Three men lay in the snow-dusted dirt, right in front of Aleksander's boots. He took a deep breath and let his heartbeat slow to normal, let the deep and fiery pain of each line on his back subside to a dull ache. It still felt as if the skin around the spine was cracking, like a frozen lake under the man's weight, but he ignored it in favor of the soldiers. All of them had been plucked from the front lines and sent here to Rjustad, nominated to the castle's defense due to their bravery, their wit—

Their blind fervor, he thought, nudging the closest one none-too-gently with the tip of his boot. Aloud, he said, "Get up, Erlendssen. Stop wasting my time."

Erlendssen rose to his feet, straightened the collar of his dark blue uniform, and swiped the snow from his inky hair. Raising his chin, he tried not to look like he'd been knocked to the ground thrice in as many minutes.

The problem with some green soldiers, Aleksander thought, was that the spark in them hadn't yet been dulled by the corpses of comrades. Ones like this soldier took to war like zealots to their god– craving the flash of gold medals, the acrid tang of smoke and gunpowder, the screams and flat cracks that followed bullets. Like zealots, they were all too willing to die.

"You were slow," he said. "Even using only my homeland's abilities, I was able to stop you. You're still used to fighting normal moravskene soldiers. I assure you, if they were ever to attack this castle, a Voják Rovnováhy would certainly be there. Not only can they hurt you from a distance, but they are fast enough and strong enough to kill you." He showed his teeth in a smile. "As you've just seen for yourself."

"If you'd given us time to prepare—" began Erlendssen, eyes narrowed.

"Prepare? You are Kronvakt, defenders of the castle. Unless you're leading a coup, surprise will likely be on your end. You don't have time to prepare."

The three men looked at one another before Sjurssen, the eldest of the trio, spoke. "Regardless, this is a training exercise, Herr Jelen. You've no right to use this kind of force—"

"I have every right."

He was deliberately antagonizing them, but he didn't care. The four of them were on the training field directly outside the castle, so while guards at the gates and along the walls could see them, none of the conversation was audible and the morning fog obscured much of their interactions. After the frustrations and pain of the last couple days, something in him couldn't help but enjoy passing them on to someone else.

"Well, we're prepared now," said Erlendssen, taking a step forward. "Try it again. See if we're slow."

Aleksander grinned inwardly. So Erlendssen didn't want to give in. A fourth time, then.

Back when Aleksander had been as fervent a soldier as this man, he'd thought that surrender was an affair marked by guilt and rage, torn from his soul the second he dropped to his knees. Now he knew that it was none of those things, merely a deep, inexorable weariness that folded his legs beneath him and let any other emotion slip away like the quietest of sighs. It was how he knew that Erlendssen would stand up again and be knocked down again, unless he crushed him so completely that the man's legs could bear no weight.

So he wants a taste of true war, the voice in the corner of his mind said. Let him have it.

And damn him if his blood didn't cry out to tear Erlendssen to nothing, if a tremor didn't run from the core of him through every bone until his hands practically vibrated.

The commander at Pevnost Zvozová had once let him watch as he trained his hunting hounds. They had gone to a stockade, with a high wooden fence that blocked all visibility of what was inside... but he had been able to hear it, growling and scratching at the fence posts. The commander had brought his young hounds, yapping and baying, and he'd given Aleksander a small smile before opening a gate to the stockade.

There was a wolf, chained to a post and bloodied. Its hackles were raised and its ears shoved forward, and some of the hounds shied away. But the commander had slipped the dogs from their leads and, keeping his eye on the wolf, murmured, "Drz."

The hounds had rushed for the wolf, and the poor animal didn't stand a chance. "Watch how they grab it behind the ears," he'd said to Aleksander. "Keeps them from getting bitten."

Cornered, Aleksander knew that he was the wolf and these soldiers the dogs, but they were mistaken if they thought that the queen's chains on him would save them from his fangs. Come on, he willed them, every part of him primed for the kill. Come on, fight!

A peal of laughter rang out and Aleksander's head snapped to the left. Erlendssen's mouth was twisted into an unpleasant smile and it took less than a second for Aleksander to figure out why.

"He's a trembler," Erlendssen said, letting out another laugh. "Look at his hands."

Aleksander smiled thinly. "Then you should have it easy."

Erlendssen nodded, but none of the three made a move. Waiting for the spot behind the ears. After a moment's pause, he slowly let the tension drain from his body, relaxing one muscle at a time. Behind the calm, his mind raced, taking in their scars, the way each of them stood, how long it would take for them to rush at him. The instant Erlendssen's foot started, he barked out a laugh of his own. Not fast enough.

In memory, the lash fell on his back again, carving rivers through an unblemished land like the god of old. Each individual nerve seared and sparked. He remembered the first scream that had left his lips, a wordless cry of rage and grief and confusion. He wasn't screaming now. The same could not be said for Sjurssen, Erlendssen, and Hallgrimssen— a collective wail rose, piercing and agonized. Only Erlendssen still remained on his feet, face contorted and pale, while the other two were flat on their stomachs, hands attempting to ward away a blow that could not be stopped.

As Erlendssen's legs crumpled beneath him, Aleksander grinned. "Say what you will about tremblers, but you'll find that no others fight as hard when cornered."

Only the faintest of movements indicated that the other two were alive. With a little more time, he could make it so agonizing that their hearts failed them. So why don't you? asked the voice in the back of his mind, even as the more rational part of him shouted, Enough!

He shook his head. What were a few seconds compared to his suffering of years? What did it matter to him if—? The crunch of bone echoed in his mind and he flinched, bringing one hand up to his ear as if he could block the sound. Suffering. That boy didn't suffer. You ended it.

Stepping back, he shook his head again. The memory was seared into the surface of his brain; the blood was crusted on the surface of his skin. He took another pace backward and shut his eyes, feeling the last scraps of control that he had start to fade away. One deep breath after another, Aleksander let his heart rate slow. The link between himself and the soldiers dwindled and he blinked. This memory needed to be killed as certainly as any enemy and he would go to any end to—

"Impressive display."

Erlendssen, Sjurssen, and Hallgrimssen each let out another shriek as Aleksander's teeth clenched and his chest tightened to the point of causing pain. Wordlessly, he turned, trying once more to control the thunder of his heart. Marek rested against the wall, hands in his pockets and head tilted.

Marek shrugged. "Every time that I think there are limits to your fits of pique..."

"What?" he snapped.

Simply raising an eyebrow, Marek said nothing. Instead he grinned, that crooked little half-smile that revealed the barest hint of teeth, and Aleksander felt the urge to see how many of those teeth he could knock out with one punch. There had been a time when he'd been all too happy to see that smile, a sure sign of a joke that had been played or a newly-hatched plan to steal from the kitchens without getting caught, but that had been when they were both children. The innocence of such crimes had long since given way to the darker nature that came with adulthood, and Aleksander had been on the receiving end of those new schemes far too often to have any of his former fondness for that expression.

The silence stretched between them as it never had in childhood. Grey eyes met blue and, for a brief moment, Aleksander considered gauging the latter out so that he didn't have to see the laughter in them. No, he told himself. No. He let out a breath through his nose and focused on the couple of hairs straying from Marek's carefully-maintained style. Bringing his erratic heartbeat to heel, he conceded this game of wills and lifted his chin.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

Marek's smile broadened. "The queen requests an audience with you at soonest possible convenience."

In Moravský, Aleksander said, "The queen demands an audience with me right now. Don't try to wrap it in civility."

"As you wish."

Not bothering to spare the three soldiers a glance, Aleksander followed Marek away from the training fields. The high towers of Borg Rjustad rose above them and he curled his lip. In mines across Riken, laborers buried themselves in rock and iron with glyserolnitrat, bodies unrecognizable even if they could be recovered. Marble and gold could be brought down just the same.

"Do you know," Marek said, "I imagine that every time you see this castle, you picture it in ruins. That every time you see her, you picture a corpse at your feet."

Was he so obvious? Shaking his head, he snorted and said, "As if your goals are virtuous."

Marek stopped suddenly, forcing Aleksander to halt and face him. "Perhaps they aren't," he said, voice so low that Aleksander had to strain to hear him. "After all, some of them align with yours."

For a moment, Aleksander stood still, speechless. Then he let out a laugh, edged and bitter. "I'm not your weapon, Marek. I do not aim where you point me."

"And you prefer to be hers? Now, you have your reasons and I have mine, but the fact remains that we both want it done."

The idea was certainly not a new one to Aleksander. For over a decade, he had stared into those blue eyes of hers and wished to be the one to turn them dull; he'd watched every shift of the silver bracelets on her arms and wondered if she'd bleed out if he buried the shards of all fourteen into her flesh. After so long, he had to admit that the offer was tempting. There wasn't much that he trusted Marek with, but bringing someone's life to an end, literally or figuratively, was the man's forte.

That includes yours, he reminded himself, fathoming the depths of Marek's eyes for any hint of treachery. Nothing came without a price, and that went double for anything his brother had to offer. He didn't know Marek's true aims, what he had to gain from the murder of the queen, but it was a rare occurrence indeed that anything beneficial for Marek was so for Aleksander.

"Maybe so," he conceded, shifting his weight to one foot, "but your mind is slipping if you think that I'll work with you."

Marek shrugged and resumed walking. "If that's how you feel," he said over his shoulder.

With a curse, he caught up to Marek and said, "I could take this plan of yours to the queen."

"Yes, you could. But do you think she'd be inclined to believe your innocence in this?" He smiled again, but there was none of the friendliness of the previous gesture. It was a cold, hollow thing, and Aleksander nearly shuddered in spite of himself. "If I hang, I'll ensure that you are by my side."

"You would—"

"But," Marek interrupted, seemingly oblivious to the way Aleksander's hands clenched into fists, "I'd rather you were by my side in a different capacity. You and I, Aleksander, we're inexorable. You know that. The only limits are the ones you choose to put in place— you could have what you've dreamed of for so long."

"I'm sure that you are quite concerned about my dreams."

"Are you certain that you aren't interested?"

"Yes." His hesitation lasted less than a second, but he was sure that Marek noticed.

"Very well. A decision like this one takes some time to truly consider, so I'll leave you to it."

Marek let the conversation die as they approached the entrance to Borg Rjustad. Two guards held open the doors and Marek thanked them quietly before stepping through. The rest of the way to the queen passed wordlessly, although the cogs in Aleksander's mind turned at full speed. Indubitably, Marek would not extend such a deal to him unless he could ensure silence. Some measure had to be in place, even with the queen herself— perhaps it was all a test from her, in the end.

Somehow, he didn't think so. Why now, of all times? Why not wheedle and cajole more, try to get him to actually agree to something damning? But he couldn't be sure, not yet, and so he grudgingly accepted that he would have to hold his tongue with the queen. He'd had no intention of sharing it anyway, but now there was the possibility of his head in a noose. Wishing her dead was one thing; planning for it was quite another. Nothing could slip, not today and not ever.

Pausing outside a door, Marek said, "Think about it."

With that, he left, and Aleksander entered the room alone. It was a room he'd never been in, and he was glad of it: there was no point to it. It was just four walls decorated with scenes of a mist-shrouded mountain, with crown moulding of light oak wood. No books, no weaponry, no larders... the only things in the room were clinquant trinkets and a round table, and at that table sat the queen.

He knelt before her, as was expected, and said, "My queen."

Without preamble, the queen said, "I'm sending you south."

He didn't ask where, didn't say a word. Much like children in the traditional noble homes, he was not to speak unless directly asked a question. The mother of Riken, he thought wryly, watching her carefully. It didn't suit her.

"The people of Feirvangen have reported scouting missions by the moravskene. It's likely that they will attack soon. When they do, I want you to be there and I want what I've asked for... remember what happened last time you failed."

Aleksander narrowed his eyes.

"Go and prepare," she said. "You leave tonight."

"Yes, my queen."

"Disappoint me again, and I'll make sure they can hear your screams from Moravsko."

Once again, his mind went back to Marek's offer and he suppressed a smile. Perhaps it was nothing but a trick, but the end result was satisfying to imagine. It wouldn't be my screams that they'd hear. 

I've no idea where to split this one, so I'm just not gonna try. Word count isn't any less than some other chapters, but. Sorry for the delay-- busy, busy on my end between post-op recovery and personal work.

Kronvakt (KROHN-vahkt): crown guard.

Drz (drruzh): Czech command for "bite". Admittedly, I'm not really sure if this is the correct term for an 1800s-ish era, but it's used for modern police dogs, so...

Tremblers: no one really had any idea what PTSD was back then. So when men came home from war, certain professions (like police) would refuse them due to their trembling hands and perceived cowardice. Aleksander does not have PTSD, but rather something else that causes shaking hands.

Glyserolnitrat is Norwegian for nitroglycerin, which Westward Expansion buffs might know as that stuff that killed a ton of immigrant workers in mines.

Above is a video of wolf-hunting, which was (naturally) the end goal of the training that Aleksander mentioned.