chambers and Marek had opened the door for him.

Not bothering to thank him, Aleksander stepped into his chambers slowly and closed the door, keeping his strides short and careful until he reached his bed. He collapsed onto it and fell asleep instantly, as he hadn't done in years. But his dreams were plagued with screams and shrieks, joined this time by the final gasp of a blue-eyed boy. 

So... I think this chapter went better, but feedback. Please. I'd greatly appreciate it. 

For anyone wondering, the caron over the s in Aleš  makes a sounds like "sh"... so Alesh.