by J. C. Owens
Torin gave a great choking gasp, his saber falling from nerveless fingers.
“Amadan,” he whispered, disbelief and pain entwined.
The shock on the faces around him gave credence to Heratis’s words. Their prince, back from the dead.
Aidan looked around him, heart sinking. They would give up, would let this one factor destroy the rebellion.
He slid away, keeping hidden behind others, his passage scarcely noticed in the wave of shock that had overcome the fighters. Some instinct, some divine guidance pushed him on. He pulled a gun from a man’s lax hand, the warrior scarcely even noticing, completely riveted by what was occurring at the doors.
“Put down your weapons and surrender, or you will see your prince die in truth, before your eyes.” Small vicious eyes slid to Torin as he pressed the knife more tightly against pale skin, blood welling over the blade. The prince seemed dazed, uncomprehending. He did not struggle against Heratis’s hold, did not seem to recognize his countrymen spread before him in shocked tableau.
“Surrender, and you can be with him, Torin. Rule by his side. Give this rebellion up once and for all. You will be led by your prince, there is nothing to fight against. Go against me, and his blood will be on your head. It is your choice, Torin. Shall he live, or die?”
Aidan moved more swiftly, down the stairs, across the courtyard at a tangent. He did not even understand his own actions, but he let his mind lead, let his body follow.
Far to the right, around the edge of a ornamental tower, rose a narrow stair case, worn and dangerous, no doubt built in ages past to allow servants to maintain the roof. The crumbling stones turned under his boots, yet he clung grimly to the moss covered wall, fingers sinking desperately into minute chinks. If he fell…
Higher and higher, the stairs wound around the tower wall, until, at the top, lay a small platform. Gingerly, panting, he stepped upon it, feeling it shift beneath him, unstable. From here, he could clearly see Heratis and his men spread out before him. The triumph on the enemy general’s face was sickening, and Aidan felt rage swell up, overtaking his fear.
Bracing himself against the tower, he sucked in a breath and then let it out gently as he aimed.
The shot made everyone flinch, but Aidan only had eyes for his target. Heratis turned his head, met Aidan’s eyes for the briefest of moments, bewilderment evident in his expression, then sagged to his knees and toppled forward to lay still upon the stairs.
Every eye turned to Aidan. He had only a moment to process the sight before the platform crumbled under his weight.
He scrabbled desperately at the wall, but his own weight pulled him down and he was falling, falling…
Chapter Seven
Aidan woke abruptly, a choked gasp escaping his lips.
Frantically, he tried to move, but there was no strength in his body. He could barely turn his head enough to ascertain where he might be.
The white washed walls, the smell of medication… The sound of groans and pain surrounded him, the scent of blood and vomit heavy in the air. This must be where they had brought the injured from the battle.
His panic subsided somewhat as he tried to piece together why he could be here.
The shot, falling…
He drew a deep breath, pain spiking immediately.
He was alive. After a drop like that, it was a miracle at the very least.
Fear rose then. What injuries had he sustained? Tentatively, cautiously, he tested, taking stock of his own body.
As his mind cleared, he realized that his right arm was wrapped to his chest, held tightly. With complete consciousness, pain began to make itself felt. A lot of that seemed centered around his ribs. He managed to glance down, finding them wrapped much as his arm was.
He subsided back, fighting for breath, trying not to pant with the pain that began to rise in waves.
A whimper broke from his lips.
“You need to drink this.” Aidan flinched, then cried out, blackness at the edges of his vision.
A gentle hand steadied him, a soft apology barely heard.
He felt a cup against his lips and realized that here was his salvation. He eagerly drank, almost choking in his haste. Anything to gain relief.
Someone gently eased his head back down when he was done, and stroked back the hair from his forehead.
He could not focus on them, could not even open his eyes, only faintly recognizing Paulsten’s voice. He had not realized the man could be so gentle.
The thought followed him down into unconsciousness.
* * *
He woke to Torin’s grim face.
His heart leapt, and he managed a smile, his left hand reflexively reaching for his lover.
Torin did not reach back, nor did his expression soften.
Aidan let his hand fall to the bed, blinking, uncertain as to what was happening here, his mind too muddled for him to speak.
Torin’s eyes roved over him, taking in the bandages, and his lips thinned, something flickering in his eyes, but gone so swiftly that Aidan could not identify it.
Behind him, Aidan could see Paulsten, who smiled at him, though it held a worry Aidan could not understand.
“What were you thinking?” Torin’s voice held a cold fury that made Aidan shrink back against the sweat stained pallet.
“You could not act once you saw your prince. Everyone was too shocked, frozen. Heratis would have won. I took the chance…” He stammered.
“A chance!” Torin almost spit the words. “Your shot hit Amadan. We were damn lucky it was relatively minor. Did you think to rid yourself of the competition? Or are you working for them after all?”
Aidan stared at him, mouth agape, a cold wave of disbelief flooding his senses. He could not have heard…
“I would never…” He reached out imploringly, heart splintering as Torin stepped back, distaste written across his expression. “Torin, you know me better than this, surely?”
“Don’t utter my name.” The words cut into Aidan like a blade, and he flinched back, eyes wide. “I thought I knew you. But I was wrong.” His lip curled back from his teeth. He stepped back, turned to Paulsten. “Keep him out of my sight before I do something I might regret.” He stalked out of sight.
Aidan watched him go, shock making him speechless, tears beginning to well up. He fought them back with grim determination. Tears only got you beaten.
A gentle hand cupped his cheek and he looked up through tear wet lashes to meet Paulsten’s compassionate expression. “He is not himself right now, Aidan. He is in shock over Amadan’s being alive, and right now, is wildly protective of him. He does not know what he is saying.”
Aidan felt his body begin to shake and tried to still the movement, unwilling to expose himself to any further interaction. He just wanted to be alone. Compassionate or not, Paulsten’s first loyalty was always going to be Torin, as it should be.
Aidan was not part of that circle now, if he ever truly had been.
For Torin to turn on him so completely, true emotion, true caring could never have been present at all.
He looked away, staring at one of the walls with rapt absorption. “As you say, my lord.”
“He will come round. Just give him a little time.” Perhaps the man actually believed what he was saying.
Aidan could not. “He has what he has dreamed of for so long, my lord. I know my place.”
Paulsten sighed, let his hand drop to Aidan’s uninjured shoulder, squeezing gently. “I don’t think he knows what he wants. I hope he will come to his senses sooner than later.”
“Thank you, my lord. I apologize, but I wish to be alone now.” Aidan’s words were clipped, but he could not soften them.
Paulsten nodded, sadness in his eyes. “I thank you for what you did. It was foolishly brave, but you saved us. Ended the war, if you care to look at it that way. You are being lauded.”
Aidan gritted his teeth. “Not by Torin.”
Paulsten shook his head. “I
will come to see you when I can. Don’t take his words to heart. He is miserable to everyone at this moment.”
Aidan nodded, just wishing this to be over.
Paulsten sighed and turned away, his footsteps slowly receding.
Aidan took a deep, gasping breath, turning his head into the lumpy pillow. It soon became soaked with silent tears.
* * *
Aidan stared out the window, motionless, emotionless.
Nairat’s words from long ago had come true.
He was ice. Pure ice. No longer an ice prince, but a being leached of all care. It was a blessing, one he held close, protection from all that lay outside his frigid walls.
He looked up slowly as he heard Paulsten’s footsteps.
The older man stopped in the doorway and watched him for a moment. Finally he approached.
“You are sure about this?” The worry in his tone was clear and Aidan felt a twinge of affection. Paulsten had taken him in after he was released from medical care and had housed him this past month while he healed. Something that had not been approved of by Torin, leading to many an argument, from what Aidan had heard.
Torin had not been in his presence since that dreadful day, and Aidan could only feel a weary relief at that fact. He never wanted to see that anger on Torin’s face again, directed at him with such intense fury. He looked up at Paulsten and nodded. No words were needed. Paulsten had argued against this for days, but in the end, it was not his life, not his decision.
Paulsten sighed, watching in obvious disapproval as Aidan rose, bending with difficulty to pick up the packs. Paulsten stepped forward with a grunt of irritation, taking them from Aidan’s hands.
“You should be careful. Those cracked ribs are still healing, probably will be for many months, not to mention the broken arm. Another two weeks before you can take the cast off.”
Aidan nodded, picking up the long oilskin coat and pulling it on over his warm clothing. He followed Paulsten out the door, moving stiffly.
The sun was out, the early morning warmer than it had been for weeks and Aidan took it as a sign that he was walking the right path for once.
The horse Paulsten was gifting him was beautiful, a gleaming chestnut mare, gentle eyes fixed upon them. She would be a good mount, did not look too rambunctious for his injuries.
“Thank you,” he murmured, and both men knew it was for much more than the horse.
Paulsten pulled him close, hugged him with care. Aidan returned the gesture, pain seeping through the cracks of his consciousness for a brief moment before he shored them up once more.
He pulled back, accepted Paulsten’s help in mounting. The bulging packs were laid over the mare’s back, behind the saddle, and Paulsten fastened them down with slow, deliberate movements, as though he did not want the moment to end.
At last he stood at Aidan’s stirrup, looking up at him with a resigned expression.
“Jularl will be expecting you at the library in Bursk. He is a good man and will be a good employer. Your talents with books will be much appreciated.”
Aidan nodded, unwilling to draw this moment out. The pain would be less if it was done swiftly.
“Blessings upon you, my lord.” He bowed in the saddle, then gathered the reins in hand and turned the mare for the gates that led from Paulsten’s home.
“Our country’s blessings go with you, Aidan.” Paulsten’s voice was rough, but Aidan did not look back.
The country’s blessing maybe. Torin’s, never.
It was two days later when he reached the cross roads. To the east lay Bursk; the other roads wound out of sight leading to places he had no knowledge of. He sat there, his future laid out before him, the ice rising to overwhelm him.
The wind blew upon his face from the side, and he turned his head toward the source, closing his eyes for a brief moment, before he nudged the mare into motion.
Decision made.
* * *
Torin strode down the corridor with swift, impatient strides, pausing before the door and then rapping upon it with some force.
“Come in.” The voice held more force than ever before, and Torin felt his heart give a leap of joy.
The handle turned beneath his fingers and he stepped into the familiar rooms.
A shadow crossed his mind and he tried to shake it away, as he did so often.
Images rose of that day he had been here, when the room had been in shambles and a hand had curled into his, offering silent comfort.
He growled, shook his head and continued forward.
Amadan sat by the window at his desk, a frown pleating his brow. He looked up wearily at Torin’s approach and waved him into the chair across the desk.
A year.
A year since they had got their prince back. Torin still found himself staring in wonder, had to touch often, just to believe it.
A year in which they had fought to restore the kingdom, to bring back a country that had been beggared by the invasion and was war weary, slow to recover.
But they now had a king, freshly crowned, and they were building from there, the people devout in their faith that it was a new beginning.
Ceratas would rise. Her people had always been strong, unafraid of hard work. That was good, because there was a lot of it to go round.
They were rebuilding all that had been destroyed, the clearing of fields that had lain fallow because people were too afraid to tend them, or defiant of providing food for the enemy. It was a slow process, but each day there was a step forward, a renewal of what had been taken away.
Torin leaned his head against the back of the chair, weary to the bone.
Amadan glanced at him, closing a ledger and pulling another closer. “You just got back from the northern border?”
Torin nodded, unable to do more than that. His body felt heavy, his energy suddenly disappearing now that he had reached his king.
“The border is secure. We built three new guard stations along the wall and repairs of the wall itself are complete now. The bastards to the north will have to look elsewhere for conquest. We are ready for them this time.” The bitterness in his tone made it all too clear that he wished this had been done before, that the invasion had never happened.
Amadan sighed and sat back, eyes fixed upon Torin.
“What’s done is done. We have to move forward, my friend. To look back is to be bitter, to let their taint linger in our souls.”
Torin bit his lip, nodding. Amadan had lost more than most. His whole family. The only consolation was that they had found the bodies at last, had provided a state funeral for the remains. The dead could rest, acknowledged, revered.
All but one.
Torin scowled, fingers tightening on the arms of the leather chair.
The youngest, Prince Aidan—his body had not been found. Which had raised a whole slew of questions…
Amadan rose to his feet, rotating his shoulder with a grimace. The bullet had gone through, the damage minimal, but it ached on occasion and today he had obviously been working too hard writing with it.
The king poured a measure of wine into two glasses, handed one to Torin, and sat back down.
He looked good, better than he had for a long while. It had taken him a long time to recover from his imprisonment, not to mention the grazing of the bullet that had taken his memory.
That bullet had been meant to end his life that horrific day his family died. But the aim was off and when it was seen he yet lived, Heratis had decided on a different course of action.
His injury had never progressed to the point they could use him as they wished, and it was then that word came of the Imposter and that he was a far better candidate for raising into being what they needed and wanted to control.
The Imposter.
Aidan.
Torin’s felt a spasm in his chest, and raised a hand to rub it away.
As always, the image of Aidan, wounded, alone, so innocent of the world and its dangers, haunted him.
&nb
sp; Aidan had disappeared that day and none could find him.
He never arrived at his new employer’s in Bursk, and Torin slept poorly at night, wondering what had happened, what ill had befallen the boy.
Torin tried not to dwell on what he had said, how he had destroyed what had been between them. It would never have lasted anyway, and what had occurred that day had been pure foolishness, which almost took Amadan’s life, and Aidan’s as well.
He sighed. Regret was useless. The boy was gone. Whatever fate had befallen him… He closed his eyes.
“I have not given up. There are still many searching for him.” Amadan’s voice roused him from his chill musings.
He looked up into brown eyes that held far too much knowledge for Torin’s comfort.
“He left of his own accord.”
“He left because you were an ass. From everything Paulsten has told me, the young man loved you to the ends of the earth. How did you think he was going to react? To have that love thrown back in his face?”
Torin looked away, out the window, a growl escaping his throat.
“And you think you can walk away from what you felt? Still feel? This is foolishness, Torin. You are better than this.”
The accusation rang in his ears, and he turned back to his king.
“You think he would want me now?” he snarled. “After that? It is one of the reasons I do not look for him. I think he is well rid of me.”
Amadan tilted his head. The light from the window lay gently over his face, highlighting that one pupil was larger than the other, a permanent reminder of his injuries. He fought every day to remember, to regain his past.
The one true blessing was that he had absolutely no memory of the murders, for which Torin was eternally thankful.
“You cannot escape what you feel, my friend. No matter how hard you work, how much you try to say it is fine, it wears on you. Daily. Do not think I am not aware of this. You need him, and I daresay, he needs you, however he might feel at the moment.”
Torin stared at him, then let his head drop back against the chair, a lump rising in his throat. He tried so hard to work past this, but his king was right. It never left him.
