For the King, to Valhalla

OOC: Please read this OOC thread for a track listing as well as some background information on what I plan on doing here. Thanks for reading!

22 April 2017
12:47 pm
On a Saturday
Alptaver, Prydania

He had just turned twenty-two. And now it was the twenty-second day of his birthmonth. Tobias had learnt not to discount good omens. And indeed they were good.

Two rivers. The Vor and the Landeren. What was left of the Syndicalist Republic's military had been amassed along them.

Two rivers. And two victories. Niels Krummedike had the harder crossing on the Landerene but he'd forced the Syndies to fall back to Keris after nearly a week of fighting.

And now... Tobias watched as FRE trucks and tanks rolled down the road as the spring air blew by. It made him smile, the spring air. This was Vesturland. Rolling hills set it apart from the forests of Midland and Austurland, and the spring air smelt sweater.

Or maybe it was the celebration. Tobias stood looked ahead. The tanks and trucks rolling towards Býkonsviði were actually slowed by the people coming out. People freed from the camps and collectivized farms. People freed from the conscripted mines, and just...people. All lining the roads. Hugging soldiers. Waving flags.

Because while General Krummedike's army had crossed the Landerne, General Eiderwig's had crossed the Vor. And that meant that... the War was almost over. The last significant military forces the Syndicalist Republic had had been smashed against these two rivers.

And now the entire heartland was open to the FRE. The countryside and Erkiengill would be liberated. And then...the capital.

"Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla!"

The chants of the people lining the roads, slowing down the army, they echoed in Tobias' head. He stood in the jeep to give a wave and hold a defiant fist in the air, before he looked into the distance.

The news of the collapse of the Syndicalist defences would be reaching Býkonsviði. What was Thomas Nielsen thinking?

Tobias looked ahead as the spring wind blew past him.

"I hope he's scared," Tobias thought.
"I hope he's scared and terrified. I hope his kids are..." he stopped himself.

He remember how he was scared and terrified. Hugging his mother. Never wanting to let go but destined to never see her again, holding her afraid as Nielsen's Militia stormed Absalonhöll...

He was only seven at the time. Thomas Nielsen's own children were adults today. But part of Tobias...a very strong part...hoped that the news that the FRE could no longer effectively be resisted scared them. He hoped them, their mother, and their father felt the terror his own parents felt fifteen years ago.

"Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla!"

The chants echoed in his mind as he looked ahead.

And then he thought.
"Uncle Tom."

That's what Thomas Nielsen had been to him, before his father and Nielsen had a falling out.

"I hope pabbi's the last thing he thinks about every night for the rest of his life," Tobias thought. His heart was racing. The countryside had come alive even as news of anti-Syndicalist uprisings in Erkiengill spread. This really was the end.

Tobias remembers clinging to William as a child. Crying himself to sleep. He remembers the men he'd killed. And he remembered the haunted faces of his countrymen as they were liberated. They faded into the cheering faces that now lined the roads.

Over. The War. Over. It seemed surreal but in just a few months...it would be inevitable.

What did Thomas Nielsen feel? Did the visage of his friend he'd tortured and killed haunt him? Did Hanna's words of vengeance hang over him like a dark cloud? Was he scared?

Tobias hoped he was.

22 April 2017
12:47 pm
On a Saturday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

"We've begun the retreat to Keris and Býkonsviði," Field Marshal Ejvind Borg said sombrely.
"We're setting up defensive positions to slow enemy advances."

Thomas Nielsen looked down as he sank into his chair.

This..was it. He'd dismissed it. It kept getting bigger and bigger. Even when he should have known...but he defied it. If he didn't accept it, it wouldn't be real.

But now it was here. The FRE. The royalist rebellion. The heartland of Prydania...the last tangible chunk of the Syndicalist Republic...was now indefensible. Soon they'd be at the outskirts of Keris and Býkonsviði.

How could this happen? How? How could an ineffective ÞM, a privileged aristocrat, and a fokking child do this? His jaw clenched.
Was this some cruel joke? Was his defiant lack of faith misguided? Maybe there was a God. Maybe He'd given Tom everything and taken it away...

As crazy as it was...it had to make sense. How could anything else be true? Picardist theory held...it held that such an uprising couldn't be possible. Not on this scale...

"Comrade Chairman?" Borg asked.

Thomas grunted softly and shook his head. He'd been lost in his own thoughts.

"Have we prepared Militant cells to leave behind the enemy's lines?"

Borg coughed nervously.
"Já, Comrade Chairman. But they've proven ineffective so far. It's my belief that if we scuttle Militant we can focus what resources we have left on the defence of Keris and Býkonsviði."

"No," Thomas said emphatically.
"Militant is necessary. As we mount our counterattack they'll rise behind the enemy. That's how we'll win this War."

Borg looked around. It was just him and Nielsen. He could be frank.

"Comrade Chairman, there won't be a counterattack."

"What?!" Thomas bellowed, his melancholy changing to outrage as he shot to his feet.
"We need to halt their momentum! Your defensive positions will hold the line while..."

Borg shook his head. He'd prayed...yes prayed...that Nielsen would see reason but he...he just wasn't.

"What tanks, Comrade Chairman?"

"What?"

"What tanks? What jets? What tanks and jets should I lead this counterattack against the FRE, Goyaneans, and Andrennians with?"

"You said..."

"I said we had defensive positions being manned to slow the advance. We don't have the men or vehicles or fuel to launch a counterattack."

"The Ninth and Sixth Armies..."

"Have been shattered and broken. The remnants are retreating to defend Keris and Býkonsviði. The parts that can avoid Goyanean and FRE air strikes anyway."

"You...we had two armies worth and you..." Nielsen growled. "You squandered them! You couldn't hold two rivers and you..."

"ENOUGH!" Borg barked.

Nielsen fell into silence. His eyes wide. No one had spoken to him like that in fifteen years.

"You don't dare..."

"Or what Comrade?!" Borg yelled back.
"The 9th and 6th were scraped together! We lost this War at Hadden, and now...now you want me to do what? Kill more men in a counterattack? Do you want that, Comrade? A counterattack in our state would only do one thing- end this War quicker. If you're so eager to end up in FRE hands then fine. Have me killed and give the order yourself."

"Militant will rise and you'll..."

"Militant has been an abysmal failure. Like anything else of value the People's Militia has attempted."

"The people will fight for us in the end," Nielsen growled.

"No," Borg shook his head.
"They fight for Tobias Loðbrók now."

Tobias Loðbrók. Nielsen had refused to give the boy much thought. Just a shadow of Robert. Some pawn propped up by aristocrats. But... Robert.

What could have been had Robert listened! But no...no...

"Why are you still here? If things are hopeless?" Nielsen muttered.

"Loyalty. Honour," Borg replied.
"Seeing through what I pledged my service to, to the end."

Nielsen looked him in the eyes. He'd laughed once. Fifteen years ago. He'd laughed at the slaughtered Knights of the Storm who'd led a doomed defence of Absalonhöll when the People's Militia stormed it. Fools, dying for a lost cause.

And now...

He dropped into his chair.
"Do what you must, Field Marshal."

Borg nodded.
"Comrade," he said softly, before leaving.

Tobias Loðbrók... he remembered him when he was in diapers. And now Robert's son was coming home.

---

What Could Have Been by Johnathan Young, 3:38

6 October 2015
6:59 pm
On a Tuesday
Haland, Prydania

William Aubyn rubbed his temples and sipped some water. He looked over the speech he'd scribbled in a notebook. It was...good. He'd been wracking his brain all day for it but...

...how could he convey what he really felt? How could the atrocities of Hadden be properly addressed? Tobias was...he was the same way he was after Darrow; despondent.

But the world was, in a very real way, watching. Journalists and social media covering the atrocities in and around Hadden had carried the pictures and stories of slaughtered innocents around the globe.
He wouldn't just be talking to Prydanians. Or even the Goyaneans and Andrennians. He'd be speaking to the world. To those supporting their struggle against Syndicalist tyranny and those who, perhaps engagingly, clung to the naive notion that Nielsen's regime could be negotiated with.

All of this...he rubbed his temples again. All of this had to be captured. Were the roads he wrote appropriate? He had no idea.

"Live in ten..." the Goyanean GRK director indicated. William nodded and sipped more water before setting the glass aside. He scanned over his notebook once more. And then looked into the camera. The red light indicating that he was live.

William Aubyn stood between two FRE flags, clutching the podium. He looked down for a brief moment before looking back into the camera.

"The crimes of the Syndicalist Republic will not go unanswered," he said in perfect Mercanti, his accent only slight.

"The crimes committed in Hadden will not go unanswered, no matter how many the world over choose to stick their heads in the sand. There can be no peace until that justice has been served. Peace...."

He paused. Letting the word hang.
"Peace. The concept is intoxicating. And dangerous. Now let's set the record straight. There's no argument over the choice between peace and war, but there's only one guaranteed way we can have peace- and we can have it in the next second- surrender."

He looked straight into the camera, as if he were speaking to Thomas himself.

"Admittedly, there's a risk in any course we follow other than this, but every lesson of history tells us that the greater risk lies in appeasement, and this is the spectre our well-meaning friends elsewhere refuse to face- that their policy of accommodation of the Syndicalist regime is appeasement, and it gives no choice between peace and war, only between fight or surrender. If we continue to accommodate, continue to back and retreat, eventually we have to face the final demand- the ultimatum. And what then- when Thomas Nielsen has told Syndicalist functionaries he knows what our answer will be? He has told them that we're retreating under the pressure of this War, and someday when the time comes to deliver the final ultimatum, our surrender will be voluntary, because by that time we will have been weakened from within spiritually and morally. He believes this because from around the world he's heard voices pleading for 'peace in Prydania any price' or 'better Red than dead,' or as one foreign diplomat put it, he'd rather 'live on his knees than die on his feet.' And therein lies the road to war, because those voices don't speak for us, the brave men and women of a free Prydania."

William felt his heart racing. Was his speech good enough? Was it right? It felt right. He felt...something other than impotent. That had weighed on him since the news of Hadden had reached him. But now...he felt alive.

"You and I know," he continued, speaking to Thomas, speaking to the whole fokking world, "and do not believe that life is so dear and peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery. If nothing in life is worth dying for, when did this begin- just in the face of this enemy? Or should Moses have told the children of Shaddai to live in slavery under the Shavians? Should Christ have refused the cross? Should the soldiers at Landerne have thrown down their guns and refused to fire on Chavalier's invaders? The martyrs of history were not fools, and our honoured dead who gave their lives to free our people from the Syndicalist Republic didn't die in vain. Where, then, is the road to peace? Well it's a simple answer after all."

"You and I have the courage to say to our enemies there is a price we will not pay, there is a point beyond which they must not advance. And this is the meaning behind the saying 'peace through strength.' Karl Ruhigs said, 'The destiny of man is not measured by material computations. When great forces are on the move in the world, we learn we're spirits- not animals.' And he said, 'There's something going on in time and space, and beyond time and space, which, whether we like it or not, spells duty.'"

"You and I have a rendezvous with destiny. We'll preserve for our children this, the last best hope of man in this country, or we'll sentence them to take the last step into a thousand years of darkness."

"Live or die, we fight for peace. So the atrocities of Darrow, Hadden, and so many other places across this country, will never happen again."

"Thank you. And may God preserve Prydania."

The light atop the camera went out. William lowered his head again as Reynir Aaker approached.

"Please have good news," he asked softly.

"Communique from Eiderwig," Reynir said, sounding dower.
"Syndicalists are holding Baldersberg. We're a few months out from Hadden at least."

William sighed again and nodded. They were too late to stop what had happened in Hadden. And now the city was going to remain in Syndicalist hands.

"Thank you Reynir," William muttered, walking away from the podium. He had no idea where he was walking to, though. His mind was just...overwhelmed.

"Where are you going, sir?" Reynir asked.

"I'm going...to watch the ocean," William replied. That sounded...right...to him.
"I think the sound of the waves will do me some good."

"Alright," Reynir said softly. He had his own duties to attend to, and he knew better than to hold William up.

---

Haland was a port city. William was from Býkonsviði, but he'd gone to school here, at the University of Haland.
He remembered better times, when these ports were alive with the bustle of trade, rather then the sombreness that came with a fleet of fishermen still recovering from Syndicalism and Andrennian and Goyanean military ships.

Still, even now with the chill of fall approaching, the port was comforting. The sounds of calm waves didn't care for war. They just sang their song.

"Hallo," William remarked as he sat down on a dock, his legs hanging off as he sat down next to Tobias.
"Fancy seeing you here," he said with a smile.

"Axle can tell you where I am, at all times," Tobias muttered.
"Is it really a surprise?"

William chuckled.
"I guess that's true. But I didn't ask. It's a coincidence. I swear."

Tobias turned. The sun was already set, and Tobias' green eyes just barely caught their colour in the lights along the port.
"What's up?" he asked in a friendly tone. He scooted over. He didn't have to. There was plenty of room for William to sit on the dock. It was just habit. William graciously took a seat and pulled a pack of Goyanean beef jerky.

"Here," he said with a disarming smile and Tobias grabbed it with a grin of his own.

"Thanks," he replied as he bit into the dried meat.

"Heh, think nothing of it," William said with a smile as he looked up at the night sky. He noticed a few constellations right away...

"Will?"

William looked at the Prince, having been pulled from his momentary stargazing.
"Já?"

"What would pabbi do?"

William nodded. Tobias had a lot of questions about his parents. It was natural. He also has been just old enough to really remember them when they died. It meant he oscillated between thinking he knew them and thinking he didn't.

"About all of this, I assume."

"Já," Tobias said softly.
"What would he say about all of this if he were here?"

William was hesitant to answer. It was a big question and truth be told...he didn't really know. Who knew what Rob would be like if he were here? But Tobias' pleading eyes got him to nod.

"You pabbi," he began, "was a patron of the Prydanian section of the International Society of Red Hearts and..."

"Santonians," Tobias muttered.

William stopped himself from revealing what the Santonians were doing. If he knew and he said the wrong thing...no. It was best if he didn't know. He could be angry if it meant him, his Santonian contacts, and their agents could remain safe.

"The Red Hearts aren't the Santonian government. They believe about bringing medical care to those who need it. And your pabbi believed in that. So I think, if he were here he'd want to help everyone coming south, escaping what happened in Hadden."

Tobias nodded and bit his lower lip for a moment.
"Am I too old to want to be like my pabbi?" Tobias asked with a bit of a smile.

"You're never too old for that," William smirked. Tobias chuckled and leaned into William. And William wrapped an arm around him, hugging him against the sea breeze.

"Will?"

"Já?"

"You're a pretty awesome pabbi."
Tobias looked down as he said it with his heart beating heavily in his chest, but he looked up at William. And smiled.

William felt his heart beat into his throat for a moment as tears formed in his eyes. But he smiled. Smiled and held him close.

---

Welcome Home by Coheed and Cambria, 6:17[/h][/h]

7 October 2015
3:40 pm
On a Wednesday
Saintes, Saintonge

Angry chanting filled the fall air outside of the embassy of the Syndicalist Republic of Prydania. It wasn’t the Place de Prydanie, the old Prydanian embassy. That had been sold to a private party to keep it from falling into Syndicalist hands. No, instead of that beautiful, old building this new, modern one almost looked like a prison. The gate that secured the entrance was closed, as security guards dressed in uniforms that invoked the People’s Militia stood clutching their weapons.
To say they were stone-faced, however, would be a mistake. Markthór Öxndal could see that. They looked scared. As scared as one could be while holding their position.

The chants that filled the air of “frelsi núna!*” and “Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla!*” seemed to get louder, and Markthór was yelling right along. The crowd seemed more wild, with the old barbed cross flag of Prydania and signs protesting the recent news pressed almost against the gates.
The two guards looked at each other and then back out at the crowd. Of course they wouldn’t shoot. They were under the strictest orders not to, but the fear…that this crowd could break through… was hard to keep out of their minds.

The truth was they, nor any of the other guards stationed at the embassy in Saintes, had much experience with this. The Prydanian community here was mostly hostile to the Syndicalist Republic. Even those originally sympathetic, the ones who fled Anders’ Social Commonwealth, were beginning to turn. Either condemning the Syndicalist regime or just being quiet about it. But even then…the Prydanian community mostly avoided the Syndicalist Republic embassy. Not today though. Not today.

The news from what happened around and within Hadden was coming out. Pictures and testiomy from Silean and Goyanean journalists had exposed the carnage. Fields burnt. Innocents hung, or shot in the street. It was Darrow all over again! No, it was worse. The butchery was worse. Infinitely worse. And now, that anger so many Prydanians in Saintonge felt towards the Syndicalist regime had boiled over.

“Frelsi núna!” Markthór screamed angrily.
“Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla!” It didn’t matter that he was a Santonian citizen now. That even if Tobias Loðbrók was made King of Prydania he wouldn’t be his king…that sort of thing didn’t fucking matter right now. He didn’t care. He was angry. Angry because the men holding their weapons on the other side of the gate, under that fucking cog and hammer flag, were the people who drove him and his family from their home. Took their home! Who…who were doing God knows what to his family back in Prydania.

The images of Hadden, of the towns around Hadden, were fresh in his mind like wounds. No, that wasn’t where he was from, but it didn’t fucking matter. These people, these fucking murderers, had taken again. They’d taken more lives. And as helpless as he felt…no. He had to do something. William Aubyn’s speech from the night before rang in his head. About standing up to the enemy, and letting them know that there were lines they could not cross.
Even if all he could do was to stand here. Stand here and scream his heart out. His eyes locked with one of the guards. It didn’t matter that he had the gun and Markthór didn’t. The soldier, despite being protected by that fence, looked scared. And Markthór growled, chanting as loud as he could as he held a barbed cross flag in one hand, above his head.
If the guard was scared, good. Let him feel scared. So many of Markthór’s fellow countrymen, himself and nearly everyone here, had been made afraid by the Syndicalist regime. Seeing these monsters looking fearful was a small victory. One Markthór relished.

He continued to chant with the crowd, as Saintes PD made their presence known. They weren’t going to interfere with a peaceful protest, but they were there to make sure it stayed peaceful. They did what they could to make a path for an incoming car flying Syndicalist Republic flags as protesters attempted to swarm it. Another man who had brought a barbed cross flag pressed it against the window as a police officer pulled him away. Markthór didn’t get involved in that. He had a promising university basketball career. They were saying he’d go pro. He wasn’t going to get into any sort of confrontation with the police.
Though that did make him wonder. Surely that man had a life too. A job, a family. He wasn’t afraid to make his feelings known. It made Markthór feel a bit self-conscious, if he was being too self centered. But it didn’t matter. The police made a pathway for the car to enter the embassy’s courtyard. The gate closed, and the crowd went back to chanting.

Markthór continued to chant and yell, until his voice went hoarse. He glared at the guards and spit in their direction, turning to leave. Maybe he wouldn’t harass a Syndicalist diplomat’s car, but he’d spit at their guards. His feelings of helplessness and anger came to a meeting point where he felt as satisfied as he was going to feel.
He tossed his flag around his neck and took off, only now shooting a glancing look at the police officers before making his way down the street. He was still angry. But his throat was hurting, and if he wasn’t going to be able to yell and chant then…he’d done what he could. Even if he hated it. His heart was pounding in his chest as he shook his head. He wanted to do something. Something for Rúrik. Something for his aunt and uncle. Was screaming his head off all he could do for them? He couldn’t head back to his dorm. No. He was too riled up. He decided he’d head home.

---

6 October 2015
4:11 pm
On a Tuesday
Saintes, Saintonge

“Halló!” Markthór said as he entered his family’s home in the neighbourhood of Saint-Tobie.

“Markthór!” Odda Öxndal said, as she placed the book she was reading to hug her son as he came in.
“What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I come by and visit my mamma?” he replied, his voice clearly hoarse as he hugged Odda.

“Of course you can!” his mother said happily, as she squeezed him, before letting go.
“But are you ok?”

“Já, why wouldn’t I be?” he asked.

“Your voice, you can barely talk!”

“Heh,” Markthór laughed, his voice corse.
“I was at the big rally. By the Syndicalist embassy.”

“Oh, that’s what the flag is about?” Odda said as he touched the flag around Markthór’s shoulders.

“Já,” Markthór said with a nod as he took the flag and tossed it over a chair in the living room as he sat down.

“I hope it didn’t get…bad,” Odda said as she sat down next to her son.
“A lot of people are very upset.”

“They should be,” Markthór said. “The news coming out of Hadden is brutal.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs as he sighed and Odda put a hand on his shoulder.

“I know,” she said softly.
“I know…but I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

“Do you think they did that…to Rúrik, Uncle Tjörvi, and Aunt Júlíetta?” Markthór asked, about the Harrying of Hadden and his own family.

Odda sighed softly. She just held her son gently for a moment before speaking.
“If anything that bad happened back home, we’d have heard about it. Like this,” she said softly. “Just pray for your cousin and aunt and uncle, and pray for everyone in Hadden.”

“I did, mamma,” Markthór said as he kissed his mother’s cheek. “I also screamed until my throat was horse at those Syndie bastards,” he added with a smirk.

“That’s my boy,” Odda said, leaning in as she kissed her son’s cheek.

“Did you hear something about Rúrik?”

Markthór looked up. It was his eighteen year old sister Addý.
“No sis,” he said, sounding forlorn.
“I didn’t. I was just saying that I was thinking of him. When I saw all of the news coming out of Hadden.”

“It’s awful,” Addý said, as she sat down in one of the chairs in the living room. The one Markthór’s flag was draped over.

“I was at the rally today. At the Syndicalist embassy. I let them know what I thought about the awful things they’re doing.”

“That’s good,” Addý said with a nod. She was keeping quiet. She always got this way when news about this or that Syndicalist crime got out. They both missed their families. Markthór got angry. Addý got quiet. And Markthór wasn’t going to push it. So he changed the subject.

“Are you looking forward to your national service?”

“Já,” Addý said with a nod.
“I’m nervous though.”

“Why?” Markthór asked in a friendly tone.
“I got through it, and you’re a better shot than I am.”

Addý smiled. Back in Prydania, when she, Markthór, and Rúrik would be taken out shooting. It was one of her pleasant memories from home.
“You’re an athlete though, bro,” she countered.
“I’m…what did you call me?” she asked, teasingly.

“A poetry nerd,” Markthór said teasingly as his mother glared at him.

“Don’t say that about your sister!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Markthór said, as he smiled at Addý.
“I’m just saying if she can get over the lack of the smell of book dust she’ll be alright.”

Addý stuck her tongue out at her brother and crossed her legs as she sat, pulling up her backpack to pull out a book. And as she did a flier reading “Étudiants pour les nationals,*” and displaying a National Party of Saintonge logo, fell out.
“Oops,” she said with an embarrassed chuckle as she reached down to grab it from the floor.

Markthór, however, eyed the flier.
“Is that a National Party flier?”

“Já,” Addý said, putting it back in her backpack.
“I’m helping with the local club at school before I enroll in national service.” Her voice had a tinge of nervousness to it. She knew Markthór was a Liberal voter. She had been quietly finding her own way politically. She knew Mark wouldn’t agree with her, but she wasn’t really ready for what he said next.

“You’re getting involved with Syndies?” he asked, his voice cold.

“Markthór!” Odda said insistently as Addý bit her tongue. She wanted to chastise her brother, but her mother was handling it.
“Don’t say something like that,” Odda said firmly.

“Well I don’t know what else to call it,” Markthór replied, his voice still stone cold. He never turned to look at his mother.

Addý looked back, feeling her own blood boiling. Her jaw tightened as her mind swam. It was an angry vortex of things she wanted to rain down on her brother right then and there, but she gripped the arm of her chair and breathed deeply before answering.
“The National Party isn’t about Syndicalism,” she said.
“It’s about coming together. One of the wings is even the agr…”

“Jeanne-Élisabeth Vertières-Clérembault might as well be a Goddamn Syndicalist,” Markthór replied coldly.

“It’s not…” Addý replied frustratingly, but suddenly getting upset with Mark had her stumbling over her words. And Markthór jumped.

“They’ve been supporting the Syndicalist government since the start,” Markthór insisted.
“Because deep down that’s what they are.”

“Well you got your Lib-Rad government, bro,” Addý insisted, her voice getting angrier.
“And they’re not doing anything different!”

“At least they’re not giddily supporting the Syndicalists,” Markthór retorted. He stood up. He didn’t know why. He just felt he should. Addý did too, not willing to let him intimidate her.

“The National Party’s about everyone coming together!” she insisted. “I don’t like Syndicalists either, but the Nationalists partially came from people like us. Farmers. And já, there are some syndicalists, but not like back home! And they want to work together.”

“I don’t want to work with people who drove us out of our home and did God knows what to our family!” Markthór insisted.

“Neither do I!” Addý shot back.
“Which is why I’m not!”

The two were face to face and Markthór went to reply.
“After what happ…” but he got a whack on the back of his head. So did Addý.

“Enough.”

The two looked at Odda, who gave them each a stearn gaze. Both of them nodded and looked down. You didn’t talk back when your mamma made it known she wanted you to listen.
“Listen both of you,” she said sternly.
“I didn’t raise children like this,” she insisted. “And I won’t have you coming into my home and fighting. Not like this.”

Both Addý and Markthór looked at their mother. She’d been cold and strong as steel when she had to be since they’d had to flee to Saintonge. And now…she was clearly holding back tears. Because what they were arguing about…it touched her too. It hurt her too. But she was holding those tears back because that’s what she did. She was strong when her children needed her to be.

“Markthór, apologize to your sister right now,” she said calmly, though it was shaking. On the verge of anger.

“Mamma I…”

“I won’t have you coming into this house, our house, and comparing your sister to those…those monsters. You apologize to her right now.”

Yes, Markthór could hear her voice shaking. And he felt a pit in his stomach. He looked down and nodded. The anger had subsided and now he realized…he’d compared his sister, his own sister, to the same people he’d comforted her against. He turned to Addý. Her jaw was clenched, but shaking. He was a very emotional person, and he wore that emotion openly. Addý was different. She kept it in. But she missed Rúrik, Uncle Tjörvi, and Aunt Júlíetta too. Her life had been turned upside down too.

“I’m sorry sis,” Markthór said, looking at her in the eye and nodding.
“I’m sorry. I just…I…”

“You’re a horse’s ass,” Addý said, getting a glare from her mother before she nodded, “but I know. And it’s ok.”

“Markthór, my Markthór,” Odda said as she put a hand on her son’s shoulder. He towered over her now, but that didn’t stop her.

“I’m proud you went to that rally today.”

“So am I,” Addý said softly.

“Your passion is very admirable,” Odda continued. “But you need to listen to this,” she said and bopped him on the forehead, “when it comes to politics.”

“I support who I support because I don’t want that to happen aga…” Markthór began but Odda cut him off.

“I don’t care about parties,” she said. “I care about my son and daughter respecting each other. You two can have your differences, neither your pabbi or I care to get involved. But you won’t accuse her of being like…” Odda was getting emotional again, but she powered through it. “...like those savages. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes mamma,” Markthór replied quietly.

“Good,” Odda said as she wrapped her arms around both her children and hugged them tight.
“Both of you sit down and make up. If you’re going to get into a yelling match in my living room the most you can both do is stay for dinner with your pabbi and I,” she said as she made her way into the kitchen.

Markthór sat down, and so did Addý.

“I know what you were going to say,” Addý said softly.
“And I don’t want to tell you who to vote for,” she added. “But I just want to say I want to support the Nationals because that’s who I think will make sure what happened back home doesn’t happen here.”

“I…”

“I know,” Addý replied, cutting off her brother, “that you think the Libs will do that, but…can we still be cool?”

“Huh?” Markthór asked, looking at his sister.

“I don’t want to tell you who to vote for, Mark. But I don’t want you to tell me either. Can we just…respect that? And not fight about it? I don’t like it when my big bro fights with me.”

Markthór smiled and nodded, and put his arm around his sister’s shoulders. She leaned into him and hugged him back.
“I don’t like fighting with my little sis either,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry, again. With the rally, I just…I guess I got hot headed.”

“I meant what I said,” Addý replied.
“I’m proud you went. I’m proud I have a big bro who stands up for things.”

“And I’m proud I have a little sis who thinks she can change the world,” he replied.
“Even if she is a huge dork.”

“Hey!”

Addý’s protest was accompanied by her grabbing a couch pillow and whacking Markthór with it. He chuckled and fell back, using the couch pillow on the other end as a shield.

“Are you two whacking each other with pillows?” Odda asked, emerging from the kitchen.

“You said you wanted us to make up,” Markthór insisted, holding the pillow like a weapon.

Odda chuckled, and then laughed, turning around to head back into the kitchen. Which Addý used as an excuse to whack her brother in the head with a pillow one more time.

---

*frelsi núna!- freedom now!
*Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla!- For the King! To Valhalla!
*Étudiants pour les nationalistes- Students for Nationalists

---

Shadow of the Day by Linkin Park, 4:50

OOC Note: Thanks to @Kyle for looking over parts of this for me!

3 January 2016
12:03 am
On a Sunday
Hadden, Prydania

Tobias had drifted into a deep sleep. Exhaustion had overtaken him the moment his his head hit the pillow. The last few days had been a whirlwind.

Hadden had been liberated. He'd spent days helping with ration distribution to the people of the city. That was long, exhausting work itself. And then he'd personally killed one of the Harrying's butchers. This wasn't like the first time he'd killed someone. No, he'd drifted asleep this time. Was that worrying? Three years later and another taken life...was it easier? That was terrifying.

But no...the half formed thoughts Tobias managed to ruminate before passing out didn't get that deep. He was simply exhausted. His body ached from carrying boxies of food, water, and medicine across the city. And his body had come down from the heightened tension with his fight with Filip Fuglsang.

His body's exhaustion, though, let his mind wander. Even in deep sleep, his mind wandered, the blackness of his slumber punctuated by the occasional flicker of golden eyes in the deep distance...

"Þegar líkaminn hvílir eykst hugurinn."
"When the body rests, the mind is heightened."
-Prydanian proverb

Tobias gasped as he stumbled forward and looked down at his right hand. He was holding Jægerblað. That wasn't right. Nothing was! He was asleep in Hadden City Hall but this forest...this dark...lush...

Nothing was right. It was January. The forests were still bare, for the winter. But this forest was lush and green. And there was no snow...

Tobias peered forward. The moons provided some illumination, but it was very dark. It didn't matter though. He could tell. The forest seemed to go on forever. How he knew that was a mystery to him though. And then he looked at Jægerblað again. No, no! It wasn't right...the image of Jægerblað set against the wall next to his cot where he'd left it flashed in his head.

"I'm dreaming," he said out loud.

"What's a dream?"

"Huh?" Tobias turned as Jörn walked up behind him.
"Jörn? No...no you're just part of my dream. I'm dreaming."

"Who says the two are mutually exclusive?" Jörn asked as he walked past Tobias, deeper into the forest. Tobias, for lack of any other idea, walked after him. It felt real. He could feel the wooden grip on Jægerblað's hilt, he could feel his muscles working as he walked, felt the foliage and grass underfoot.

"What do you mean?" Tobias asked as he caught up to Jörn.

"We'll just because this may be a dream doesn't mean I'm also not real," Jörn said with a shrug as they made their way through the woods.

"Já, it does," Tobias replied insistently.
"You can't be you in my dream." He was getting annoyed. But...that too seemed too real...

"Well like I said, what's a dream?" Jörn asked.
"Was it a dream yesterday afternoon when you spoke to Jägdar?"

Tobias sighed.
"You took me to that cave for a reason..."

"I did. Did it have an effect?"

"Jägdar told me to lead our people. But he couldn't have...I was..."

"Dreaming?" Jörn asked.

Tobias stopped.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice getting low. Tinged with uncertainty. Jörn stopped and looked back at be prince.

"It's another dream. Come," he said, extending his hand.

"Why?"

"The 'why' is beyond us. Come, Toby."

Tobias felt a breeze blow through the woods. He looked around. It felt so real but...he had to be dreaming. It's the only thing that made any sense.

That was comforting though. What was a dream couldn't hurt him. He followed Jörn, who put his hand on his back and led him to...what appeared to be a straw hut. It was large for what it was, and the warm glow showed there was a fire inside.

"What's that?" Tobias asked.

"Something very old," Jörn replied, as if he were seeing something for the first time in a long time.

"Go in."

"Who's in there?"

"Only what you take with you," Jörn replied softly.

Tobias stepped forward, his grip on Jægerblað tightening. He didn't look back to see if Jörn was following. He just felt compelled.

The hut was made with mud, thatch, branches, and leaves... it almost called to mind the homes of witches in the forest from stories his mamma used to read him. But his mamma...that made him remember the pain of seeing her die. And that pulled him towards the hut.

Eventually he crouched down, looking inside. He saw the fire...and his eyes went wide. Two blue eyes stared at him from across the fire... and the woman they belonged to seemed to glare into his soul.

She was...well...naked didn't seem adequate. She wasn't wearing clothes but her body was covered in white chalky paint, ash used to write out runes over her body...her hair was blonde but was darkened by ash. Tobias could only tell she was blonde because of the roots near her scalp that weren't treated...and her hair itself was intricately braided, with bits of stag antlers hanging from them like jewellery....

Tobias wasn't sure if it was the piercing blue eyes, her primal appearance, or her nakedness that seemed to hold his attention like a trance. He was twenty after all. Likely all three.

The woman's eyes went from Tobias' gaze to his sword, and back to his eyes.
"Son of Æschere," she spoke.
"Come."

Her voice jolted Tobias' mind for a moment. Her accent was strange. It sort of sounded like an Andrennian speaking Prydanian...but also like a Prydanian speaking Andrennian speaking Prydanian? Regardless...he understood her and slowly entered the hut, sitting cross legged opposite the woman, the fire between them.

He felt...pulled. After what happened with Jägdar in the cave...

"Who are yo..." he began before the woman held out her hand to point to the fire between them.

"The sword," she said firmly, looking at him. Tobias gripped Jægerblað firmly.

"It's mine," he said, blushing at how childish it sounded.
"I mean...it's my family's."

"Son of Æschere," she continued, "put the blade in the flame."

Tobias was about to object, but he stopped himself. This was a dream, já? He forgot. It felt real.

He raised Jægerblað and held the blade in the fire. The flames around the blade, around the metal that seemed liquid, changed, dancing green instead of orange.

"Já," the woman said with a satisfied smile.
"You are the son of Æschere."

"I told you, it's my family's sword," Tobias said but she didn't seem interested. She reached towards the fire.

"No don't you'll burn..." he went to say, only for the woman's hands to enter the fire unharmed. Tobias watched in shock as she scooped up a bit of the green flame around Jægerblað's blade, cradling it in her hands, as she focused on it.

"Take the blade from the flame," she said, Tobias obeying as he watched this woman with utter fascination.

"Who are you?" he asked but she didn't answer. She seemed enraptured by the green flame. She just held it in both hands as she looked deep into it. The green flame dancing in her blue eyes.

"Are you...I mean, William taught me about shamans, a long time ago. Are you a shaman? Is that why Jörn br..."

She looked up as Tobias mentioned Jörn.
"watchers watch," she said sharply, before blowing the green flame. It turned to ash that flew into Tobias' face.

He gasped, startled, but watched in amazement as the woman crawled forward towards him, through the flame, and pressed both hands over his face. She spread the ash the green fire had turned into over his face and up into his hair, turning his own blond hair black like her's. He was just mesmerized; by the woman's movements, her powers, her body...she traced runes in the ash that had covered his face and before he knew it she blew more into his eyes. Tobias winced his eyes closed and when he opened them...she had returned to the other side of the fire. As if she had teleported.

"Son of Æschere," she said, her blue eyes locked on his gaze, "you will have a choice."

Tobias ran his hand through his hair, before looking at the ash in his hand, and then back at her.

"What choice?"

"The fires tell me the sword was fed. The first time in a long time."

"I killed a man with it," Tobias said softly.
"He was a butcher. Who killed and hurt thous..."

"Your choice will come when no blood runs," she said firmly, almost snapping the words at him.

"You must choose," she said, "between the love of your people and your own vengeance."

Tobias looked at her, and then down at Jægerblað.
"Because I killed someone? He deserved it," Tobias replied, defensively.

"When the blood no longer runs," the woman continued, "you must choose between the love of your people and your own vengeance," she repeated before the fire suddenly went out, leaving them in pitch blackness.

"Wait!" Tobias called out, lunging forward in the dark, and then...

THUD!!!

Tobias thrashed about in the blanket as he looked around. He was in a conference room. In Hadden City Hall. He'd rolled off his cot. Panicked, he ran his hands through his hair, but couldn't seem to find any ash.
So he leapt up and made his way to the nearest bathroom. The light flickered overhead as he looked at himself in the mirror. No ash.

He leaned back on the wall opposite the mirror and breathed deep.
"Fokking dreams messing with my head," he muttered, closing his eyes as he was about to leave the bathroom when something clicked.

The woman in his dream.

Her face was obscured with chalky paint and ash, and her elaborate braids and hair ornaments but...he leaned forward, as if he was going to stare at himself in the mirror, but he closed his eyes.

He recalled the woman he'd seen. And he tried to look past everything. He knew her. He didn't realize it because of all the paint and ash, because of everything, and she'd acted so...strangely.

But he knew her. He focused on her face. He knew her.

"Krista."

16 August 2017
12:03 pm
On a Wednesday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

He'd agreed to this. It wasn't easy. The discussion with William had devolved into yelling for a brief moment. And then tears. Lots of his tears.

But he'd agreed to this. And here it was. He was at his desk. "His" still seemed so strange. He had "a" desk now. But that came with being King, he supposed.

It was Anders' desk.
He didn't like that.
But it was also his grandfather's...

Tobias looked up at the RÚV cameras and down at the Royal pardon that had been prepared for him.

He'd agreed to do this. He didn't want to do this. He could stop. He could refuse...

Every Syndicalist Outer Party member, every Syndicalist Republic military and People's Militia soldier below the rank of captain. They were asking him to pardon the vast majority of people who supported and fought for the Syndicalist government.

His grip on the pen tightened.

All of those people...were they all guilty? No, but many were. Thousands, if not millions, were! And he...he was supposed to forgive them?

He was supposed to pardon them? What about the rank and file who spit on his family's corpses? Who buried the persecuted in unmarked graves? Who taunted condemned as they hung from lampposts? Who oversaw the labour camps and did nothing? Who made the whole damn thing function? How could he...?

He looked down at the pardon document. He looked up at the RÚV cameras.

Krista.

Not as his girlfriend, the girl he loved. The girl he'd give anything to see again, but as that...shaman.

Was that her? Was that really her? Did she reach some other state of being on the other side? Had she reached out to him from death? Or was he merely dreaming? His mind constructing someone from lessons about early Andrennian Thaunic shamans and people he knew in his subconscious?

He looked at the document.

Whatever she was, she had said he had a choice. Between love of his people and his own vengeance...

He felt his jaw tighten. His grip tightened further on the pen.

And he sighed his name. He took a deep breath and smiled, holding the document up for the cameras to catch.

"For peace," he said.
"Peace, love, and reconciliation."

His jaw was still tense. But he got the words out.

---

Between Heaven and Hell by Rob Saffi, 1:59

28 January 2013
12:15 pm
On a Monday
Skies above Haland, Prydania

They say that red stains are the hardest to remove.
Maybe that's why God made blood red?

Jaki’s mind raced as he flew through the clouds. He had a mission. A job. But through all of that he couldn't shake the memories of Grindill.

His hometown was no place special…well…he'd come to see that wasn't exactly true. It was a town on the western bank of the Vor River. Across from Jórvík. A place with a Nordic name and Bayardi people.
He'd grown up all his life with a mix of Prydanian and Bayardi being spoken in all walks of life. And when he left Grindill he realized that wasn't true everywhere.
But it wasn’t him leaving his hometown that haunted his mind as he flew today, no. It was when he returned…

“Rakvél!” Karl yelled over the coms using Jaki’s call sign.
“You see that smoke?”

“Já, T-Bein,” he replied back.
“Hopefully they did their job…”

Their job…

Jaki hadn’t been back to Grindill in over five years. He was fresh from the Military Academy. And earmarked as a prospective pilot in the Syndicalist Republic Air Force. He wasn’t too young when the Syndicalists took over- he’d been fourteen. Old enough to process what had happened…and he’d bought in. Along with his family. The SoComm dictatorship was gone, the tyrant Anders III was gone…and the Republic had chosen him! Him, to learn how to be one of the elite.

It was all of this that made his return to Grindill so…bleak. He didn’t expect it to be, no. He and a few other standouts had been elevated to the rank of combat pilot. Young, já, but necessary to make up for the shortfall in the treasonous pilots who had defected to the FRE fascists. He and his squad, Yellow Squadron, had come to Grindill on leave looking to celebrate. To his squadmates they got what they wanted.

To Jaki he found his hometown a husk of what it once was.

“We’ve got incoming,” T-Bien announced over the coms.
“Syndies, and hot.”

“Right,” Rakvél replied. The Harriers they were flying were ground attack aircraft. And that was their purpose here…but it looked like the Syndies wanted to give them a fight.

“Cut it close,” T-Bien said over the coms with a bit of a smirk. Jaki couldn’t see it, but he knew.

“And suicide slide,” he replied. The good news was that the Syndies would be flying Harriers too…

“Jaki!” his mother had happily proclaimed as she hugged him.
“You look so sharp in your uniform.”

“Thank you, mamma,” Jaki replied proudly. He tapped the Yellow Squadron patch on his sleeve.

“You’re not…” his mamma replied, before she paused and rephrased what she wanted to say.
“You’re going up soon?”

“Command has to assess,” he replied, “the fascists have some fighters at their command, but hopefully we can wipe them out before they know what hits them.”
There was something in his mother’s response to that. Something he felt was…off. She smiled, reassured him…but something was off.

“Where’s pabbi? Where’s Bjartney?” he asked, not seeing his father or sister around. If his mother was hiding something before, she was blatantly showing it now.

“Your pabbi’s at the Light Horses,” she said forlornly. The local tavern. Jaki sighed. His father never got his drinking under control…

“And Bjartney?” he asked about his sister.

“Out of town,” his mother replied.

“Oh? Where?”

“Party business, I think.”

“Bjartney joined the Party? That’s great! It…”

“No, just…on business. I don’t really know,” his mother said, with an insistent tone. Jaki wanted to ask more…

Jaki’s jet slid through the clouds over Haland. The Austurland port was the site of a massive battle. FRE soldiers had pushed to the docks, but Syndie reinforcements from the west had landed at the ports. If they couldn’t provide air cover then the offensive to liberate Austurland might stall in Haland…and Syndicalist pilots weren’t going to make that easy.

A flash. It’s all he needed. Enough to know Syndicalist markings when he saw them. Yellow markings. He fired a sidewinder…

“Fokker’s making me work for it,” T-Bien grunted over the coms.

“So’s this one,” Jaki replied.

“They old friends of yours, Rakvél?”

“As a matter of fact they are,” Jaki replied.
“As a matter of fact they are…”

“Hey Pabbi,” Jaki said as he entered the Light Horses Tavern, his squadmates in tow.

“Oh, you’re in town,” his father said, looking up from his beer in a drowsy state.
“When you’d get in.”

“Just this afternoon,” Jaki replied.
“I stopped by at home. Hopped to see you with Mamma.”

“She knows where I’m at,” his father replied.
“SIT! We need to catch up!”

Jaki looked back at his squad mates, just a bit embarrassed. And perplexed. Something was going on. Not just with his family. But the town…the Bayardi signage he’d grown up with was gone. Most of the shops were boarded up…

“Hey guys. I’m gonna catch up with my pabbi. You guys get yourself a round going, I’ll join ya later.”
He sat next to his father…both wanting to reach out to help and to cast accusations…but he didn’t know why. For either.
“Pabbi…” he said, “what’s going on?”

His father looked at him, and then downed some of his beer.
“Same old, same old.”

“You’re still working at the plant?”

“We make bullets now. Gotta help the war effort. Just like my boy, right? That’s what I tell ‘em at work. My boy, a pilot. I’m proud…” he said drunkenly, wrapping an arm around Jaki’s shoulder.

Jaki nodded. That wasn’t so surprising. It was happening in a lot of places…even if it meant civilian goods would temporarily be in short supply. He looked down…

“Where’s Bjartney?”

His father looked up, and ahead, and took another swig of beer.
“She’s doin’ her part. Like you and me.”

“What?” Jaki asked.
“Mamma said it was Party business…”

“That it is…” his father replied.
“Hey! Kasper!” he called out to the bartender.

“Another beer. And one for my boy!”

The markings were definitely that of Yellow Squadron. Why had fate determined that he’d have to face down these demons? Well…maybe that was the point? To conquer them? He thought he could see a “07” in the jet he was tangling with…

“Incoming!” Jaki called into his comm as he began evasive manuevers. If that was an “07” and that was Ingvar…

He banked hard. His knuckles were white. It was silly of course, but he felt as if he could “pull” the jet through his sheer force of will when it came to maneuvers like this…

“Oh Ingy…” he muttered, “you’re going to have to do better…”

“Your pabbi seems…nice,” Ingvar remarked as Jaki took his seat with the rest of his squad mates.

“He’s…” Jaki paused. Did he confide that he thought his father was hiding something? No…no. Asking questions, or even inviting them, tended to hold people back. And he and his squad were on the verge of everything they’d dreamed of.
“He’s had a long day. You know how it is. But hey, let’s get some music going on here!” It was all Jaki could think of to change the subject. And he knew the Light Horses always had a lively band. But no one seemed to be playing…

Jaki looked up at the bar.
“Kasper! Music?”

“Got him!” T-Bein called over the com.
“That’s country shootin’!” he hollered. Jaki smirked but he felt some unease. He knew who his new wingman just shot down. He didn’t know who exactly, but he knew them one way or another.

He couldn’t focus on that though. He knew Ingvar. And he knew he’d make him fight for it. He turned into a cloud bank…

The boy played the harmonica well enough. He was only playing the sort of music you heard from the Party- tingy, militaristic, but the boy had a way with the harmonica that made it almost whimsical. Like the sort of folk music Jaki would hear here all the time….

“Hey kid, what’s your name?” he asked as the boy finished a song and stopped for a breather.

“Leif, comrade pilot,” he said with a smile.

“Well Leif, that wasn’t half bad. Do you happen to know any other songs?”

“What do you mean?” the boy asked, cocking his head in confusion.

“‘Ólafur Lilyrose’ perhaps?” Jaksi asked.
“Or maybe ‘What Makes Uncle Kalie There?’” he added, tossing in a Bayardi suggestion.

“No, I’m sorry comrade pilot,” the boy replied. Jaki nodded, and took another sip of beer but began to actually pay attention to the boy. He was polite. Respectful. Most kids were…and the boys always got excited to see soldiers…but he noticed his clothing was a bit worse for wear. Jaki said nothing though. Kasper couldn’t be having an easy time of it with the war going on. Jaki smiled and ruffled the kid’s hair, giving him some credits for rations.

“Hey, don’t give away too many ration cards,” Ingvar chuckled.
“You’re the hometown boy. You gotta pay for the next pitcher!”

“We,” Jaki began, turning in his seat to face his squadmates, “are pilots of the Syndicalist Republican Air Force. We won’t be paying for drinks. Not now, and not after we shoot down some fasicst traitors!”

The rest of Yellow Squadron erupted in cheers, but Jaki felt a set of eyes on him. Over his shoulder. He sipped his mug and looked over. He growled slightly and adjusted himself in his chair as the brown uniformed People’s Militia officer slowly made his way over.

“Comrades!” the Militiamen proclaimed as he approached the tables containing Yellow Squadron, echoing their joyous demeanor.

“Comrade,” they all answered under their breath. No one in the Syndicalist Republican Armed Forces cared much for the People’s Militia, and the feeling was mutual.

“Look at you…some of the best the People’s Air Force has to offer,” the Militiaman said, extending his arms wide.
“I’m honoured, honoured I was lucky enough to find you here tonight! I take it you’ll all be deployed tomorrow?”

“Já,” Jaki said, raising his mug of beer just a bit.
“Night of drinking before a day of flying. What could go wrong?”

“Indeed!” the Militiaman laughed, “indeed…indeed…and some music to go with the beer. What could be better?”

Jaki eyed the Militiaman. Was he just fucking with them? They liked to throw their weight around…they were Lieftur’s guys after all. Who would touch them? Jaki just wished he’d fuck off.

“Já,” he said softly.
“Everyone likes music.”

“You seem to like certain kinds of music, comrade.”

Jaki looked up, turning in his chair to face the Militiaman.
“What does that mean?”

“What did you ask the lad to play? ‘Ólafur Lilyrose’ and ‘What Makes Uncle Kalie There?’”

Jaki had tried to keep from looking irritated at the Militiaman’s presence, but now he was downright annoyed.
“What about it?”

The Militiaman just smirked for a moment before shrugging.
“I was just shocked that one of the Air Force’s elite pilots would suggest such counterrevolutionary music.”

Jaki couldn’t help it. He just…laughed.
“Counter-what?” he asked as he drank more beer.
“They’re fokking bar songs, comrade,” he laughed some more.
“Pull Lieftur’s stick out…”

“Watch your mouth, sveitalubbi,” the Militaman growled…

Jaki gripped the stick tightly as his Harrier sped through the clouds.
“You never were that great in the clouds, Ingy,” Jaki muttered.
God. What would he say? What would Ingvar say? If they could see each other face to face? Would Ingvar understand? Would Jaki?

“Gotcha,” he let a sidewinder go…blazing through the burning azure…

“Jaki "Rakvél" Klósen,” the Militiaman replied with a scowl.

“You know my name, what’s yours?” Jaki had asked, standing up, face to face with the Militia officer.

“Jaki, come on,” Ingvar muttered.
“Let’s not do this, not now…” but Jaki just shook his head.

“My name is Alrik Becken. Captain Alrik Becken, People’s Militia,” the Militaman said with a smug smile.
“And I wouldn’t get too full of beer and anger, ‘Rakvél,’” he added, mocking Jaki’s callsign as he pat him on his shoulder.
“Not with your family history.”

“My pabbi’s been a Party member for eleven years and…”

“And your sister is a traitor to the Syndicalist Republic,” Becken growled.

“Fok! Ingvar you fok, stay put!” He banked hard, trying to get around his former comrade but Ingvar wasn’t making it easy. They streaked through the winter skies, each dependent on their own training and skills. The Harrier was not going to make air to air combat easy. For either of them.

“I got my bogey,” T-Bein reported. I’m coming back around to help you.”

“No! I’ve got ‘em tied down here,” Jaki replied. “Go on! Hit the targets and get the fok back!” His heart was racing, but it was the right thing. One Harrier was not as effective as two, but if the FRE ground forces had managed to knock out the Syndicalist anti-air units then he could make a go at it…

28 January 2013
12:16 pm
On a Monday
Haland, Prydania

“Where the fok are my Harriers?” Stig Eiderwig bellowed as he looked down at the half-dozen maps sprawled out before him before he cleared off the one of Haland’s harbour.
“If these Syndie troops aren’t taken out from the sky we’re fokked!”

28 January 2013
12:16 pm
On a Monday
Skies above Haland, Prydania

“Not leaving you behind,” T-Bein replied.
“I can’t yell at ya for being a Syndie piece of shit if the real one blows you outta the sky,” he chuckled.

“Ten-four,” Jaki sighed…he Ingvar “Brandara” JáHoffart and Karl “T-Bien” Feldurlangt never knew each other. They were all pilots though…in a better world…would they have to wash each other’s blood off their hands in a better world?
But maybe that didn’t matter…because Jaki thought he was working to make a better world. And all it did was take his sister away and drive his father to the bottle. No. No, he’d not make the wrong choice. Not again.

“Ingvy, I’m sorry,” he whispered as T-Bien let one of his missiles go. Jaki did too…and watched as Ingvar tried to avoid both…the fire and smoke that stained the sky was a brief testament to his failure.

There was silence over the coms for a moment…

“You sure you knew that guy, Rakvél?”

“Já,” Jaki replied.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” T-Bien said softly.
“I don’t…”

“Don’t worry,” Jaki said with a sigh.
“We still got some fokking targets to knock off.”

28 January 2013
12:24 pm
On a Monday
Haland, Prydania

“Is that confirmed?” Stig barked into the phone as he made his way through the rubble of western Haland.

“Já sir,” the reconnaissance officer replied.
“Our birds lit ‘em up!”

“Then all commanders on all fronts get the word!” Stig replied as he looked up to see the two FRE Harriers circle back.
“The damn Syndies don’t have anyone coming to save ‘em. Hit ‘em hard and take the city!”

He opened his canteen of water and gulped. It hurt, against the winter air. But that didn’t bother him.
War. War hinged on so many small things…and for eleven years he’d had to make do with small things, as they just tried to survive. But…Haland was going to be theirs. The Winter Offesnive…the break out of the forests…it was going to be over. They took Ausurland. They…liberated Austurland.

Stig stopped, and allowed himself to feel choked up for a moment. Just a moment. Who knew how long it would take to get to Býkonsviði? It started today though.

28 January 2013
12:31 pm
On a Monday
somewhere in Austurland, Prydania

“Rakvél! T-Bien!” Kala Brovold yelled happily as she threw her arms around both of the pilots.
“I heard! I heard you did it!”

“They threw some Syndies at us,” Karl laughed.
“But we managed it.”

“Já,” Jaki said with a grin.
“We got it done, but don’t we always?”

“Well it was touch and go, I heard Field Marshal Eiderwig was demanding where his Harriers were,” Kala said with a smile.

“Well he can fly ‘em next time!” Karl laughed as headed back to base, the two Harriers sitting on a secluded country road.
“Come on Jaki, beers are on me!”

Jaki nodded but didn’t follow immediately. Kala began to direct the mechs to bring the jets back to their secluded launch points when she noticed Jaki standing there.

“What’s up?” she asked softly as he stared off into the middle distance.

“I knew the guys we tangled with up there. They were my old squadron.”

“Oh,” Kala said very softly.

“Já,” Jaki replied.
“And we’re here so…”

“Do you need to talk about it?” Kala asked. Jaki looked up at the skies and shook his head.
“No…no thank you. I’m fine. Any word on my sister?”

“Oh,” Kala replied, sighing. She shook her head.
“I’m sorry Rakvél, not yet. But if they find Bjartney I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

Jaki nodded.

“Thanks,” he said, barely above a whisper. He gave Kala a small smile, before following Karl. Pretty soon every FRE outpost from the Norsian border to Haland would be celebrating. He might as well get a head start on that with Karl, and crack open a few beers.

---

Zero by Keiki Kobayashi, 5:09

16 September 2017
12:07 pm
On a Saturday
Skógurheorot, Prydania

Duke Thibault X of Champagne stepped out of the car and tightened his coat. It wasn't ready to snow quite yet but the grey skies and chilly air hinted that it was coming sooner rather than later.

He looked around. Skógurheorot looked well, all things considered. The castle- for it was a proper castle and not a palace- was the traditional hunting lodge and secondary residences of the Prydanian monarch. And it had been in FRE hands since 2014. It was cleaned up nicely all things considered. He approached the castle’s entrance. The Royal Guard soldiers approached but got waved down by an older man with white hair and a thick but short white beard.

“Duke Thibault,” Axle Skov said, extending a hand.

“Herra Skov, a pleasure,” the Duke replied with a smile. He didn't know the King of Prydania’s head of security incredibly well, but he knew of him. And he'd gotten acquainted with him in his office as Saintonge’s YEET representative.

“Thank you, Duke,” Axle replied as he led Thibault into the castle. He shed his own coat and took Thibault’s as he turned up the lights.

“How's he been?” Thibault asked. Axle just shrugged.

“He’s always like this. Every September. Only now he's got this place to run to. It's worrying but…eh. I’ve been through this enough times to know he’ll pull out of it.”

Thibault nodded.
“Thank you, for arranging this meeting though.”

Axle nodded.
“Truth is…” he paused. How much should he share, exactly? He looked him over. The Duke…was a good man. He was trying to be less cynical.
“...he goes through this every year and it's hard to shake him out of it. Hopefully you can manage.”

“Well a little work can sometimes be what you need to pull you out of a funk,” Thibault replied, holding up a thick binder of YEET material. That was the reason for him being here. Officially. To discuss this with King Tobias. Officially…

Thibault followed Axle into the castle. The walls themselves were barren.
“We're planning on putting together a team of artisans to recreate the lost artwork,” Axle remarked.
“Just not a pressing priority right now.”

“I know a lot of artwork found some refuge in Saintonge,” Thibault replied.
“I can see about pieces from Skógurheorot returned.”

Axle nodded, as he continued to lead the Duke down old stone hallways illuminated with warm light. It really did give off a cozy atmosphere, even with the grey skies and forest visible out the window.

“Herra Skov…” the Duke began after a few moments of silence, and Axle looked back.
“I hope I’m not overstepping myself, but I am curious. I have my own theories why King Tobias seemingly retreats from the world ever September…but you know him very well. Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

Axle sighed.
“It's very likely why you think it is.”

“His parents’ death then.” Thibault knew that. 4 September 2002. The day the Prydanian royal family was executed. What he'd only recently discovered was that King Tobias had watched it happen, when he was only seven years old.

“More or less…” Axle replied before stopping. He'd made the decision to trust this man…no sense in holding back now.
“It's a bit deeper than that.”

“Deeper than seeing his parents killed?” Thibault asked.

“Tobias doesn't think much of his uncle,” Axle answered, “but he did love his Aunt Vera. And his cousin Astrid. They both died that day too. It's fucked to get into what messed with his head more…but on some level I think seeing his cousin, who was only a few years older than him, shot fucked with him more. On some level.”

“I see…” Thibault began before Axle added to what he'd just said.

“Survivor’s guilt. It's not easy to cope with. Trust me. I know.”

“He's lucky then,” Thibault replied.
“He has you.”

Axle shook his head.
“You don't want me helping anyone with dealing with survivor’s guilt. It's not healthy.”

“Oh…” Thibault uttered, not sure what to say before he began to follow Axle again.

“Besides Krista on top of everything…”

“Krista?”
Thibault has asked it without thinking. It just wasn't a name he was familiar with.

“I don't know how much you all know, but Tobias well…he fell in love when he was fourteen or so. To a girl named Krista Brink.”

“No, I didn't know that,” Thibault said, stopping with Axle again.
“I…I’m afraid to ask. It doesn't seem like it has a happy ending.”

Axle looked at him. He'd decided to trust him. The ultimate reason he did was…well…he'd tried to help Tobias with the grief this month brought every year and it always failed. But Duke Thibault was something he never had the luxury of trying with- family. And Duke Thibault, being family to Tobias, was someone he'd decided to trust.

But not with Krista’s full story. Tobias didn't even know that. So he kept to most of the story instead.

“She stepped on a landmine seven years ago yesterday. She was his first love, and he didn't take it…well. Before Krista he'd become sad during the anniversary of losing his family. But after Krista, he'd just shut off every September.”

Thibault nodded and followed Axle to a room. It was pretty spacious all things considered. An old style fireplace was roaring, and the lights overhead were dimmed, making it seem cozy. Even if the barren stone walls and bookshelves left the room seeming incomplete.

“I’ll let him know you're here,” Axle said as Thibault nodded. He was about to sit down on the couch before the fireplace when Axle said something else that made him look back at him.

“Good luck.”

Thibault smiled and nodded, taking his seat as Axle left.
Tobias had just up and left Býkonsviði when September rolled around. It didn't impact much of Thibault’s work much. He met with various ministers of William Aubyn’s provisional government and when Tobias’ signature was needed it was forwarded here…and returned signed.

But Thibault had used his time meeting with the young Prydanian King to do more than go over YEET details. He'd wanted to get to know him. He was family after all. And after so long, after all that happened, it seemed right that he should.

So while Tobias’ retreat into the woods wasn't a huge strain on his work in YEET it did worry him. He’d gotten to know the King of Prydania since taking up his post at the end of the Civil War, and he wanted to make sure he was ok. And so he'd decided to come here. Arranged with Axle Skov and Prime Minister Aubyn, under the pretext that there were certain details that must be gone over in person.

“Can I get you a drink?”

Thibault looked up, a bit started, to see Tobias enter from the door on the other end of the room.

“We don't have wine but…beer, whisky, brennivin?”

Thibault was a bit taken aback. Tobias was dressed well enough. Slacks, nice shoes, a collared shirt under a sweater…but he'd never seen Tobias with a beard before. Not in the months he'd gotten to know him personally, and not in the years and years he'd followed the Prydanian Civil War on the news. He couldn't remember seeing him with a beard. But here he was, with blond whiskers covering his face. And his hair…the scenes he'd seen of Tobias from the War always showed him with messy, unkempt hair but he'd kept it styled and properly cut and trimmed since the War’s end.
But now his hair looked disheveled, like he’d often looked on tv during the fighting.

But none of that matched the listlessness of his voice. That's what really impacted Thibault.
“Um, no Your Majesty. Thank you. It's good to see you though.”

“Já…thank you, Uncle Thibault,” Tobias said softly as he turned and made his way to an old desk on the other side of the room, away from the fire. He sat, sighed, and looked out the wide windows overlooking the thick forest.

Thibault got up and approached the desk Tobias had sat at. He'd called him uncle. That was curious. He'd called him uncle before, but rarely when business had to be conducted. Tobias often tried to make up for his lack of courtly upbringing with formality. Thibault sensed he was embarrassed by it, that it didn't come naturally to him. If only he knew he didn't need to be.

But here, in this moment of vulnerability, he'd not called Thibault by his title, but by his familial relation.

“I was thinking perhaps we could discuss this,” Thibault held up the YEET binder, “by the fire. Forgive me Your Majesty, but a Prydanian fall is a bit chillier than what I’m used to,” he said with a welcoming smile.

Tobias didn't smile back. He didn't say anything or do anything at first.
Truth was he was struggling to say anything. To care about anything. It all just seemed zapped from him. But Thibault…

He nodded and stood, and said nothing as he walked to the couch, sitting crossed legged on it as Thibault sat next to him.

“Again, thank you for meeting with me in person.”

“Já…” Tobias replied not really saying anything else. Thibault looked into his green eyes, how not even the fire dancing in them could light them up.

Thibault began to go over what he was officially here to discuss. Auburn Channel Petroleum. A plan to establish a company owned three ways- by the Prydanian, Santonian, and Norsian governments to drill and extract recently discovered oil reserves in Prydanian waters off the Auburn Coast.

Tobias sat there as Thibault explained that Saintonge and Norsia would have equal shares in the company. Prydania would have less, but would still own enough- and receive enough of the expected profits- to benefit. And assuming economic growth and recovery tracked, Prydania would have the option to eventually purchase shares from both Saintonge and Norsia to become a full partner. Given that Prydania lacked the ability to extract the oil itself…it seemed promising.

Tobias sat there, occasionally nodding as Thibault went over details he'd hammered out with Prydanian government ministers- that Prydanian personnel would be hired when possible to staff and maintain company office buildings in Prydania, and other, drier, financial aspects.

Usually Thibault’s meetings with Tobias saw the King asking a lot of questions. He was often curious, often concerned and wanting to know who would be helped by what program, and how it worked. It was a mixture of concern and curiosity. But here…Tobias just nodded. Offering an occasional “já,” or “I see.”

Thibault sat the binder down on the old oaken table by the couch. He'd had a wild idea.

“With things like this,” he began, “we like to consider how things radiate outward.”

He'd discussed economic matters like this with Tobias before. And he was curious to see if he'd pick up on it. A way to invite him to speak up without saying it.

“Auburn Channel Petroleum…I know it's not an equal three way thing right now, but Norsia and Saintonge are fronting the money and equipment. And even under these terms, Prydania will still profit. Yes, down the road, Prydania can become an equal partner, but remember what I said. Even before that happens, ACP offices and shipments across the Auburn Coast. It radiates outward. Creates more growth. There are long term gains. But short term ones too.”

“Because,” Tobias said softly, “the ships need dock workers and crews. And the offices need staff and maintenance…”

“And those will be Prydanian. Meaning money made and circulating. Which means more business…”

“It's like the car plants,” Tobias said listlessly. Well he sounded listless but he was talking. That was a start.

“The new Midland plants with the Silean engines. They create economic growth because of all the…” Tobias paused only long enough to bring his hands up to gesture “...stuff it brings to the community.”

“A lot like that, Your Majesty,” Thibault replied smiling. It was a sign he was engaged in the topic.
“And to prove this is all in good faith, these documents establish that neither Norsia or Saintonge can block Prydania buying out the co-equal stock. Once certain economic markers and financing has been achieved legally speaking our governments will have to sell to Prydania if Prydania wants to buy.”

“You don't need to prove that to me,” Tobias said softly.
“I know you always…um…you always act that way. In good faith.”

“I’m flattered you have that opinion of me and my country, Your Majesty,” Thibault replied with a friendly smile. He knew Tobias and Saintonge had gotten off on an icy foot, but right now, in this delicate situation, he figured it would be best not to bring that up. Even in jest.

Tobias smiled meekly at the remark and then…well Thibault swore he looked like he was about to cry but he gathered himself. He just leaned forward and ran his hands through his messy hair.
“Can I ask you a favour, Uncle Thibault?”

Thibault noticed it again. He'd gone with a familial title, and just after that flicker where it seemed like he was on the verge of tears.

“You may, Your Majesty,” Thibault replied.

“Thank you, I mean…for coming out here for this. But if it's ok? Can we stop the formal stuff? I’m not…I’m not really…able to do that right now.”

His voice went from listless to sounding meek. Thibault only smiled warmly though, and nodded.
“Of course, Tobias.”

He didn't know how much Tobias knew he knew. Krista? Probably not…but Tobias knew that Thibault could piece together his September retreat from the world to his family’s execution.

He didn't have to say that…which made things easier.

“Thank you, uncle.”

Thibault smiled but clued in on it…uncle…again. And then he remembered what Axle had said.
Tobias had no love lost for his Uncle Anders…King Anders III, the only member of his family killed that day Tobias wasn't devastated over.

Everyone else’s death affected him that day. Except for his uncle.
Thibault wasn't as close an uncle to Tobias as Anders had been, but he still realized. This month, this trauma Tobias couldn't escape… Thibault was his family. Family he still had. And he, unlike Anders, was an uncle he could embrace.

And suddenly it clicked. A certain longing Tobias had that he had always noticed. He'd been missing family. He had none. Not even his mother's family. They'd all been purged by the Syndicalists. He had no one.

But now he had Thibault. And as trapped as he seemed to be, he was reaching out. His own instincts as a father lit up with that realization.

“We don't need to keep up formalities. It's just us after all,” Thibault continued.

“In fact, I’d like to take a break from this stuff…” he tapped the open YEET binder.
“...just for a moment. I have an unrelated question to ask you.”

“Oh?” Tobias asked.

“How would you like it if, this Christmas, I brought my son here to meet you? Your cousin. He's around your age…I know he'd love to meet you.”

Tobias said nothing for a moment. He just looked straight ahead into the fire. And then down. Thibault knew deep down that's what was missing from Tobias’ life right now. Family. It seemed clear now, even when he was otherwise cheerful. He hoped his suggestion that he could meet his cousin would resonate with him. And pull him out of this funk.

What he didn't know was that Tobias was ecstatic to hear the suggestion. And his silence was in part due to feeling overwhelmed and…happy. He smiled and nodded. Finally having composed himself.

“I would really, um, I would really appreciate that,” he said. His voice was still quiet but sounded happier and lighter.

“It would be an informal thing, I think. No fancy state dinners…” Thibault began, and the idea of that seemed to resonate with Tobias in a good way.

“Christmas shouldn't be formal,” he said, smiling softly.

“I agree,” Thibault replied.

Tobias sat in silence for a moment before he spoke up again.
“Thank you,” he said softly.

Thibault grinned. This was, admittedly, a difficult topic to broach. He wanted to help, but he also didn't want to step on any toes…or overstep himself. But when Tobias thanked him he reached over and patted his shoulder.

He'd get back to the YEET business in short order, as an Ambassador explaining planned projects with a King. But right now he just had to comfort his nephew.

---

Krwlng by Linkin Park, 5:41

OOC Note: Post approved by @Kyle

9 June 2012
12:15 pm
On a Saturday
Grindill, Prydania

“I’m not demanding anything,” Lt. Colonel Viðar "Myrkur" Granqvist said, as he tried to come off as non-threatening.
“But you have one of the best pilots in the SLFH* in your cell.”

Captain Alrik Becken of the People’s Militia looked him over as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed the shiner over his right eye.

“Your pilot gave me this,” he said, grumbling.
“That I haven't run this up to Býkonsviði yet is a courtesy for your benefit.”

“You're going to go all the way to Lieftur over a bar fight?” Viðar asked. He was playing it cool even if he felt a pit opening up in his stomach. What Lieftur wanted he got, and the Militia were his boys.

“Your sveitalubbi of a pilot assaulted an officer of the People’s Militia,” Alrik growled.
“Between that and his family associations? I could have him sent to a re-education camp. You lot clearly didn't instill the right values in him.”

“The Military Academy is fully in line with the Party, we're all on the same team here,” Viðar said calmly even as his heart raced.
“And I need my Yellow Squadron pilots to help sniff the fascists and reactionaries out. So come on, Captain. You two were having drinks, boys will be boys…”

Alrik growled.
“I like you, Lt. Colonel, I really do. You're not the rest of the fucking military officer corps, walking around like your shit don't stink.”

“Thank you.”

“But this guy’s got a history. His sister’s a backslider. Who knows what he's capable of?”

“He's my best student,” Viðar replied.
“He's never shown any reactionary or unorthodox political tendencies. Whatever got a hold of his sister didn't rub off on him.”

Alrik rolled his eyes but Viðar kept going.
“Look, I’ll put my name on this. A bad situation. That's all. Give me back my pilot and you won't have a problem from me, or any of my pilots again. I promise.”

29 January 2013
1:36 pm
On a Tuesday
over Eiderwig, Prydania

“Ok Rakvél,” T-Bien said over his com.
“Let’s make it rain…”

“10-4,” Rakvél replied. The two Harriers fired their missiles, targeting the Syndicalist army formations outside of Eiderwig.

“Bullseye!” T-Bien yelled excitedly. Rakvél didn't have time to celebrate, though.

“SAMs incoming!” he replied as the two Harriers broke off.

“FLACK!”

Rakvél turned hard as his flack neutralized the missile on his tail.

“T-Bien! T-Bien you there?”

“Já, I shook mine! Jesus what the fok was that? Black said they're running low on SAMs!”

“Cogorian SAMs,” Rakvél replied.
“Not as good as the Hitma stuff but don't let ‘em catch you sleeping!”

“We gotta head back,” T-Bien replied.
“We can't risk losing a Harrier. Even with yours adding to the repertoire.”

Rakvél grumbled.
“I don't like it. We’re leaving too much on the ground.”

“We’re not doing anyone any favours if we get shot down,” T-Bien replied.

“I’m engaging,” Rakvél said, teeth gritting behind his mask. He was starting to feel his rage building….

“Rakvél! … Fok!”

T-Bien pulled right and followed his wingman.

“Fire!” He fired on a Syndicalist artillery position hammering an FRE advance force.

“Shit!” T-Bien yelled as he fired too, looking frantically for a sign of SAMs.
“Where's the smoke? Where's the smoke?”

“They probably wasted their last ones on us. Cogorian or not they're not well-stocked. The first volley’s loud. Then they're out.”

“Well…” T-Bien replied.
“What's that?”

“Shit!” Rakvél called out.
“Bogies!”

“More old friends of yours?”

“Probably! We’re what my friends were sent out here to deal with! Two incoming…”

“We should turn back now,” T-Bien insisted.
“They're not gonna risk their jets either and we have SAMs too. They won't follow us…”

Rakvél gripped his stick…the smiling face of his sister…the last time he saw her…
And now…

“I’m going to take 'em on.”

“Rakvél! No! I swear to God…we are NOT clear to engage! We’ve fucked ‘em up on the ground let’s get out!”

Rakvél’s eyes were locked on his radar.
“Firing sidewinder.”

“Rakvél!”

But it was too late. Rakvél fired a sidewinder missile at the nearest enemy Harrier….
And the blinking icons on the radar…the one he’d aimed at…

“No…” Rakvél said.

“You missed,” T-Bien replied, but Rakvél shook his head.

“We’re turning back.”

“Well about damn time you came to your senses… disengage!”

29 January 2013
2:01
On a Tuesday
somewhere in Austurland, Prydania

“What the fok was that?” T-Bien growled as he ran up to Rakvél after they landed.

“You wanted to turn back, I did!” Rakvél shot back.
“What's the problem?”

“You engaged after the enemy displayed SAM capabilities!” T-Bien exclaimed.
“And you got lucky with a hunch!”

“A hunch? I used to be one of them! I know the tricks, ok? Trust me!”

“The tricks eh? That's why you almost got us into a dogfight with enemy craft?”

Rakvél didn't say anything.

“And then you turned around…”

“It was Myrkur!”

“Who?”

“Viðar ‘Myrkur’ Granqvist,” Rakvél yelled back.
“And you were right! If we would have stayed we’d be dead!”

“Who's Viðar ‘Myrkur’ Granqvist?” T-Bien asked.

“He's my teacher.”

29 January 2013
2:18 pm
On a Tuesday
somewhere in Austurland, Prydania

Rakvél poured another glass of whisky.

“Whisky? Isn't that a little on the nose?” Kala Brovold asked as she pulled a chair up next to him in the mechanic bay of their fighter wing outpost.

“I don't care…and I don't care that it's only two either.”

“If this is about Bjartney…”

“It is. You fokking know it is.”

“We're looking. But you know better than most, how tightly those camps are locked down.”

“What the fok is that supposed to mean?”

Kala didn't give in to Rakvél’s attempt at goading her though.
“You know exactly what I’m saying.”

“Whatever,” Rakvél mumbled as he poured more whisky.

“So what? You can't find her so you're going to keep blowing them up?”

“Seems like good stress relief.”

“Command’s watching you. Like a hawk. If they think you're endangering operations…”

But Rakvél just downed the glass and contemplated pouring another one. Until Kala grabbed the whisky bottle.

“Hey!”

“My garage! My rules!” she insisted.

“It was Myrkur,” Rakvél said with a sigh.

“Myrkur?” Kala asked.
“You mean…”

“Já. I saw the way he flew…it's him. I had all the rage in the world…but…when I saw it was him… I turned and fled.”

“You followed orders. Eventually.”

“If it hadn't been Myrkur I wouldn't have. I only ran because I can't beat him.”

“It's a sign of a smart soldier, who knows to retreat if he can't win a battle.”

“That's not it…” Rakvél growled.
“If I can't even stand up to him…how will I find Bjartney?”

Kala looked into his eyes…tears forming against his blue-grey gaze. She nodded, and hugged him.

“Trust us, that we’ll find her,” she said softly.

Rakvél nodded. Nodded as he squeezed her, as tears ran down his cheeks.

---

*SLFH- Syndicalist Republic Air Force

Ghost River by Nightwish, 5:25

5 January 2051
5:43 pm
On a Thursday
Skógurheorot, Prydania

Tobias-Brice listened as his godfather spoke and wrote. They had been doing this for a few years now, and they had found a flow to working together.

It wasn't always that way. When he had first agreed to write Tobias' memoirs his mother, a writer and editor herself, had very keen advice.

"Let your godfather tell the story. Only ask questions to move the story along."

He took it to heart. The problem was that Tobias' own conversational style was very relaxed and informal. And he liked to ask questions, and jump off of observations. Tobias had wanted him to talk more when he was trying not to.

In the years since though, they found a better flow. Tobias-Brice realized his mamma was right. He just had to know when to speak up to spur Tobias along.

So he wrote as the King of Prydania spoke. Not every session was hard. As terrible as the Civil War was, some of the stories were heartwarming. But the ones that weren't weighed on the Prydanian King. Tobias-Brice could see that same hurt whenever his mother and father, or his aunts and uncles, spoke about the war. That the King of Prydania spoke with the same hurt over those years as his uncle Rúrik, a farmer, really hit him at how extensive the conflict was.
And his writer's mind raced even as he jotted down Tobias' stories, of that angle for when this was put into a book.

Finally though, Tobias paused. His eyes were red from tears he'd managed to push past, and his voice still slightly trembled. Today had been one of the hard sessions.
He smiled warmly though.

"I think that's a good time to end it for tonight. Let's get ready for dinner. You're probably famished from your flight and listening to me prattle on all day."

"Heh, no never, Uncle," Tobias-Brice replied, as a question dawned on him. And he wanted to ask before dinner. He'd be sitting down not only with his godparents, but his friends Baldr and Laurence, and their son Robert. That would be a happy time. Not a time to dig at old memories. But he had to know.

"I just have one question though, Uncle. Before we finish."

"Oh?" Tobias asked, sinking back into the couch. He seemed unsure. Weary almost. Recalling the events around New Year's Day 2013 had been hard on him. The King was looking forward to a nice dinner with his family. But...he trusted his godson. He nodded.
"Ask me anything," he said.

Tobias-Brice nodded and gulped. He knew it would be a hard question.

"You clearly feel bad about killing Gylfi Hjaltdal. I'm not saying you're wrong to feel like that... I've never had to take a life and God willing I'll never have to, but..."

"Já?" Tobias asked. His voice was quiet. Low. Tobias-Brice could see something come over his godfather.

"Uncle, I meant what I said. You're a good man. And Gylfi Hjaltdal launched a pointless attack on a city that killed people, including a little girl. And it was war. He was an enemy soldier."

Tobias just looked at him, his green eyes seeming like a dark olive as the flicker from the fireplace danced across his face. The sun had already set.

"I wasn't there. I can't tell you how to feel, but...I think you're beating yourself up over someone who..." he stopped himself from saying "deserved to die." That felt wrong.
"...who most people would say you were justified in killing. I just don't want you to carry around hurt you don't have to carry. I love you..."

Tobias looked down. He breathed deep and felt his body relax. And he spoke.

"I love you too," Tobias said softly.
"Gylfi Hjaltdal was the first person I killed. And it's a testament to war's ugliness that he wasn't the last," Tobias said, his voice never rising.
"He'll always be with me, until I die. Because I'm King. And an Emperor. And my words might send men and women off to die. If I stop carrying around the hurt from killing Gylfi... I might forget what that's like. And if I'm going to send men and women to die and kill I should damn sure know what that's like..."

Tobias-Brice was a bit unnerved. His godfather's intensity seemed to rise even as his voice remained calm and level. It was that calmness that really frightened him.

"...but the thing that really gets me, is why."

"Pardon?" Tobias-Brice asked nervously.
"Why what?" Maybe he should have cut bait. Tried to lean his godfather back to a happy dinner...but the writer in him...he had to know.

"Everything's cause and effect, Tobias," the King replied.
"I know why I was there. I know what things beyond my control put me in that farm house thirty-eight years ago. But what put Gylfi there?"

There was a pause. Tobias-Brice wasn't sure if his godfather wanted him to answer.

"I...I don't know..."

"I don't either," Tobias replied.
"But he was a Syndicalist soldier. What put him there? To attack Markarfljot? To kill that girl? To end up in that farmhouse with me? I've thought about it a lot...and I can't help but wonder. Was he just one of the thugs who used Syndicalism as an excuse to hurt people? Or...did he have his reasons?"

"Reasons?"

"I have a friend who's a former Syndicalist," Tobias replied.
"And I've learnt to listen. Was Gylfi Hjaltdal someone whose father worked long and hard to support his family?"

Another pause.
"I don't know..."

"Was he a working man who just had enough of being exploited? Was he just a cog in some machine who finally had enough and wanted to fight for someone who told him they'd make things better?"

Tobias-Brice was a bit shocked to hear this come from King Tobias III of all people.

"Syndicalists did terrible things," the King said. "We dealt judgement out after the war, and they'll all have to answer to God next. But that doesn't mean they didn't have reasons. It was a twisted ugly thing...but it got twisted from something. And if..."

Tobias began to cry softly. Tobias-Brice got up to sit right next to him. He offered a hand on his godfather's shoulder, and Tobias placed his own hand on his.
He wanted to work out what he had in his head. This was important. He'd never get a chance to say this, to anyone but his godson who was writing his memoirs. It had to be said to him.

"Syndicalism was a twisted thing, it did terrible things, but it took people, people who just cared about making things better...and it used them. I don't know why Gylfi Hjaltdal fought for the Syndicalist Republic. I'll never know. But something put him in that old farmhouse with me thirty-eight years ago. And..."
He began to cry again and gasped before stifling his tears.

"...if he just wanted to fight for what he believed in..." Tobias shook his head.
"Nothing would have stopped me from killing him that night. I was too angry. But..." he paused.
"If Gylfi was just fighting for what he believed in...if he was there for reasons that mattered to him...then I'm going to feel profoundly sad at what put us in that farmhouse together. Events beyond either of our control."

Tobias looked down and sniffled a bit as his godson hugged him.
"I'm sorry I pried," he said softly.
"Should have just left it where you did."

Tobias stood after his godson had hugged him and shook his head.
"I asked you to do this. I can't be mad at you for doing a good job," he said, smiling meekly.

Tobias-Brice stood with him as his godfather wiped away tears.
"Thank you though," he said softly.

"For what?"

"For everything. For caring enough to ask," Tobias replied.

"It's nothing, Uncle," Tobias-Brice said with a smile. He understood where his godfather was coming from. Well...as best as he could understand it. There were bits he never would. But he'd do his best.

"It's far more than nothing," Tobias said smiling meekly.
"Now come on. We're having dinner, and we're leaving this business behind for now," he said as he reached an arm around Tobias-Brice's shoulder.

"Now," the King continued, his pleasant tone slowly returning.
"I'm going to tell you another story you've never heard," he said as he led his godson out of the study.

"You were just a small baby and your pabbi..."

Tobias-Brice smiled. Another thing he'd never be able to understand was how his godfather could compartmentalize everything and go from the horrors of war to fun stories about him and his father. It was a skill he'd never had to learn, but he still enjoyed that after he bore his soul, King Tobias could still be his godfather.

---

Let You Down by Three Day's Grace, 3:46

14 December 2040
4:46 pm
On a Friday
Kiojaleit, Prydania

Markthór took a shot, the basketball hitting the rim and falling to the driveway.

"Mr. Big Shot basketball coach missing? Say it isn't so," Rúrik teased as Markthór gave him a faux aggravated look.

"I'm not used to taking shots in a jacket," Markthór replied with a grin, patting his wool-lined jacket. Rúrik smirked and took the basketball, dribbling it slowly before half-heatedly tossing it up. It hit the rim too, but unlike Markthór it wasn't his pride that was hurt. He clenched his right shoulder, and winced.

"Bro, you ok?" Markthór asked, his voice panicked. Teasing aside he loved his cousin, but Rúrik just nodded and stuck his hand out.

"Don't worry about it. It's my shoulder, it'll be fine..." he breathed deep and the pain began to fade.
"There we go..."

"What happened?"

Rúrik looked at his cousin. Markthór was older then him by two years. As kids he was like his older brother. And then the Syndicalists and the War tore them apart.
Rúrik never blamed any of his family in Saintonge for any of that. But he could tell that Markthór always felt he had to make up for lost time. Ironically it meant Rúrik ended up worrying about Markthór and much as Markthór worried about him.

"My shoulder's been hurtin' lately. Used to be easy to ignore but it's getting worse. Winter doesn't help."

"How long? How'd you hurt it?" Markthór asked, sounding concerned.

"Um..." Rúrik blushed a bit.
"Thirty years? Give or take?"

"What?" Markthór asked, sounding shocked before the meaning of his cousin's statement dawned on him. The camp... the Syndicalist collectivized camp.
"Rúrik I'm sorry I..."

Rúrik just smiled though. Shaking his head with a soft chuckle.
"It's fine it's fine... some Syndie prick beat me pretty hard a few years after mamma and I came to the camp. My shoulder was never the same. Never used to bother me too much though," he shrugged.

Markthór nodded. That was putting it mildly. His cousin had rebuilt their family's farm from scratch. Made it bigger. More profitable than it had ever been. And now Markthór was hearing he did it with a bum shoulder? He still remembered how hard his father had worked when they lived here, and his uncle. He had an appreciation for the hard work he knew Rúrik did...

"I mean it," Rúrik said shrugging again.
"Used to be I never thought about it save for maybe once in a the blue moons you know? But the last few years it's been acting up. Especially in the cold."

"You're getting old," Markthór said with a smile. As much as he was protective of his cousin he still liked to tease him. Rúrik smiled and tossed the basketball back at his cousin.

"What's that make you?"

"Old," Markthór chuckled, taking another shot. This one hit the backboard and bounced away without going in. Rúrik smirked as Markthór let go with a string of curse words that jumped between Prydanian and Santonian with little to no rhyme or reason.

"But eh, you know? That's fine. We have full time year round staff now. So what if my shoulder hurts more? I can afford to slack off these days."

"Já," Markthór chuckled as he got the ball out of a snow bank.
"But I know you. There's still stuff that you're not letting anyone but you do. So you take it easy, ok?"

"In a few years I'll have Týr helpin' me full time. He can take over the point stuff. Slowly but surely. Let me ease into retirement in peace," Rúrik chuckled.

"His grades at uni are good?" Markthór asked.

"He needed a year to get his head outta his ass but já," Rúrik replied.
"Once he's finished with his degree he'll be helpin' me with the stuff that needs an Öxndal doin' it."

"Sounds like Finnur," Markthór sighed. His oldest, Finnur-Lucien, was two years younger than Týr. Markthór looked towards the house. Finnur and his younger sister Monique-Rachelle were inside with everyone else.
"Boy just started at the University of Saints and he doesn't seem to have a clue."

"I went through that with Týr," Markthór replied.
"They say most kids struggle the first year. Just takes a bit to get used to it."

"I didn't."

"Eh?"

"When I went to uni, I was... I donno. I just got it, I guess. I wasn't blowing anyone away with my marks but I graduated with honours."

"You a basketball star, graduated with honours? You never told me that," Rúrik replied with a smile as he tossed Markthór the ball again. It was funny. All these years later and after so much had happened... Rúrik still looked up to his older cousin.

"Turns out it didn't matter. I ended up making basketball and basketball related activities my living."

"Well what about Addý?" Rúrik asked. He'd never gone to university. So he relied on his cousins for frames of reference.
"Saxi? Luta?" he added, referring to Markthór's step brother and step sister.

"I guess they had their ups and downs... I donno. I never really got involved with their school lives."

"Well," Rúrik replied with a smirk.
"I may be a simple, uneducated, country farmer..."

Markthór began to laugh and shake his head.
"Don't pull that shit come on..."

Rúrik chuckled and laughed, shaking his head a bit before sighing.
"Well you know I mean it. I didn't go to university. Or anything resembling real high school for that matter. But with Týr? And listening to Víf... I donno. Saxi, Luta, and Addý... I think you should ask 'em. You might find out Finnur's not goin' through anything unusual."

Markthór nodded. Yes. His cousin looked up to him. Yes, he was protective of him.
But Markthór also looked to Rúrik for parenting advice.

"Besides," Rúrik chuckled, "if Finn doesn't shape up, threaten to send him here for the harvest," he said with a wink.

Markthór chuckled, looking down at the basketball in his hands and then back at his cousin.
"Ástvar?"

Rúrik sighed and looked up at the starry winter sky.
"That boy will be the death of me," he muttered.

"Classic middle child syndrome?" Markthór asked.

"Já maybe," Rúrik replied.
"Víf should be home soon. And then I gotta spend an hour to so talkin' to the wall."

"He really punched out a kid on the last day of school before break?"

"Já."

Markthór chuckled.
"You and I did that when other kids picked on Addý, way back when."

"And if Ástvar had done it to stand up for his sister that'd be one thing."

"You don't think it was that?" Markthór asked.
"Then what?"

"Hell if I knew. Boy just seems to want to start shit for no reason. A month ago or so... they have these tablets at school? Used for class activities? Like answering questions and the like? To measure class participation?"

"Já they have 'em in Saintonge too," Markthór said with a nod.

"Well one of Ástvar's friends is caught using his to browse the internet. Can't do that so the teacher takes it away. You lose out on the participation marks for the day if you break that rule."

Markthór nodded along as Rúrik continued.
"Anyway Ástvar stands up, says it isn't right to do that sort of thing, and tries to lead a walkout of the class."

Markthór began to chuckle.
"Anyone join him?"

"Nah," Rúrik shook his head.
"Only made him more moody I think."

Markthór shrugged.
"Well..."

"Don't say it," Rúrik replied with a smirk

"What?" Markthór said with a wide smile.

"Don't say 'well you know what it's like being a kid,' 'cause you and I both know neither of us had anything resemblin' a 'normal' upbringin'."

Markthór laughed and took another shot. The swish of the hoop in the cold winter air was extra sweet sounding.
"Score!"

"Good job superstar," Rúrik chuckled as a pair of headlights in the distance rolled up.

Markthór put a hand on Rúrik's non-busted shoulder and pat.
"Just try to go easy on the lad."

Rúrik nodded as Víf got out of the SUV followed by their fifteen year old daughter Ráðhildur and finally a sullen looking seventeen year old Ástvar.

"Love," Rúrik said with a smile as he hugged Víf.

"Sweetie...How was work?" she asked, sounding tired as she hugged her husband.

"Týr and I made Finn and Mark here pitch in, made it go by smooth," Rúrik answered, referring to the plots of land heated by the nearby power plant that allowed for winter farming.

"Mark!" Víf replied happily, followed by an exited "Uncle Markþór!" from Ráðhildur.

"Hey guys," Markthór replied before looking at the still sullen Ástvar.
"Hey Ást."

Ástvar just looked down.
"Hey."

Rúrik looked Víf before giving his daughter a hug.

"Pabbi..." she protested in teenage embarrassment before he ruffled her hair.

"Ráðhildur, go inside with Mamma and Uncle Mark. Your cousins, grandma, and Aunt Nicole are there. Go spend time with 'em. Ástvar and I need to talk."

"Ooo in trouble," Ráðhildur teased, causing Ástvar to get agitated.

"What are you, ten?"

"Hey!" Víf insisted.
"Cut it out. And you..." she pointed at her middle child.
"Listen to your father. Getting in trouble for beating up someone at school isn't how we're starting off a family visited at the holidays. So you listen and you drop the attitude."

"Whatever."

"I mean it I..."

"Honey, I'll deal with it. You head on in. We'll be in soon."

Víf nodded and gave her husband a kiss before she led her daughter and Markthór into the house. The sounds of happy greetings briefly made it to the outside before the door closed. And Rúrik and Ástvar were alone. In the cold, on the driveway to the house.

"Come on," Rúrik said as he motioned to Ástvar.

"Where?"

"Well I don't wanna stand out in the cold. Come on. We'll head to the office There's coffee."

Ástvar sighed, carrying his backpack as he trudged through the snow to the office opposite the farmhouse. It was a "newer" building, though it had been there for most of Ástvar's life. He and his brother had played on the construction sight when it was being built.

"There we go," Rúrik opened the door and flipped on the lights. He was in here not too long ago actually. It was rather plane. Just an office to manage the farm from. Built to spec. But it beat having the increasing amount of paperwork this operation required taking over the kitchen table.

"Tell me about what happened," he said as he went to the counter to begin making some coffee.

"I punched a guy," Ástvar said with a shrug as he sat down in an office chair.

Rúrik nodded and leaned against the counter.
"And?"

"And what?" Ástvar asked, sounding very annoyed.
"Who cares?"

"I do."

"Why?"

Rúrik breathed deep. It was less what his son had said and more how he said it.
That indignant selfishness.
"Because I busted my ass all day tending to the winter fields while you were punchin' kids out. So you wanna drop the attitude?"

Ástvar sighed and said nothing, just looking down. Rúrik shook his head.

"Look. I'm going to find out from your mamma what exactly happened and we'll be havin' this conversation all over again! So why don't you cut the crap and save us all some time and tell me what happened?"

Ástvar looked like he was about to speak before he decided not to say anything. Rúrik grumbled.

"I bust my ass all day every day so you can have a decent life and this is the disrespect I get? For you to just take me for granted? Well..."

"I know!"

Rúrik stopped, more shocked at his son's outburst than anything else.

"I know pabbi, Jesús! I know! You work hard! Já I know! You don't think I appreciate everything? Well I do! I do... but for fok's sake... it's got nothing to do with that! Just... stop acting like I don't appreciate you! I do!"

Rúrik took another deep breath. Was it over the line to accuse his son of that? Maybe...maybe but... he was getting somewhere.
"Ok. That was wrong of me... but it's how I feel when I work all day, get a call that you do something like this, and then you won't talk to me about it."

"It's hard."

"Well like I said, your mamma's gonna tell me eventually. I can find out from her or you. At least if you do it you can give me your side right away."

"You care about me side?"

"What kinda dumbfok question is that? You're my son. Of course I care about your side."

"You're gonna hate me."

"I sincerely doubt it," Rúrik replied with a smile.

"Ketill Skarsgaard called me a Syndicalist. So I punched him," Ástvar said softly.

Rúrik just stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what the fok that was about when the coffee maker dinged. He said nothing as he poured two cups.

"Well... why would I hate you?" he asked as he handed his son a mug.

Ástvar took it and began to sip before answering.
"Because you hate Syndies, and I do too!"

Rúrik chuckled for a moment but stopped when he saw how upset his son was.
"Ást, there hasn't been a Syndie worth hatin' since before you were born."

"I mean... I know what they did to you and grandma..."

"Já," Rúrik said softly, rubbing the scar on his wrist.
"Já. But what's this gotta do with you punchin' Ketill Skarsgaard out?"

"He called me a Syndie. And I know what they did to you and our family... I kinda lost it, and punched him."

"Well... that is a bit more understandable," Rúrik said with a shrug before taking a sip of his coffee.
"But... ok. Why'd he call you a Syndie?"

Rúrik knew that kids today, the first generation to grow up after the Civil War, had taken to using "Syndie" or "Syndicalist" as an insult. Sometimes it kinda made sense, other times it just didn't... like a lot of his kids' generation's slang.
Either way Rúrik never used it. To him a Syndicalist was a very specific kind of evil he'd suffered under. Calling a Sayfansinn's manager a "Syndicalist" for being overly strict about the ten items or less checkout line seemed insulting to his own suffering.

"We were in debate, and there's an election next year."

"Já..."

"And I was arguing... well... I said I wanted..."

Rúrik raises an eyebrow, and Ástvar gulped.
"I said I wanted the People's Party to win."

This was National Democratic League country. The ÞLD* had held most seats around here for as long as Ástvar had been alive, if not longer. The People's Party, to this day, couldn't get elected dogcatcher anywhere in the province of Erkiengil.
The legacy of Syndicalist abuses and the disaster of collectivization here was still strong, and the People's Party... try as they might... just couldn't shake that legacy. Ástvar was worried his father, who he knew voted ÞLD, would feel that way.

"You think I'll hate you because you want the People's Party to win?"

"Maybe..."

"Well then I was wrong. You don't take me for granted. You just think I'm a heartless bastard."

"What?" Ástvar shot back.
"No!" he protested. "I..."

"Cause," Rúrik interrupted, "that's what I'd have to be, to hate my own son over politics."

Ástvar shook his head.
"It's just that I know what people say and it's unfair! We all know what the Syndies did! It was awful! But we shouldn't..."

Rúrik held up his hand to get his son to stop.
"By 'we' you mean the People's Party."

"Já."

"You're 17. You're too young to be a dues paying member."

"I will be when I turn 18."

"My advice? When you do, give 'em a junk email. Trust me. You don't wanna be hounded for political donations from now until the end of creation."

Ástvar was taken aback. His father wasn't angry. He wasn't disappointed. Not in the news that he was a People's Party supporter.
"You're not... mad?"

Rúrik sighed.
"You want my opinion?"

Ástvar nodded. He may have wanted more independence from his parents but like every teenage boy... he also, deep down, wanted his father's approval.

"I think if you're a People's Party supporter at your age it means you have a big heart. And I'm proud of that. I also think if you're a People's Party supporter at my age it means you don't have a brain."

"Because of the Syndica..."

"No not because of the Syndicalists," Rúrik rolled his eyes. He took another sip of coffee.
"Boy, I lived in a Syndie labour camp for over ten years. They worked me like a slave, beat me, and did horrible, terrible things to me and everyone else. I know what a Goddamn Syndicalist is, you understand?"

Ástvar looked down and nodded.

"And the People's Party ain't that. Lord knows I don't agree with 'em but they ain't fokking Syndies. There's politics. And then there's pure evil. Syndies are... were...pure evil."

Rúrik breathed deep.
"I don't think the People's Party's policies are right for this country," he added, sounded less agitated.
"But you're almost an adult. You're old enough to make up your own mind. If that's who you support? Then you're allowed. And I'm not gonna think any less of you for it."

"Thanks pabbi..."

"But there's another side to all of this," Rúrik continued.
"You can't punch someone out over politics. No matter what they say. You wanna talk about crap that happened before you were born? This country nearly killed itself fightin' over politics. You can't do that. Someone- be it someone at school or your old man- disagrees with you? You use your words."

"Já pabbi, I understand."

"Do you?" Rúrik asked.

"I mean... já but... what he said was unfair. He knows what you went through."

"Everyone's mamma or pabbi or both went through somethin' terrible. Even Ketill Skarsgaard's. I know. I shared a bunk with his pabbi for a bit in that fokken camp."

Ástvar nodded.
"But that just makes what Ketill said worse!"

"Ketill's mouth talks faster then his brain can think," Rúrik replied.
"I'll have a talk with his pabbi, ok? But I don't care what he said. It was wrong to hit him."

"Já..." Ástvar replied with a sigh.

"Good. You'll apologize to him. And take whatever the school says you have comin', ok?"

Ástvar nodded sullenly.

"Good. And I'll talk to Heriolf about Ketill. Deal?"

Ástvar felt... he felt a mix of things. He felt relieved that his father wasn't going to hate him for his politics. He was happy he wasn't mad at him. But also... embarrassed. That he'd caused all of this by being hot headed.
"Ok," he replied softly with a meek smile.
"Deal."

Rúrik sipped more of his coffee.
"Let's finish up our brew, and we'll head on in. Your Aunt and Uncle and cousins are here for Christmas, and they all wanna see you."

Ástvar smiled wide and sipped his coffee.

"Hey," Rúrik said with a grin.
"What does the People's Party and Stormurholmr EÍK* have in common?"

"What?" Ástvar asked curiously.

"They have the same slogan. 'Always next year!'"

Ástvar sighed and shook his head as his father laughed at his own joke.

"Oh come on that's funny," Rúrik replied with a chuckle.
"Though maybe not the best timing."

"No...not really," Ástvar said with a chuckle. Rúrik grinned seeing that chuckle though. He could still make his kids laugh.

And he felt happy. Happy that he could clear this all up. He had two weeks with Markthór, Nicole, and their kids for Christmas and New Year's.

And family? That always beat politics.

---

*ÞLD- National Democratic League
*Stormurholmr EÍK- Stormurholmr Islanders Hockey Club

---

Too Old to Rock 'n Roll Too Young to Die by Jethro Tull, 5:39

21 October 2008
1:03 pm
On a Tuesday
Lethborg, Prydania

Rúrik Öxndal sat still as the float made its way through Lethborg's streets. The weather was sunny, but it was the sort of sunny day you often got in fall... the kind where the brightness seems more bleak than cheerful, the fall wind and the tinny marching band music only adding to it. He sighed, letting his shoulders slump as he sat with the other kids before a tinge of worry shot through him and he straightened up. He knew what happened if he didn't look sufficiently enthused. And he'd do anything to resist the beatings with the batons.

Rúrik tried to make the most of it, though. At least he was off the collectivized homestead. And he had fond memories of the city, with his cousins and uncle and father... back when it was called Erkiengill. That was another thing that could get them to beat you with the batons. Calling it Erkiengill. It was Lethborg now. Rúrik had made that mistake once... and it was a mistake. He wasn't trying to be bad. One of the People's Militamen had just said they'd be part of the parade in the city. He'd innocently asked "Erkiengill?" and spent the night covered in bruises for it. It was a mistake he'd make sure he wouldn't make again.

That name, Leth, was all over the place. It was Lethvika, or Leth Week. And this was Lethborg, Leth City. Rúrik, at twelve and constantly exhausted from working on the homestead, had little clue what that meant. Still, he was trying to stay hopeful. After all there was a chance that his father might be here. He hadn't seen him since... since that day. The day he and his mamma were taken from their home...

But his father would sometimes take him to Erk...err...Lethborg. In his mind, desperate for any sign of his pabbi, Rúrik had told himself maybe he was here. So he took advantage of the time on the float with the banner that read "Ungt Sameinaðbændur," or "Young Collectivized Farmers." Him and nine other kids between the ages of 8-12, wearing their loose fitting blue overalls and stereotypical "rural" looking straw hats.

They'd been told that they had to be "good," which meant waving and not saying anything "counter-revolutionary."

Rúrik wasn't nearly as eager to wave as some of the other kids, but he didn't seem to be getting the ire of anyone. So he scanned the crowds lining the street. Red, white, purple, and black banners fluttered everywhere but as he looked in the crowds for his pabbi he... he began to notice things.

He'd been noticing things a lot lately.

At first he was cold, hungry, saddened beyond belief that he'd lost his mamma and pabbi. He cried, for over a day, begging the People's Militiamen to let him go home. It was only two years ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

They told him he didn't have a home. His home had been "collectivized." And he had to take the first steps to becoming the first of a new generation of farmers- Collectivized Farmers- who would lead the country into the future.

That's what they said.

As they beat him, called him names, and...

...and...

He shivered and shut out the memory of being alone in a cell at night. The smell of whisky on the guards' breadth... He had too. He couldn't afford to lose his composure here. He might lose the one thing he had to live for.

His mamma. After a month of that hell, a month of being told he had to be re-educated, of being raped, and then told to his face it never happened from the guards who did it... of being beaten for wanting to go home...

...after a month of that... he was told he could see his mamma again if he just took the first step in his "re-education."

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of Syndicalist Prydania and the Republic for which it stands, one nation under Chairman Nielsen, indivisible from the working peoples of the world, for workers' freedom and justice for all."

That's all he had to say. At ten he didn't know what most of it meant, but he said it. And he was reunited with his mother. His mother...he clung to her. And they let them live in the same barracks. Under the condition that they behave. And "commit to their re-education."

All of that...and then...

...the drudgery began. Work. All day. Until he was about to collapse. All to the sound of the same sort of tinny music that the band was playing for the parade now.

But that drudgery gave way to him noticing things. How the yields were less than what they should have been, when he remembered back to his family farm. They way that, despite that, the officials celebrated milestone after milestone of production quotas that, as he got older, he saw for the shams they were.

And now...as he sat on this float amidst other kids like him, amidst paper wheat stocks, sunflowers, and plastic cows celebrating a homestead that was producing less then it should... he noticed another thing. It wasn't his pabbi in the crowds. No. His heart raced in his chest, full of anxious hope, but he never saw his father's face. What he did see though, were miserable faces. Hungry faces.

The Militiamen and the Party officials at the Homestead had declared this was a holiday! A great replacement for Oktoberfest where cities and towns across Prydania would show their "spontaneous" love for the Party and Syndicalist guidance through the week! But amidst the banners displaying the Syndicalist hammer and cog, the red star, and the faces of Remy Picard, Rune Leth, and Thomas Nielsen were crowds of hungry looking miserable people.

Of course they were behind the "Vanguards," which was what the Party called the cheering boisterous first two rows of the crowd on either side. All of them wearing party armbands or pins, some with banners that displayed slogans the party liked- "Workers' Liberty," "Forward Syndicalism," and so on... but it was the faces behind them that Rúrik noticed. And then the stonefaced Peoples' Militia soldiers behind them, holding rifles firmly...

Part of him wanted to cry right then and there. He wanted to cry, he wanted his pabbi to be there, to save him and his mamma but... another part of him...

In the two years since the time he had that wasn't spent labouring was spent in "re-education." As he and the other kids were lectured by a thin self-assured bespectacled man known only as Comrade Haugan who wore one of the same armbands some of the cheering "Vanguard" spectators wore.
Lectured about how their parents and grandparents and everyone else who came before them were part of a system of oppression- how the landowners and businessmen of the country had oppressed the working man, and how the Syndicalist Party had brought forth a glorious new future of liberty. How he and his "young comrades" along with his parents had to be "re-educated," and would become the first of many new generations of "collectivized" farmers where everyone worked together instead of hoarding land and wealth.

But... no matter how often Comrade Haugan poured that into his head... it never stuck. Because the poor, dirty barracks, worn down trucks, ill-maintained tools and tractors, and low yields all spat in the face of what he was taught.
For the better part of two years Rúrik had struggled with how to square what he was told with what he saw around him. He deeply resented the Syndicalists, the Militiamen, Comrade Haugan, and the rarely seen but always respected Homestead commander. For what they did to his family, to him... he hated them. He was also a child, and his mind swallowed up the propaganda... only tripping up when the harsh reality of the world didn't align with what he was told. It was directionless anger, anger at pain and hurt he'd been caused, but with no real sense of why.

But as he scanned the crowds in the streets of Erk...Lethborg looking for his pabbi the final piece of the puzzle fell into place for him. The cold, hungry, sad looking people behind the cheering "Vanguard," coerced into place by Militiamen with rifles....

It was all a lie.

Everything was a lie. The people who had shattered his world, abused him, beat him, shone a bright, blinding light into his world and declared that everything he knew, he loved, and cherished was corrupt and had to be purged... they were lying! They'd burnt down his entire life, they'd joyfully debased his family, they'd served him, his mamma, and countless others up helplessly to sexual predators wearing uniforms... all in the name of a lie.

Rúrik wanted to stand. He wanted to shout. He wanted to cry! He wanted to call for the adults standing behind the cheering "Vanguard" to overwhelm the Militiamen they outnumbered... his heart was racing! He was only a kid. Only twelve. No one would listen to him! But he wanted to yell! He wanted to take the last two years of his life, he wanted to rip into it! He wanted to scream about it at the top of his lungs! His jaw clenched as his stare was locked on the stonefaced Militiamen near the back of the crowds. He could feel all the anger his twelve year old self was capable of out but... but...

Mamma...

His mamma. He couldn't lose her. If he did what he wanted to do, if he did it, he'd be hurt. He might even be killed. And who knows what would happen to his mamma? She'd be taken from him. Forever. And he'd never be able to protect her. His jaw trembled. The sheer helplessness, as that damn music ringed in his ears, overcame him.
But he couldn't even cry. He couldn't even cry... so he passively waved. Wearing one-size too big overalls, that plastic bracelet with his ID number stamped on it digging into his wrist, and this ridiculous hat. He waved, as he cried. And screamed. And yelled. Inside. Where no one could hear or see.

The parade, which included floats from everything from the Mechanics' Collective to the local People's Militia Chapter to the local Workers' Collectives of various factories, and the marching band from the local high school, it crawled to a halt. They were approaching Erk... er, Lethborg's town square. And it was time for the address.

Each float, each "contingent" of the parade was expected to address Comrade Mayor Sture and Local Party Chief Comrade Naaden, who promised to pass the well wishes onto Comrade Chairman Nielsen.

And finally the Young Collectivized Farmers' float rolled up.

The raised podium in the city's main square sat under a banner that read "Lethvika- Fögnum nútíð okkar og framtíð!"* and was adorned with red, white, purple, and black banners housed a number of people wearing brown uniforms not unlike the Peoples' Militia. With one wearing an armband and another man in a rather unremarkable grey suit, in front of the podium.

Rúrik eyed those two men. Hoping that the anger that was burning inside of him wasn't visible to anyone else... he stayed seated with most of the kids as Heriolf Skarsgaard, one of his friends who was his age, stood. Heriolf had been chosen as the official "Comrade Spokesman" of the float. Indicated as such by the red, white, and purple ribbon that was pinned to his overalls.
A People's Militiaman climbed up, holding a microphone to his face. And Heriolf nervously began to speak.

"Comrade Mayor Sture, Comrade Naadenm," he said as his wide blue eyes were full of nerves and fear, "I... I speak to you on behalf of the Young Farmers of the local Collectivized Homestead! Thank you for your leadership! And thank you to Chairman Nielsen whose guiding light has given us a new, more equal future! We the future, salute the Republic!"

Heriolf gave the salute after reciting the statement he was drilled on, and Rodmar Sture and Frostulf Naadenm each smiled and gave a salute back, as the float slowly began to move again.
Rúrik looked over at Heriolf as Heriolf sat down again, giving him a resigned sigh back. Even here, in the city centre... Rúrik could see the sad, hungry faces behind the flags and banners of the first few "Vanguard" rows of spectators. Like everything else... it was a lie.

And, finally reaching the end of the parade route, Rúrik could look down. His pabbi was dead. No one told him that... but he just felt it. And for the first time, he grappled with that realization.

Maybe if he was alone in his barracks, or with his mamma, he'd have cried. Maybe. But here... unable to do much of anything but wave passively as the people who hurt him pat themselves on the back... he could only think.

Think of how his pabbi would teach him to shoot. The motion. How you safely loaded a rifle, chambered a round, brought it up steadily, and shot. He wasn't as good a shot as Addý was... wherever she was... but he knew how. He remembered his pabbi, holding him, helping him aim, helping him hold the rifle.

The motion...

Some day. He'd get the chance. Some day he'd get the chance to shoot them all. He'd go over the motions his pabbi taught him in his head until then.

---

*Lethvika- Fögnum nútíð okkar og framtíð!- Leth Week- Celebrate our present and future!

---

Pray by the Amazing Devil, 5:17

14 November 2012
11:26 pm
On a Wednesday
Lindveiðimanna, Prydania

"I'm sorry if I've been... difficult."

Jörn raised an eyebrow at Tobias as he chuckled.

"You, my boy, are one of the last people who should have to apologize for feeling angry now and then," he said as Tobias set a sheathed Jægerblað down as he warmed himself by the hearth.

"Whatever... I mean... I feel bad."

Jörn so badly wanted to tell him he reminded him a lot of his grandpabbi. But he wasn't ready to go into that. The Prince still hadn't noticed that in the six years they'd known each other Jörn hadn't aged.

"History, Toby, needs more people who feel compelled to apologize. Here. Eat up." He handed a bowl of oatmeal to the boy, who hungrily began to delve into it with a spoon.

"I'm sorry, I don't have brown sugar. It's pretty scarce these days."

"That's ok, it's good, danke!" Tobias said, mouth full of oatmeal. Jörn had put him through his paces with the sword, learning how to fight with it. But now it was time to eat and regain some lost energy.

Jörn nodded and say next to the Prince, unsheathing Jægerblað. The stories he could tell about this sword... but he didn't go into that.

"I mean it though. If more people through history had felt compelled to apologize the the world would be a better place."

"I've been studying history," Tobias said as he finally set his spoon down to take a break from eating.
"It really just seems like one fokking thing after another. But...when you gave me Jægerblað you talked about cycles of history."

Jörn nodded.
On some level he suspected the boy knew even if Jörn couched what he said in vague terms.

"I think history flows in cycles, já," Jörn replied with a nod.
"The universe is too complex a system for anything to be completely random."

"Completely?" Tobias asked as he ate more oatmeal.

"Já," Jörn nodded, getting a bit lost in thought.
"You see, people are very direct creatures. They like binaries. Já or no, black or white, destiny or random chance. But things are often more complex."

"So it's both- random and destiny?"

"That's impossible Toby come on now. Think about it," Jörn chuckled. Tobias blushed and looked flustered before he cracked a smile.

"You're fokking with me."

"Maybe! But I'm also right! And trying to make a point. The universe is a giant math equation that never truly ends. Human behaviour is a variable, but human behaviour isn't incredibly complex. At the end of the day people want sex, food, wealth, security, and power. Sure other things come and go, but so long as those needs dominate the minds of men the same sort of things will play out. Like take you. And your grandpabbi."

Tobias blushed again, but didn't smile this time. He looked up to Robert VII. He was curious and bit nervous what Jörn would say.
Jörn, though, smiled. He had a way to talk about the boy's grandfather without giving away the game.

"The Fascist War left Prydania exhausted. With scores of men and boys broken from the conflict coming home. A nation with an agricultural economy teetering because of the demands of total war and at the mercy of the victorious allies. That's the world your grandpabbi became King in. And his reign saw Prydania's golden age. Your start will be very similar. And I believe you're capable of achieving all the things he did."

Tobias' blush stayed and he looked down.
"You think we're going to win the War."

"I put my faith in good people, not tyrants, Toby. And I can't help but see history repeating itself with your grandpabbi and you."

"So all that war, the Fascist War and this one, all the people my Uncle hurt, that was all planned?" he asked, sounding disgusted at the notion that the universe would set so much death into motion. But Jörn shook his head.

"I said the truth was somewhere between two binaries. I don't believe history is random, I think it works in cycles. I've..." he paused, before choosing the next word carefully.
"...studies it enough to know that. But I've also studied it a lot to know things aren't predetermined. History echoes, Toby, but destiny is still in our hands. You're not destined to be King because the universe decrees it. You will be King, I think, because I believe you're capable of being it and that you'll eventually succeed in toppling Nielsen's dictatorship. The choices that make it so are in the hands of men, ultimately."

Tobias looked unsure and lowered his eyes to his half eaten bowl of oatmeal. He started to say something before choosing to continue eating. So Jörn continued talking instead.

"I knew your Uncle, you know."

Tobias nodded as he ate.

"I could tell that things in this country were heading down a dangerous path. I tried to plead with your Uncle. To change his course before it was too late."

"You told Uncle Andy to stop..." Tobias replied with a mouth full of oatmeal and a look of shock on his face. He forced himself to swallow before continuing.
"And he didn't have you killed?"

Jörn smirked.
"Toby, even tyrants have select few people who can get away with more with them. Thankfully for me I was one of those people to your Uncle. In fact I probably gave him more chances than I should have to see the error of his ways, but eventually I saw that he wouldn't change. There would have to be something done, but I didn't think it had to be a war. That's when I decided to approach Tom Nielsen."

Tobias listened and his eyes lowered at the mention of Nielsen. Jörn sympathized but he continued.

"I thought maybe if I could talk some sense into him I could stave off the worst of it. But I was disappointed to find out he was just as bullheaded as your Uncle. That's when I got truly scared."

"It's a nice story," Tobias said with a faint smile.
"That if everyone had just listened to you we wouldn't be in this mess."

"I think you're fokking with me," Jörn retorted with a grin. Tobias laughed but shrugged.
"I mean everyone sounds like a genius manager the day after match day."

"That's fair enough. You can believe me if you like. Or not. It won't hurt my feelings," Jörn replied with a shrug.
"What I'm saying though, is that history echoes. But what we do with that echo, how we respond to it, is on us. How we react to it."

"That doesn't do me any good. Or anyone really. We're just trying to survive. If this is part of some grand plan then that's really fokked."

"I can't..." Jörn paused because he ultimately had no retort. Was all of this death necessary? No. Be it the universe or human choice, it was pain that didn't have to exist.
"... I can't disagree, Toby."

The Prince just looked down as he continued eating and Jörn finally set the sword down on the table.

"Eat up and get to bed," Jörn said as he stood and pat Tobias on the shoulder,
"We have an early morning."

Tobias nodded. He continued to eat in the cabin's kitchen as Jörn retired. And in the candlelight he studied the sword. An instrument of destiny? Maybe, but Tobias wouldn't treat it like that.

He couldn't.

---

All Along the Watchtower by Bear McCreary, 5:44

1 September 2002
12:02 pm
On a Sunday
off the coast of Býkonsviði, Prydania
KPS Stormurathvarf

"What the hell," Commander Ronnie Frost muttered, his uniform in a state of raggedness as he made his way onto the bridge of the KPS Stormurathvarf.

Alarms blared as panicked bridge crew moved to and fro and Royal Marines ran down the hallways.

"What happened, some shipping accident?"

Captain Johannes Midþun handed him a piece of paper.
"This was broadcast from the Ministry of Defence."

Ronnie took the paper and looked it over.
"Alert. Attack on government centre and Royal residences in progress. All military units in capital vicinity mobilize."

"It's a joke," Ronnie scoffed. He was off duty and was more irritated than anything that his nap had been rudely cut short by this bullshit.

"I don't think so," Johannes replied.
"The news, radio... it's abuzz. Absalonhöll's been stormed. We can't ascertain the safety of the Royal family."

"Holy fok..." the colour drained from Ronnie Frost's face.
"What's the situation?"

"We're going to dock and then we're going to unload our Marines to..."

A gunshot rang out as Johannes Midþun fell forward violently. The bullet shredded his spine and a second one pierced through his back into his heart.

"LONG LIVE THE SYNDICALIST REVOLUTION!" Petty Officer first class Joar Felland cried out before taking aim at Frost.

It all happened in slow motion. Men went to take Joar but he had a clear shot. And then...
Ronnie gripped his pistol as his shot echoed through the bridge, hitting Joar in the chest. He stumbled back, blood leaking from his mouth, and dropped the gun before collapsing himself.

"SECURE THE BRIDGE!"

Marines stationed on the bridge immediately began locking down the entrances as Ronnie breathed deep. Johannes fell from the over the command table... dead as well. The bridge crew was stunned, looking at their XO as he viewed the carnage before him.

They were in the midst of an uprising.

"Get on the horn to Command HQ! We need to know the situation in the capital!" he barked to his communications officer before he grabbed the intercom.

"ATTENTION. This is the XO and as of this moment acting Captain of this ship. We are under attack from within! We do not know the status of the situation in the Capital but it appears there has been an uprising against the government. I expect all of you to perform your duties and uphold your oaths to the best of your abilities. As of now we are operating under the assumption that the civilian government is at least partially incapacitated. We will therefore rendezvous with other military forces and attempt to restore order to the capital. Stand by for further instructions."

He set the intercom down and shook his head.

"Joar wasn't alone. If anyone else in this Goddamn room is a traitor..." he held his arms wide open.
"Stand up now and prepare to meet your maker."

An eerie calm came over the room as the buzzing of equipment filled the dead air.

"Commander!"

Frost turned. It was his communications officer.

"We... we received a reply from Command."

"And?"

The communications officer gulped.

"In the name of the People and Syndicates of Prydania, you are ordered to return to Býkonsviði and surrender the ship to the Provisional government of the Syndicalist Republic."

Ronnie felt his entire body go stiff for a moment.

"That can't be right."

The communications officer merely stood, holding the communique. He was shaking as Ronnie took it from him and read it over.

"If command's been compromised then the capital's fallen. We need to get this ship to Kanada."

"Kanada Sir?"

"This is the only carrier in His Majesty's fleet and I won't let it fall into the hands of these insurgents."

He picked up the intercom and just before he could broadcast, an explosion ripped through the ship.

"Holy fok! Are we hit?"

"Negative Sir! Internal..."

"Joar wasn't alone," Ronnie muttered.

"ATTENTION!" He called into the intercom.
"This is the XO! All forces! You are to resist any unlawful mutiny aboard this ship! I repeat..." a violent surge of static came back.

"Intercom has been cut."

"We're dealing with a full on Mutiny. This is how they fokking took HQ. They infiltrated the military..."

Another explosion.

"Status report!"

"The explosions have knocked out our propulsion!"

Frost turned to Lt. Commander Arnhild Gubrud, the Officer of the Watch.

"I need options."

Arnhild breathed deep and looked around. She couldn't let anything phase her. Even as her Captain and the man she thought was her friend lay bloodied on the floor. Even as news of the outside world tearing itself apart poured in.

"When we didn't reply to the order to surrender they sent word to their agents, Commander. The ship's disabled for the time being. Enough for them to send a strike team out here to take command.

Ronnie nodded and looked around at the bridge crew.
"This ship is under attack," he said firmly.
"We do our duty."

Petty officer Hrolf Trelstad, however, stood up.
"Our duty? To who? The government... it sounds like it's gone."

Ronnie thought... he did what he should have done when the alarms first woke him up. He zipped his uniform up and looked Hrolf dead in the eye.

"My name is Ronald Frost," he said with all the conviction in the world.
"I am an officer in the Royal Prydanian Navy. Whatever else I am, whatever else it means, that's the man I want to be. And if I die today that's the man I'll be. Now tend to your duty, or join Petty Officer Felland like a traitor."

Hrolf stared back at Ronnie before he looked down and nodded.
"Aye commander."

"The enemy... and make no mistake they are the enemy..." Ronnie began, "has infiltrated and crippled this ship in a gambit to secure it for their own means. I will not let that happen. We are going to see to it that our birds get to friendly skies. And then we're going to scuttle this ship. Is that understood?"

Again, an eerie calm despite the alarm and the equipment washed over everyone.

"Is that understood?"

"Aye Sir," Arnhild replied, which brought everyone else along.

"Commander! We're receiving a coded transmission! It's for the Captain!"

"Captain's dead," Frost said bluntly. He could see how much that upset the faces of the crew around him. It upset him. But he couldn't let it get in the way here. He made his way over to the body of the Captain and pulled the necklace containing three keys from his neck. The third key... coded encription.

"If the enemy was trying to issue more commands to us they wouldn't hide it..."

He placed the key into the socket and turned. And punched in his own command ID code.

Suddenly the readout printed out.

"Insurgency has crippled government and command. Capital and major cities in enemy hands. Am taking command of the Armed Forces. Rendezvous at XVL26KLM.

Eiderwig."

"Stig..."

"I'm sorry Commander, the rendezvous point wasn't decided. I can try re-processing the message..."

"No. It wasn't decoded because it's not a code. It's a gibberish line. So that if this communique fell into insurgent hands they wouldn't know where the rendezvous point is. But thankfully... I do. Intercom is drown. Can we reach the pilots? The Marines?"

"Aye Commander," the communications officer replied.
"Our lines to both are open. The mutineers must not be adept at the finer points of communications disruption.

"Get me through to the pilots," Frost ordered as he grabbed one of the phones.

---

Lt. Commander Arnstein Saether paced as two of his men stood watch over the door... the banging, the order that they open... it had all stopped. The sounds of gunfire and the two explosions though... those still echoed through the ship.

"Boss, it's the bridge," Lt. Sigbjön Eidem called out holding the phone.

Arnstein grabbed it.
"Commander?"

"Is this the CAG?"

"Já."

"Our ship has been disabled. We need you boys in the air and to a location you will be provided with once airborne and on your way to Austurland. We're not letting the enemy take you boys or your planes in."

"I don't... I don't know how much of the ship can be trusted."

"Any mutineers among your lot?"

"No Sir. The Air Wing is clean."

"Good. We'll prepare for your departure. You boys get to your planes. Can you do that?"

"Aye Sir."

"Good man."

"If... if I may say so Sir... Austurland though?"

"This war's just begun. And your planes are going to ensure we win."

"Aye Commander."

---

Ronnie set the phone down and looked up.

"Prepare to launch ALL Harrier jump jets. ALL Harrier jump jets."

"Aye Commander."

"Commander," Arnhild said, trying to steel herself.

"We don't know if the deck crews can be trusted."

"I trust our Marines to fight off any mutineers long enough to get our boys in the air. But I need you to do something for me."

"Anything Commander."

"I need you to command the bridge. When the birds are in the air transmit this to the CAG on secure frequency." Ronnie scribbled down a set of coordinates on the back of the last communique and handed it to her.
"After you do burn it."

"Aye. But... where are you going?"

"I'm taking a squad of Marines and we're taking engineering. And sending this old girl to the bottom of the Pale Sea."

"Sir?"

"Lt. Commander?"

"Good luck."

Ronnie felt a swelling of... he didn't know what. Fear. Anxiousness. Sadness. Pride. Duty. Maybe all of them at once. He just saluted her. She saluted back. And Ronnie singled to two Marines to follow him.

---

Red alarms blared in the hallway of the ship. Ronnie and his two Marines had met up with a team of four other Marines who had been trying to clear out the upper decks of hostiles.

"This mission," Ronnie began.
"Is simple. Given the internal explosions that crippled our propulsion we can assume the only part of the ship under enemy control is engineering. Unfortunately that's enough to cripple us until they can send more of their 'militia' out. And rest assured, they are coming."

"The Royal Prydanian Marine Cops doesn't back down. We'll fight them off."

"Aye, and then what?" Ronnie asked.
"With no propulsion we're sitting ducks. Once the Harriers are away we'll scuttle the ship. If any man doesn't have the stomach for it, leave now, because I will walk into that den of jackals myself."

"Like I said, Commander. The Royal Prydanian Marine Corps doesn't back down from a fight."

---

The fighting was sparse at first. The mutineers had given up all pretence at secrecy, wearing red arm bands around their right arms as they patrolled what sections of the ship they had managed to seize. Though the fighting got more and more intense as they drew closer to engineering.

Ronnie though... he didn't care. And he was possessed almost. He had said if he died this day he'd die an officer and it was almost like he wanted it. He stood firm, the bullets, the sirens, the noise and lights wizzing past him... his own men fighting in with him.

And he almost heard none of it. It wasn't that his hearing was damaged or failing, no. But the deeper they pushed... the more ruthless he became, showing no inclination at sparing a single soul.

The explosion that followed his team forcing open the door to the engine room as a Marine tossed in a flash grenade was followed by an almost chaotic orgy of violence. Broken only by the voice of Lt. Lars Juel.

"Commander!"

He was wearing a red arm band as he half ducked for cover.
"Fancy seeing you here."

"Where's Rudd?" Ronnie called out, referring to Chief Gard Rudd, chief engineer.

"Well we had a difference of political opinion, one we couldn't quite reconcile..." Juel replied.

"So he wasn't a traitor like you were?"

"I'll make it very clear," Lars said, ignoring the question.
"Surrender now. You'll all be given a fair trial."

"By who? The Syndicalist scum you threw your lot in with?"

"Me and most of the engineering corps, já. Shame the Chief couldn't see that. We could have used a man like him."

"Let me tell you about your masters," Ronnie replied.
"I've seen the man Jannik Lieftur is. I've seen the man Thomas Nielsen is. If you're serving them... we have nothing to discuss."

"You pledged yourself to a fascist!" Lars called back, chuckling at the absurdity of it all.
"And unlike you I have no masters. Just comrades."

"Like your comrades coming to seize this ship?"

"The Peoples' Militia will end you, unless you surrender right now. And tell the bridge to do the same."

Suddenly the Marine closest to Ronnie had his walkie talkie crackle.

"This is the bridge. Planes are airborne and en route to coded location."

It was Arnhild.

"Good girl," Ronnie muttered before calling back.
"You really shouldn't count your birds before they hatch!" before giving the signal.

The Marines advanced on the enemy position amongst the darkness and dampness of the engine room as Ronnie gripped his pistol. Moving with purpose.

There was a protocol to scuttle the ship... thankfully it didn't require his Marines to hold the engine room. He moved almost on instinct, firing his weapon at any flash of red that emerged at him.

"You're surprisingly hard to hit Commander!"

"Go to hell, Juel!"

"I don't believe in hell, Commander!"

"Hell doesn't care," Ronnie called out, ducking from behind railing to fire. Lars was guarding where he needed to be. He knew what Ronnie was up to.

The firefight around them continued as Ronnie leapt at Lars, tackling him into the machinery around them.

"You!" Lars called out, "are going to die! For nothing!"
He rained a few fists down on Ronnie as they jostled, only for Ronnie to grab Lars by the collar and shove his face against a steaming pipe. The screams of the Lt echoed through the engine room, cutting through the sound of bullets hitting metal, the smell of burning flesh filling the air.

"I never liked you," Ronnie muttered.
"Too fokking sure of yourself," he tossed him aside and smashed the glass covering a panel outlined in danger stripes. Two key holes. He placed his in one and the second key he took from the Captain into the second hole. He turned both and punched in his access code. He was about to punch in the Captain's when a sharp pain shot across the left side of his head. Lars had bitten into his ear!

Ronnie pressed his foot against the machinery in front of him and pushed back, pushing him and Lars into the heavy machinery behind them. Enough to shake Lars loose. He didn't waste time. He just pushed him back as he staggered and leapt at the panel, punching in his own access code. A green display panel popped to red.

"That's it..." Ronnie breathed deep.

"You got no planes, and you got no ship. We'll be at the bottom of the sea before your militia gets here."

"How'd you know I didn't disable the fokking bomb that's all rigged up to?"

"'cause the only man who can's the Chief. And you killed him..." Ronnie knelt down on one knee next to Lars.
"And you know that. And you're still tryin' to bullshit me. You're too clever by a half. No wonder you fell in with traitors."

"Fok you."

"You first."

A loud explosion rocked the ship and Ronnie was tossed to the ground.

"I'll give you one thing Lars. This ship deserved better. But better ain't you."

---

Roll Tide by Hans Zimmer, 7:34

25 October 2011
9:01 pm
On a Tuesday
Markarfljot, Prydania

Max Hveiti polished his glasses, the brown frames worn, the hinges having seen better days. Still, it didn't get to him. He slipped them on, just as the dark room creaked with the sound of an opening door. He went for his sidearm before relaxing.

"Bera," he said softly.

"Max," Bera Hofland replied as she closed the door behind her.

"Where's Bard?"

"He's just behind me."

Max nodded, that meant that he'd be here soon, as soon as he could follow Bera's path without it being obvious. Markarfljot might have been liberated territory but one couldn't be too careful in their line of work.

"I don't suppose you have any idea what this is about Max?"

"No, the Chief wanted me here. Said you and Bard would be here. All I know."

Bera tried to get a good look at Max. The rundown fishing supply shed had only the moons for lighting through a high window. He was always hard to read, even during the best circumstances.

"You know, we could talk about what happened..."

"I'd rather not," Max replied curtly. It caught Bera off guard but she didn't sense any anger in his voice. Which was troublesome. She expected anger. But Max just stood there. In the dark, looking at the floor it seemed. Yet Bera couldn't help but think that in his mind... his mind must be racing. What? That was the intriguing thing. What?

"Hallo."

The two and the awkward silence between them broke as they turned. Bard Sundahl entered, followed by the white haired, frail looking Skjaldulf Geirsson. Chief of Black Company.

And Skjaldulf was looking far more frail than he looked even a month ago. Fall's harsh winds must have been blowing away what was left of his strength. And as if to emphasize that he coughed, a fist pressed to his mouth.

"Are you ok Chief?" Bard asked only for Skjaldulf to wave his concern away. He pulled the loan desk and chair front and centre and pulled a small white disk shaped object from his coat pocket. He put it atop the desk as he sat, pressing down on it. It lit up, a mobile lamp.

"Everyone come close," he said in a raspy voice. Max, Bera, and Bard each gathered around the desk, illuminated in darkness. Skjaldulf looked up at the three young Black Company agents and nodded. He'd picked the right ones. And feeling confident he decided to begin.

"A Black Company source within the apparatus of the Syndicalist Republic military establishment made contact with one of our handlers yesterday morning. They revealed that a Syndicalist Republican Army base in Lundr is housing the master program for Rabbit's Gate."

Max, Bera, and Bard looked at each other. And it was Bera who asked the obvious question.

"What's it doing in Lundr? Why not Býkonsviði?"

"Why don't you tell her Max?" Skjaldulf answered.

Max nodded and realized why he was here. He'd written the analysis of Rabbit's Gate.
"Interestingly the Syndicalist government doesn't feel secure in the capital. The Royal gold reserve's vanishing act during the coup in 2002 still has them spooked. And with the Andrennians and Gojans becoming friendlier with the FRE by the day they don't want their military code's master key in a port city that a Gojan or Andrennian agent could easily get to. So they're moving it deep into mining country. No coast and a part of the population they consider loyal. I'd have guessed Krummedike but Lundr? They must want this buried."

"Quiet," Skjaldulf replied dryly before coughing again before taking a deep breath.
"Our contact has provided us with the partial means to copy that key file. Allowing us to read encrypted Syndicalist military messages.

"How do we know this isn't a setup?" Bard asked.
"This sounds too good to be true."

"We can't be sure," Skjaldulf admitted.
"But we've confirmed everything we can about our source. Our best estimation is that this is legitimate. But the coast analysis on this is simple. It's worth the risk."

"If it is a trap then the FRE isn't out much. They still don't have the Rabbit's Gate key and..."

Bera was interrupted by Max.

"...and they're just out three expendable Black Company agents. Já it makes a lot of sense. And hey. I wouldn't mind it. No fuss no muss funeral right?"

"That Shaddaist wit," Skjaldulf replied, chuckling to himself before coughing. Max just stared at him. He found it best not to show any annoyance or anger at this stuff.

"What's our source given us?" Bard asked.

Skjaldulf pulled his suitcase up from the floor and opened it.

"Plans for the base, cover identities for all of you to get past security, Marshal Runar Hansen'a security code..." Skjaldulf piled the disks on the desk.
"And the most important thing."

"Which is?" Max asked.

"A authenticated request and approval for Marshal Hansen to access and copy the list."

"What?" Bard asked but Bera nodded.

"A file like that, of that importance," she said, "would be monitored. The moment they even suspect someone viewed it, much less copied it, without authorization they'd change the codes."

"Já," Skjaldulf nodded.
"This must go down with out the Syndic..." he coughed again furiously, breathing deeply after the fit had passed.
"If the Syndicalists even suspect it's been compromised the code will change and the operation will be useless. Seeing as copying the code key onto a disk is inevitable we need the people in Syndie Military HQ to think that copy request was approved."

"Who could approve it?" Bera asked. Max didn't wait for Skjaldulf to answer.

"Field Marshal Borg, Lieftur, Nielsen, maybe a few other select high level functionaries."

"They'll know they didn't approve it though."

"It doesn't matter," Max replied.
"When we copy the code key onto a disk from Marshal Hansen's password it will ping some low level tech functionary in the Syndie Ministry of Defence. That person will reference the approval list. And see our source's planted approval for Hansen to make a copy. At that point they will, convinced that everything is on the up and up, rectify the ping as an approved operation and no one who would be in a position to know the approval is fake will even be informed."

"You catch on quick, Max," Skjaldulf said with a wry smile.

"Don't act so surprised," Max said back, calm, cold.

Skjaldulf just stared at him for a moment before continuing.

"Your mission as a group is simple. Infiltrate the Lundr base. Copy the Rabbit's Gate key code and get out without anyone knowing you were there. You will be provided no backup and there will be no rescue if you're caught. All I can do for any of you is suggest you make use of a suicide capsule in the event of capture. Do you accept?"

"Já," Max said, followed by "já," from Bard, and finally a nod and "já" from Bera.

"Then take this all and go," Skjaldulf placed everything back into his suitcase, leaving it on the desk as he stood up.
"And good luck."

---

26 October 2011
7:46 pm
On a Wednesday
Lundr, Prydania

"The problem," Bard mused, "is that if the Syndies even suspect that base has been compromised they'll reset the Rabbit's Gate key code. No knocked out guards, no daring escapes. We need to be in and out."

"Like a demon's whisper," Max chuckled.

The three were in a room above a pub in Lundr, over a laptop that displayed the army base's layout.

"So..." Bard said as he picked up one of the forged ID badges.
"This is our way in."

"Já you and I," Max replied, "will have clearance as Syndicalist Army Technical Branch officials performing routine maintenance. That'll get us into the room where the Rabbit's Gate server is located."

"And I suppose you both need me to honeypot Hansen?" Bera asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't think you'd mind," Max muttered.

"What the fok is that supposed to mean?"

Max just shrugged and Bard got between them.
"Jesus, like children! Heads in the fokking game!"

Bera just glared at Max who was looking ahead at the laptop screen. He grunted softly and collected himself.

"Truth is Bera, já and it's the most important part of the whole operation."

He looked at her, blushing a bit.

"I'm being sincere. You need to screw his lights out."

"Well I'm honoured you think I can."

Max rolled his eyes but stood up and began to explain.
"I've been studying this guy for a year and a half. Not only is he a horndog but..." he paused and shook his head.

"Look. Bard and I have Syndicalist Republican Army Technical Branch uniforms and badges. That'll get us right up to the door to the room the server is located in. But that door will be locked by both a palm scanner and a retinal scanner. Actual technical officers would be cleared but we..."

"We're no good backsliding royalist scum," Bard smirked.

"Right," Max replied. "So..." he opened his black duffel bag and tossed a plastic envelope to Bera.
"Your cover is a People's Militia officer come to liaison with Hansen. There's a Re-education camp not too far from here run by the Militia. Not only does Hansen have his way with the female inmates but... also the female Militia officers. That's what he'll think you're here for. And when you do it, you put on what's in that package. A thin clear glove. Once on it will be practically invisible. You get intimate with him and press your hand to his. It will copy his finger and palm print. Then you need to get that to us. I'll slip it on and have the Marshal's print for the palm reader."

"And I've got retinals taken care of," Bard added.
"Two sets of contacts. Bera you will wear one. Max the other. When you look lovingly into Hansen's eyes you blink twice quickly. This cause your contacts to snap a map of his retinal pattern that will be copied onto Max's. With that glove and these contacts he'll get us passed that door."

"And once we're in we use Hansen's password we got from our source, copy the key code, and get out."

"Can we trust the source?" Bera asked as she sat down on the bed.

"I know that the technical IT branches of Syndicalist infrastructure aren't the most ideologically secure," Max replied.

"I'm not too shocked the Chief found a source there."

"It doesn't matter," Bard added.

"We're here. And the Chief's right. We have to take this chance."

"Tomorrow then?" Bera asked.

"Tomorrow," Max said with a nod.
"And Bera?"

"Já?"

"Just so you know. If Hansen was gay I'd make Bard do it. So no hard feelings?"

Bera glared at him, threw a pillow at him, and got ready for bed.

---

27 October 2011
7:46 pm
On a Thursday
Lundr, Prydania

"So... what ever happened with you and Bera?"

"Really?" Max muttered.
"Now?"

The two were dressed in Syndicalist Republican Army Technical uniforms as they approached the front gates of the Lundr Army Base.

"Our lives are, in a very real sense, in her hands. Should I be worried?"

"Stop being a fokking idiot," Max muttered as they approached the front gate. A Syndicalist Republican Army soldier left the guard house to stand in front of them, in front of the the barbed wire-enhanced gate.

It really didn't matter to Max that he was wearing a similar uniform. Seeing that person, that soldier in that uniform... it set off a feeling of anger in him that, for a brief moment, consumed him. Until another Syndicalist soldier, still in the guardhouse, spoke.

"ID cards, comrades?"

Max and Bard each handed their ID cards to the soldier in the guardhouse.

"Purpose of visit?"

"Computer server maintenance, comrade," Max said with a calm smile, hiding the sheer rage that had consumed his mind a moment ago.

The guard ran the ID cards and passed them back to Max and Bard.

"Thank you comrades, you're free to go."

"Comrade," the two said to the guard in passing as the soldier in front of the front gate stepped aside and the gate itself was open.

"The Chief's source..." Bard began.

"Já, he or she must be high up. To get us on the maintenance schedule for this base," Max said, finishing the thought.

"How'd he manage it?"

"Leave enough blood behind," Max muttered, "and you'll have trouble with loyalty."

The two entered the base and, once more after they were outside of earshot of anyone else, Bard muttered "go ghost."

"Right."

---

"I'm always happy," Runar Hansen said with a sly smile, "when I get to meet new recruits to the local People's Militia detachment."

Bera smiled back. She was looking into the eyes of a man who was, by every reasonable standard, a war criminal and a rapist. And she would have to willingly sleep with him.

But that's what it came down to, really. That's what had to be done.
And that was fine. She could get through that. If they all lived through this... she'd have to talk to Max. That was the goal she set for herself as she smiled sweetly.

"Well we do appreciate our relationship with the Army around here," she said, knowing exactly how to disarm a man like this as she sat up straight in her chair across from him at his desk, back straight and shoulders pulled just slightly back to push her breasts out just a bit.
"How could we not with such committed leadership?"

And it worked.

"Of course," the Marshal said as he stood, a bulge in his pants already obvious as he moved around behind Bera to put both hands on her shoulders.
"Such inter-service rivalries are silly, I think. It's nice to see a Militia woman who... knows her place."

"Oh God," she groaned in her head but smiled sweetly as she stood and turned to face him on the balls of her feet, causing him to grab her waist and pull her in, kissing her. She didn't resist. She knew this was coming and kissed back, first in response and then eagerly. Eventually, just as the kiss broke, the Marshal looked her in the eyes and she blinked twice, a flirtatious act but also...

---

Max's sight flashed green for a moment. His contacts had received an upload.

"I have Hansen's eyes," Max muttered.

"Good girl," Bard replied.
"Ok go. You need to get his hand print now."

"Cover me."

"Ten-four."

The two turned and went up some stairs from the main "courtyard" in the base to the second level. They knew that Hansen's office and his personal quarters were on this level.

---

Bera breathed deep and panted, acting like she could hardly control herself. Her palm pressed against Hansen's for a moment. Just long enough to copy his print. The glove itself was very thin and clear latex. No one even noticed it. But now she had to get it to Bard and Max.

She broke away from the kiss just long enough to whisper "I'm sure you have a place... a bit more comfortable... to continue to get aquatinted."

"I do," Hansen replied with a smirk.
"Take the stairway up to the third level. Room 368, I can't wait to find you waiting."

He was oozing sleaze as he took Bera's hand and placed a keycard in it.

"Of course Marshal," she said and turned. About to do up the undone bits of her People's Militia tunic when Hansen's hand slapped her ass. He gasped softly and hid the disgust as she looked over her shoulder and winked.

No one paid her much mind as she left his office, at least in part due to how common it was. She turned to do up the buttons on her tunic and slipped the glove off. The damn thing was nearly invisible. And looked down the hallway. There they were. She peeled the glove off and draped it on the door handle. Staying out long enough...

---

"Comrade Militiawoman," Bard asked Bera as he and Max approached.

"I'm afraid my colleague and I are lost. Would you happen to know how to get to the central servers?"

"Oh I'm new here," Bera said with soft grin.
"But I believe you follow this hall down and then take the stairs down to the ground level?"

Bard positioned himself to give Max a chance to grab the glove from the door handle and slip it on.

"Thank you Comrade," Max said curtly to Bera as he waved for Bard to follow him. Bera looked on and took a deep breath. She wasn't done. Not by a long shot. And she made her way to Hansen's private quarters.

---

"So now it all comes down to this shit working," Bard muttered.

"It's Gojan, it should," Max replied before they came up to two Syndicalist soldiers in body armour, guarding a steel door with a computerized panel.

A sign said SERVER ROOM.

"Comrades," Bard replied.

"What's your business here, comrades?" one of the soldiers asked.

"Captain Tord Foss, and this is Lt. Commander Vebjörn Mannes, we're here to perform maintenance and testing on the main servers."

The second soldier took a binder from a plastic shelf on the wall and looked through it.
"You're accounted for Comrades, just one of you use the palm and retinal scanner."

There could be no hesitation. No uncertainty. So Max walked forward like it was the simplest thing in the world, like he was signing his name on a receipt.
He placed his hand on the palm reader... and it flashed green. The slide covering the retinal scanner slid open and he leaned in. It scanned his eye... and the sound of the door unlocking opened.

"We'll try to be quick comrades, Max said as he and Bard walked in, closing the door behind them. It clicked shut and...

"Here we are..." Max muttered.
"You're the Rabbit's Gate expert," Bard said.
"Do your thing."

"Your suitcase has everything I asked for?"

"Já."

"Come on."

Bard and Max moved through the maze of industrial servers, stepping over electrical and cooling wires, until they got to the central terminal.

"Max quickly discarded the glove and shoved it into the inner pocket of his army tunic and reached into his right pants pocket, pulling out a slip of double paper, glued together. He pealed it apart and there it was- Marshal Hansen's login and passcode.

He sat down and entered the information, and suddenly he had access to the Syndicalist Republican Army's central servers.

"Ok ok..." he muttered as he examined file after file... "ah... já here we are...Bard, I need one of the two blank disks."

Bard handed Max an encoded disk, which he entered into the disk drive.

"Moment of truth," Max muttered. He selected the option to copy the Rabbit's Gate file.

AUTHORIZATION NEEDED. CHECK FOR AUTH?

Max was trembling as he clicked "JÁ" and....

AUTH GRANTED FOR 27.10.2011
PROCEED

Max and Bard both sighed as the file copied.
When it finished Max took the disk from the drive and turned in his chair.

"You brought the duplicator?"

"Já but why?" he took a rectangular black block with two disk drives on it and handed it to Max.

"'cause Bera is going to have Hansen think he's got a copy of this so if anyone does ask him about this he has one."

"But we only had authorization for one copy."

"Hence the duplicator."

"But how's she going to convince him he actually did something he didn't do?"

---

Bera was in nothing but her underwear as she lay on the bed in Hansen's quarters. Two glasses of brennivín poured already. And one of them with a drug that would leave whoever drank it highly suggestible upon waking....

"Look at you, what a fresh daisy you are," Hansen said as he entered his room, already discarding his uniform.

"I do love how the People's Militia recruits young."

That made Bera's stomach turn. The Militiawoman she was passing for, Ranveig Hauge, was sixteen. And Bera had a young enough face to pull it off... but oh God. It just left her feeling sick as he, naked and erect, forced himself over her, pealing away what little clothing she had.

---

Max had finished duplicating the Rabbit's Gate disk and shoved both into Bard's suitcase.

"One last thing," Max muttered.

"Max, no! We have our mission you can't keep poking around in the Syndicalist Army's central mainframe!"

"Not poking. Chief had another mission for me."

He pulled a thumb drive from his breast pocket and plugged it in. He transferred its contents and pulled it out.

"What was that?"

"The Chief will tell you if he wants you to know."

"Max, I..."

"We all have our orders," Max added as he logged out of Hansen's account.
"And they're done. Let's go."

Bard grumbled and followed Max, leaving the server room.

"How'd it go Comrades?" one of the guards asked while yawning.

"Routine, Comrade," Bard replied with a smile.
"Should be smooth sailing on the IT side."

The second guard handed them the binder and a pen, and Bard scribbled his alias' initials. The guards saluted them both as they walked off with the key to the entire Syndicalist Republic Armed Forces' encrypted codes.

"368," Max muttered as they came up on Hansen's private quarters.
"Let's hope..." he knocked. And just then, a bathrobe clad Bera answered.

"He's out?" Bard whispered.
"One round in the hay, one shot of brennivín and he's out," Bera signed.
"Ok," Max said, slipping him one of the two Rabbit's Gate disks.
"When he wakes up you tell him he rocked your world and that after he remembered he had to go copy something, and point to this."
Bera nodded, taking the disk and closing the door. She tossed it on Hansen's personal desk, discarded the robe, and climbed back into bed, to cuddle with a war criminal.

---

28 October 2011
5:36 am
On a Friday
Lundr, Prydania
"Chatter's been clear all night," Bard muttered as the two waited in an alley in downtown Lundr.

"No one suspects anything."

"Good," Max replied.
"Then let's get Bera and get the fok outta here."

"What was it you downloaded into the Syndies' computer systems?"

"Ask the Chief like I said."

"The Chief hates you."

"Nah he just thinks I'm subhuman Yihuddi trash. There's a difference."

"Whatever, he trusted you with that?"

"This piece of subhuman Yihuddi trash must be good at his job if he trusts him with stuff like that."

Bard grumbled. He liked knowing everything that happened on his missions. But if this was need to know... he sighed...

"Holy fok."

"What?" Bard asked, as Max sprung alert, peering out the alleyway.

"Ranveig Hauge," Max muttered.

"Bera's cover?"

"Já."

"The Chief said Bera's cover was over in Mosfell. They'd never piece it together!"

"Well she's fokking walking down the street just now."

"How do you know it's her?"

"I'm a G-ddamn Black Company analyst," Max muttered.
"I know who are covers are. We have to kill her."

"Max! She's sixteen."

"And an enemy soldier, technically."

"Max."

"Look!" Max insisted, his speech hushed but frantic, as soon as Hansen sees her he'll realize the Ranveig Hauge he fokked isn't Ranveig Hauge. And once they know that base has been compromised then this," he pulled out the Rabbit's Gate disk, "becomes useless."

"There's another way. We can take her in and..."

"She's a Syndicalist."

"Max, wait..."

Max deftly yanked the girl off the street into the alleyway. She was kicking and thrashing but Max had a firm grip over her mouth.

"Check her ID badge."

"Max..."

"CHECK IT!"

Bard signed and yanked the ID badge from her People's Militia tunic.

"Second Lt. Ranveig Hauge."

"See?" Max said, drawing his gun from his holster under his jacket.

"Max!" Bard insisted in a panicked but hushed voice.
"Max, think about this."

Ranveig's eyes were wide as she squirmed, looking at the gun...

"She's sixteen. We can bring her in..."

"Too messy," Max replied but Bard was insistent.
"Max! If you kill her, you kill an innocent girl."

Max sighed, nodding as he holstered his gun. Bard sighed too.

"Ok we can sedate her and..."

Max moved fast. He grabbed her right hand and overpowered her, forcing her to grab her own sidearm from her own holster. And before Bard could do anything... Max forced her to pull the trigger on her own gun. Shooting herself in the face.

The sound of a gunshot rang out through the dark streets of Lundr.

Bard just looked at Max in disbelief, but there was no time. Police and Army would be here in no time."

"Go," Max mouthed, and the two ran into the early morning darkness.

---

29 October 2011
9:08 am
On a Saturday
Markarfljot, Prydania
Max leaned against the wall of the old fishing equipment shack as Bard delivered the Rabbit's Gate disk to Skjaldulf Geirsson, and chastised Max for the murder of Ranveig Hauge.

"It didn't need to happen Chief. We could have sedated her, brought her in. She was sixteen chief. Sixteen."

Bera, for her part, just shot glances at Max. After nearly 24 hours of laying into him, all she could do was glare.

"We're not the side that kills kids Chief," Bard insisted.

"Hveiti," Skjaldulf grunted, coughing slightly.

"You have anything to say?"

"Seems Bard has said it all," Max sighed.

"I don't have time for your fokking Canaanitic fokken passive aggressiveness, Hveiti!" Skjaldulf growled. Bard winced. He found the Chief's SoComm fascist past and open bigotries really distasteful, but he swallowed it. Max deserved what he got for what he did,

Max growled softly and shrugged.
"We sedate her, and what? Transport an unconscious sixteen year old from Lundr all the way here? And what? Keep her as a prisoner? And then what? Her disappearance- the girl Bera was supposed to be- causes suspicion. Suspicion makes that disk worthless Chief. You know it, Bard knows it, Bera knows it, I know it."

"You shot her!" Bard yelled back.

"No!" Max insisted.
"I made it look like she shot herself! That's what the forensics will say! A bullet to the face! If Hansen even sees it he won't see that the real Ranveig wasn't Bera. And then... then the mess gets tied up! Sweet innocent girl, suddenly sells herself to an Army officer. The shame of what she did... bang. Kills herself. It's ugly. Very ugly, but it works. It fokken works and no one even thinks about rendering that..." he pointed to the Rabbit's Gate disk, "...obsolete."

Bard and Bera were both taken aback. Ever since they left Lundr... they'd each chastised Max for what he'd done. And he'd taken it. Never offering any defence. But he'd just unloaded.

"Hofland, Sundahl, leave us. I need to talk to Hveiti alone," Skjaldulf said with a cough.

Bard and Bera both shot Max a look at they left. And Max sighed.

"If you're going to start with the anti-Shaddaist crap stick it up your SoComm ass and..."

"Shut up Hveiti."

Max growled softly and stopped talking.

"You know when I first met you I admit, I thought you were everything I thought you'd be. The party... back in the day... they called you people rats."

"Já I know."

"Then shut up because you don't know everything, even if you think you do."

Max rolled his eyes but listened.

"And every time you did what I ordered you to so... sure. Rats are great at black ops and intelligence work. But a rat... a rat wouldn't have shot that girl. A patriot would have."

Max raised an eyebrow. The fok did he just hear.

"Rats scurry for their own survival. Syndies turned on your people, you scurried here to us I thought. But no. What you did saved a very sensitive mission. And you did it despite the possibility that it'd land you in deep shit. That's what a patriot does."

"What do you want me to say Chief?" Max said with a laboured chuckle.
"It had to be done. Bard was being a fokking child, and Bera? I'll shoot ten more fokking teenagers before I let Bera get the moral high ground on me."

"You still don't forgive her."

"She fokking raped me."

Skjaldulf coughed and nodded.
"That she did..."

The two just stayed there is silence before Skjaldulf broke it.

"Why?"
"Why what?"

"Why'd you do that? Kill that girl. I agree it had to do be done. But why'd you do it?"

Max chuckled to himself.
"Maybe Chief, maybe because none of us Shaddaists are fokking rats? Maybe because you're an old bigoted asshole who's still sucking on Stefan Toft's six feet under tit? I don't give a fok about your fokken ideology. I'm not fighting for you, I'm not doing this for you or the Social Commonwealth ideal, you old fok. I'm doing it for a better Prydania. A free Prydania. And as far as I'm concerned..."

He put his hands on the desk Skjaldulf was sitting at and leaned forward so he was looking right at him.
"I'm doing it to clean up the mess you and foks like you made."

He pulled away from the desk and turned to leave but Skjaldulf let out a loud "WAIT!" before coughing.

Max stopped, turning to see the coughing Black Company Chief. He finally settled down, breathing deep.

"Hveiti, I'm going to die. And not in some bullshit 'we all die' way. I'm going to die. Very soon. Eiderwig and Aubyn know it. And when I give them the Rabbit's Gate disk they're going to ask me who should take over Black Company when I'm dead."

"Good for you. Have fun with that," Max replied turning to leave.

"I'm telling them it should be you."

Max stopped. Turned around again and moved closer to the sitting Skjaldulf.

"What?"

Skjaldulf coughed angrily, and wheezed but settled.

"Bard's right in that killing that girl is a Goddamn tragedy. But you're right that it had to be done. I'm under no delusions here. Eiderwig and Aubyn, they hate me for what I am. They tolerate me for what I can do. And I've made peace with that because the Prydania I believed in isn't coming back. The FRE isn't fighting my fight, it's fighting yours. And when I'm gone you're the only one who shows any fokking gumption about doing what has to be done to fight that fight."

"What fight is it you think I'm fighting?"

"You're right Hveiti," Skjaldulf coughed again.
"My lot made a huge mess. And you'll do what has to be done to set it right."

Max wasn't sure what to believe. Skjaldulf Geirsson was a fascist piece of shit. But he was also a practical man.
Was he also capable of change? So close to death?

"So, if you choose to accept..."

Max just stared at him for a moment.

"Já."

---

Paint it Black by Valerie Broussard, 3:05

8 December 2018
8:04 am
On a Saturday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Þorfinnur sighed. It was the anniversary of his brother’s execution. Three years ago.

He’d been dreading this day. For all the healing he’d done personally, for all he’d done to mend fences with his father… for his poor mother… he was dreading this day.

Three years ago he was a FRE soldier, advancing towards Hadden when the news of the executions and the names of the dead came over the radio. His entire world shattered, all over again. And in that moment he knew, he knew deep down, that if he’d taken Styrbjörn with him when he ran away, he’d still be alive.

Three years ago, and so much had changed in that time. Yet he still felt like he was on his knees, on that bombed out road outside of Hadden, crying his eyes out, knowing his brother was gone. He was still on that road, and he’d never leave it, truly. Some days, some months even, were better. They were much better.

But this day…

It was better than a year ago, to be fair. A year ago, the first time he’d been with his family since, when half of him still wanted to ring his father’s neck. His mother was a wreck, and he spent the entire day with her. Just… being there for her.

Now… his mother was better. She was even pleasant in a subdued way, as she and his father prepared breakfast, refusing Þorfinnur’s offer to help. He’d forgiven his father- mostly- and was on much better terms with him. A year ago his father saying the wrong thing would have set him off. Today though? They had a pleasant talk about hockey over breakfast before they settled in.

There was a memorial service. It was later. Everyone would be there. The family of those killed that Advent, three years ago. That helped? At least Þorfinnur thought it did. They even made it through breakfast without crying too much.

“Styrbjörn,” Elina said with a smile, “I don’t think he’d want us to be sad.”

Þorfinnur chuckled. He was happy his mother was saying that. It was good for her. He was also chuckling because, well…

“I remember one day,” he said.
“I was in a mood. You guys remember Rune Kampen?”

“Oh Já,” Sigfreður replied. “He was a piece of work. Miserable little criteton.”

Þorfinnur nodded, but it was interesting his father referred to Rune like that. The boy was a bully, but he’d been in the Syndicalist Pioneers, so he could get away with anything. Back then, growing up, whenever Þorfinnur complained about Rune his father would scoff and tell him he should be more like him.

A year ago Þorfinnur would have called his father out. Seen his changed attitude as hypocrisy. But that was a year ago. Today…

“He was,” Þorfinnur said.
“And one day he just absolutely bodied me in PE when we were playing floor hockey. Of course no one did anything, and he’d spent that entire period just going after me. I was in a rotten mood, and do you remember what Styr said when we got home from school?”

He looked at his mother with a wide smile. His mother smiled back and nodded.

“He wanted you to get your hockey stick and take shots at him as a goalie, so you’d have a good time playing hockey that day.”

Elina’s eyes were full of tears, but she wasn’t sobbing. She was smiling as she remembered Styrbjörn strapping pillows to his arms and legs with belts to be a goalie for Þorfinnur.

“He just wanted you to be happy.”

“I kinda wished I’d gotten out of my own head. Made him happy too.”

“You did,” Sigfreður replied.

Þorfinnur looked at his father, a bit surprised.

“You absolutely did,” Sigfreður insisted. Þorfinnur didn’t say anything. His father rarely cried. And he was holding himself together, but Þorfinnur could tell… he was getting emotional. Sigfreður sipped some coffee, breathing deep, almost as if to steel himself. And, when he was sure he was as fine as he could be, he looked at his son in the eyes from across the table.

“You were his older brother. He lit up every time you played… anything… with him.” He smiled a bit.
“Hockey, Spilvel, video games… the happiest day of his life was probably when you and Eðvar Mordt took him to teach him to skate.”

“He was so scared,” Þorfinnur chuckled.

“He was nervous, but so happy to be with you,” Elina said with a grin of her own.

“I just…” he paused. He didn’t know what to say. Part of him felt guilt. His brother loved to be with him. Should he have taken him out east when he and Eðvar ran away to join the FRE? He was only twelve then. There was no guarantee he’d have survived even if he did… but maybe he would have. And not taking him… well he was dead.
But he couldn’t just say that. Or try to talk it out. His father… he wanted to ring his neck a year ago but they’d grown since then. They’d each had to accept that they weren’t responsible for Styrbjörn’s death and more importantly… learn to forgive each other.
These feelings of helplessness, of guilt, Þorfinnur knew they were wrong but he kinda wished he had someone to talk to. Just to air it all out. And he was afraid he’d reopen old wounds with his father.

But, well.. He thought back to his mother. And what she said.

“He really wouldn’t want us to be sad,” Þorfinnur said with a wider smile. And it was true. Not because of his faith or what he’d died believing- though that was also true- but just because he was a sweet kid who loved his family. If he were alive he’d do all he could to cheer them up…

Þorfinnur sighed.
“The memorial is going to be nice, I think.”

“The King will be there,” Elina added.

“He was at the last one,” Sigfreður replied.

“How many people get to say they met the King, much less twice?” Elina asked.

“Well during the war…” Þorfinnur began with a smile. Styrbjörn’s death was something that he still needed to work through, they all did. Sigfreður’s political…realignment… however, was fair game. In part because he’d let it be. The lifelong Syndicalist who’d lost a son had his world bottom out, realizing what his ideology had done… what it had become… he joked about it himself, how he’d gone from a loyal Syndicalist to someone who happily shook hands with the King. Þorfinnur and Elina suspected it was his way of coping, and they didn’t feel compelled to examine it any deeper if it helped him. And truthfully being able to bust his father’s balls, even in a friendly way, helped Þorfinnur some.

“During the War, he’d meet with a lot of people. And Nielsen, what? He hid up in the Haraldvirki*? Maybe you coulda met the King like I did during the War, you know. If you’d come around sooner,” he said with a smile as he munched on some rye bread dipped in egg.

Sigfreður gunted with a smile.
“I was there when Nielsen had that big rally. The one where the crowd started booing him. I think he was terrified to be out in public by that point.”

“The crowd… you mean the loyal Syndies they gathered up for the crowd.”

“Já,” Sigfreður replied.
“I mean they thought we were loyal but once someone started the chants and heckling…”

“You know we printed out a picture of Nielsen looking confused when that happened,” Þorfinnur said.
“And we used it for darts.”

“Heh,” Sigfreður said with a sigh.
“What a coward that man was, by the end.”

Elina looked at Þorfinnur. They said nothing though Þorfinnur could tell what his mother wanted to say. “By the end? He probably always was,” but they didn’t.

“Excuse me,” Þorfinnur said, standing.

“Are you done?”

“No mamma, I’m just heading to the bathroom.”

In actuality his phone had buzzed. Twice now in the last few minutes. And it was against good table manners in a Prydanian home to have your phone out.

Þorfinnur smiled. The first text was from Valfríður.

“Hello love. I know today is hard I can’t wait to see you later, and hold you. I love you lots. Please call if you need me.”

Honestly, it was enough to make him feel kinda better. He scrolled up. The most recent text was from Finngeir Rössvoll.

“I’ll see you tonight. I hope all’s well. Praying for you and your family. I’m available if you or your mamma and pabbi need to talk.”

“The Church outta make my man a priest right now, he’s putting the hours in,” Þorfinnur said with a grin. He thanked both his girlfriend and Finngeir and flushed the toilet- he hadn’t used it but he needed to sell the excuse of getting up, and walked back into the kitchen.

“Sorry about that,” he said. He was just about to sit down when a knock came at the door.

“No mama,” Þorfinnur insisted as Elina went to get up. “You and pabbi enjoy breakfast. I’ll get it.”

He wasn’t sure who could be coming by at a time like this and as he peered through the keyhole of his family’s townhouse’s front door…
“Herra Barbet?” he muttered to himself. It was his math teacher. Done up in a coat and scarf, standing by his front door. Þorfinnur was just in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and took a bit of that cold December Prydanian air as he opened the door.

“Herra Barbet?” he asked again, this time to Bernard-Maxime Barbet as he stood on his family’s doorstep.

“Þorfinnur!” his Santonian teacher said with a smile.
“I’m sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Um… we were just finishing breakfast and…”

“Oh I’m sorry, I um… I just wanted to come by…” he began, his fluent Prydanian carrying a sort of sing-songy quality thanks to his Santonian accent, “and I wanted to see how you were all doing? I hope I’m not intruding but I know today is… an important day, and I was worried for you.”

“You…” Þorfinnur began, “you were worried?”

“Já,” Bernard said. He was a friendly looking man, not too much older than Þorfinnur actually, in his late 20s. He’d been teaching for less than five years when he opted to come to Prydania to help with adult education programs after the War.

“Oh…” Þorfinnur replied. He… he knew that people knew what his family went through. They were by no means famous, but the Advent Executions were something that people around the country knew, and it wasn’t unheard of for him to get a double look if he had to give his name for something.

He didn’t expect his Santonian math teacher to know… he’d never talked about what happened to his brother in night school outside of private conversations with Valfríður.

“Oh… I… that means a lot Herra Barbet,” he said with a smile. He meant it. He wasn’t expecting that bit of kindness, but he got it. And as he stood there, the cold air biting at his bare toes, he did the only thing his manners told him he could do.

“Would you like to come in for something to eat? Or to meet my parents?”

“I…” Bernard began. The truth was he wasn’t really thinking this through. He knew very well who Þorfinnur was. He knew it the moment he saw “Granseth” on his class roster. He’d just felt compelled to make sure he was ok. Now he was being invited in? He smiled.
“I would love to.”

He entered the townhouse and looked around. He tried to make sense of it. It was clean, tidy, with the exception of Þorfinnur’s books and notes from school strewn across the coffee table. Some of the furniture and fixtures were old and worn, but some furniture looked rather new. He just stepped in, and removed his shoes. That was a common courtesy he’d found that was shared in Santonian and Prydanian cultures, removing your shoes when you entered someone else’s home. Þorfinnur helped him with his coat, covered with a light powder of snow.

“Who is it?” Sigfreður asked as he and Elina came into the living room to see their son and this new person.

“Mama, pabbi, this is Herra Bernard-Maxime Barbet. He’s my math teacher at school. He came by to check on us. See if we’re doing ok.”

Elina approached with a smile and took Bernard’s hand gently.
“How kind of you,” she said.
“You know you’re Þorfinnur’s favourite teacher,” she added, causing Þorfinnur to blush a bit as he scratched his head.

“I’m very honoured,” Bernard chuckled. “To meet you and to hear that. He’s a very good student!”

“A pleasure,” Sigfreður said, extending his hand. Bernard shook it, and was taken aback by the large mountain of a man’s grip as he shook.
“You’re young for a teacher.”

“Sig, shush,” Elina ordered, only for Sigfreður to shrug.

“What? It’s a compliment!”

Bernard chuckled a bit.
“I’m coming up on five years teaching.”

“That accent. Santonian?”

“Oui, Monsieur,” Bernard replied with a smile and nod.

Sigfreður nodded.
“I’m afraid you caught us just at the end of breakfast, but I’d be happy to put on another pot of coffee.”

“Oh no, no, please, not on my account,” Bernard replied.
“I, um, like I told Þorfinnur, I hope I’m not overstepping, but I just wanted to make sure everyone was doing ok today, I know it’s not… an easy day.”

Sigfreður nodded again, and Þorfinnur could see his father’s mood shift. Just a bit. He nodded and looked away a bit.

“I… we… appreciate it.”

Elina was far more receptive though.

“It means a lot that you’d do that,” she said.
“I can’t persuade you to stay?”

Þorfinnur wasn’t sure what he was thinking, really? Maybe he needed an excuse to get out? He wasn’t feeling suffocated, really, but he desperately needed someone to talk to. His mother would do the trick on her own, but his father? No…

“Herra Barbet, I’ve just had breakfast, but there’s a place, not too far from here. They sell excellent muffins and peppermint flavoured hot chocolate. I think I could go for some. Would you join me?”

Bernard smiled a bit. He could see in Þorfinnur’s eyes that he was kind of using him as an excuse, but he was happy to play the role. He’d come here to see if Þorfinnur was alright after all and if he needed him? Well… a muffin and hot chocolate was by far not the worst thing to be asked of him.

“I’d love to,” he said, as Þorfinnur smiled.

“Give me a moment then, to get dressed.”

---

Þorfinnur was dressed relatively lightly for winter. The snow banks were shoulder height, and his boots were up to the task, but whereas Bernard had a long coat and scarf Þorfinnur was wearing just a sweater underneath a light tank jacket with FRE patches sewn here and there across the sleeves and back.

The streets were busy for a Saturday too. Cars and pedestrians alike as the sun tried and mostly failed to peek through the grey winter clouds.

“I’m sorry about mama’s ‘favourite teacher’ thing,” Þorfinnur said as they made their way down the street.

“Is it true?” Bernard asked teasingly, knowing the answer.

“Well it is, but still…”

“Mothers wouldn’t be mothers unless they embarrass their sons just a little. It’s good for ‘em.”

“The mamas or the sons?” Þorfinnur asked.

“Both!”

The cafe, a place called Þitt og Mitt*, was crowded but the two managed to find a table, in a corner in the back.

“All of this for muffins and hot chocolate?” Bernard asked as they sat.

“It’s really good muffins and hot chocolate,” Þorfinnur insisted.
“But they have other stuff… I don’t know if you’ve had breakfast.”

“No actually.”

“Then feel free. It’s good.”

Bernard ordered an eggjakaka*, a blueberry muffin, and hot chocolate. And to his shock Þorfinnur ordered a smjörbrauð* with egg, lettuce, and tomato along with the requisite muffin and hot chocolate.

“I thought you had breakfast?”

“That’s why my smjörbrauð doesn’t have any meat,” Þorfinnur said with a chuckle. There was a brief pause as the waitress went to place the orders, a bit of an awkward one, and Þorfinnur just delved in.

“It’s true though, you’re my favourite teacher.”

“I could tell,” Bernard replied with a smile.

“How?”

“You’re a good student, but you’re very sharp when it comes to math. And usually students’ favourite teachers are the teachers who teach their favourite subjects.”

“I wish that was true,” Þorfinnur said with a sort of sarcastic chuckle.

“What do you mean?”

“When I was in school, before I ran away to join the FRE, my last math teacher was a tyrant.”

“Were they…”

“A Syndie? Já. All the teachers were. You had to be.”

“Math is pretty politically neutral,” Bernard said, but Þorfinnur just shrugged.

“People like that, it didn’t need to be overtly political for their true nature to shine through.” He paused for a moment, sensing that he was perhaps unloading some baggage, smiled and shifted the conversation to something more pleasant.
“Sorry, but I didn’t really know what to expect when I signed up for night school. You were a very pleasant surprise. I mean all the teachers are, but when you have someone who isn’t awful teaching your favourite subject, well… I enjoy it a lot.”

Bernard nodded. He knew Þorfinnur fought for the FRE, he’d said as much when he introduced himself on the first day of classes. And it was hardly a unique thing. A lot of the people who were in programs like this had stopped their schooling to fight. He’d assumed that Þorfinnur must have done it when his brother was killed, but the math didn’t add up. Þorfinnur must have run away to join the War earlier. Why… how… those were questions Bernard wouldn’t pry at. What he was curious about though… was the future.

“So after you’re done with us, what are you gonna do? Physics? Engineering? You have a knack for mathematics, you could do well.”

“I want to become an engineer,” Þorfinnur said with a smile.
“And work with cars. I want to help build them, design them, you know?”

“Oh?” Bernard asked.
“Have you always had an interest in that? Cars?” He was settling a bit himself, just getting to know a student he mostly knew from grades and classroom stuff.

Þorfinnur nodded.
“Always. When I was little I used to build cars out of Spilvel blocks. Then I graduated to models. When the War was over, I knew I wanted to do that. Not stay a soldier.”

Bernard listened. It was heartening to hear him talk like that, pursuing dreams.

“I think you’d be quite good at it. Would you go to university in Býkonsviði? Or elsewhere?”

“The program I’m in will pay for me in Prydania, but I want to stay in Býkonsviði. My family’s here, my girlfriend’s here.”

“Valfríður?”

“Já.”

“The University of Býkonsviði would be lucky to have you,” Bernard said, and Þorfinnur smiled wide.

“You’re flattering me.”

“No, you’re capable of doing the work. You’re a good student, you work very hard. I’m being genuine.”

“Well thank you,” Þorfinnur said as their hot chocolate came. He sipped some as Bernard sniffed it.

“There’s the peppermint.” He went to sip.
“There it is… that’s nice.”

“See?” Þorfinnur said as he sipped some more before asking Bernard a question he wasn’t prepared for.
“What about you? The future?”

Bernard was a bit taken aback because rarely do teachers hear that from their students. But Þorfinnur wasn’t that much younger than him…

“What do you mean?”

“Will you stay in Prydania? Go back home to Saintonge?”

“I don’t know,” Bernard said honestly.
“I came here because I believed in what I was doing, and I find it nice.”

“Nice?”

“Nice. It’s colder than I’m used to, in the winter,” he chuckled.
“But if I can do good staying here, helping people, if I can make a career out of that, I don’t know. I could stay. At least for a bit.”
Þorfinnur was happy to hear that, actually. He liked Bernard. And he just… well… Bernard was a very important part of his life, his life after the War. He wouldn’t always be… he’d be off to university soon, hopefully. He just…liked knowing he was around.

“I think anyone who had you would be lucky to have you.”

“Now it’s you who’s flattering me,” Bernard said with a grin.

Þorfinnur was starting to relax. He enjoyed this. He could say things… things he would be worried to say around his father for fear of regressing some of the progress they’d made together.

“Spilvel, that’s where I first started designing cars as a little kid. It’s also how I bonded with my bro.” He sipped more hot chocolate. And just sort of looked ahead into nothingness.

For Bernard he wasn’t sure how to respond exactly. He’d come here to see how Þorfinnur was doing though, with the anniversary of his brother’s death. This was, well, part of that.

“Did he like to design cars too?” Bernard asked.

“No,” Þorfinnur laughed softly with a smile.
“He was infinitely more creative than me. He made robots, monsters, all kinds of crazy things. It didn’t matter though. My cars, his monsters… we built them together…”

“You said he was creative? That doesn’t shock me.”

“Why not?” Þorfinnur asked softly.

“Brothers are like that. One’s always the rational one, the one who looks for numbers and patterns, and the other’s the creative and imaginative one. One of those nature/nurture things we haven’t really figured out, you know?”

“I guess…” Þorfinnur continued.
“I can’t help myself. Sometimes I wonder if he were alive today… what would his favourite subject be? What would he want for his future?”

Bernard didn’t say anything at first. He could tell Þorfinnur was holding back some tears, but he stayed quiet until he was done. He didn’t seem like he was on the verge of a breakdown.

“But that just makes me sad.”

“Maybe don’t think about it like that?” Bernard replied.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t think about it like something lost. Think about your brother, as you knew him, all of the good things about him. Believe me. Even if he was the more creative type, if he had half the brain his big brother has he’d have done well at anything.”

That last bit was a gamble. It could have made Þorfinnur upset, but it seemed to work.

“Thanks for coming to see me,” Þorfinnur said as he looked down at his hot chocolate before sipping some more.
“You didn’t have to. It means a lot.”
“I…” Bernard began, and paused to think of how he should word this. Þorfinnur looked at him curiously and he sighed, committing himself to saying it as best he could.
“I remember when we heard about the Advent Executions in Saintonge. The whole Civil War in Prydania was crazy. I did a lot of work with refugees early on in my teaching career. And you’d heard horror stories of the Syndies. And I sort of… I don’t want to say I compartmentalized it, but I kind of thought ‘this is horrible, but it’s a war, it’s over there,’ but then when LodeStar news reported on the Advent Executions it horrified a lot of people, myself included.”

Þorfinnur sipped more hot chocolate, and breathed deep as he listened. There was a lot he could say, but he just… listened.

“It’s not the only reason I decided to come here,” Bernard added.
“But it’s one reason. A very big one. Something so horrible happened, and I don’t know. I figured I could, in some way, help? Good works you know? Do my bit?”

“I was advancing on Hadden, when I heard. I cried so much,” Þorfinnur said softly.

“So you didn’t join the FRE because the of executions?”

“No,” Þorfinnur replied. He wasn’t going to go into the details of why he joined the FRE. He kept it simple.
“I joined the FRE because it was the right thing to do.” He breathed deep. It was a strange feeling. He felt… angry? Just without the anger? He felt a tightness in his chest, tenseness in his muscles… but emotionally he felt… relief? And as he breathed, that tightness, that tenseness, relaxed.

Bernard was here, in part, because of his brother’s death. There was something… faithful… about that. How? Why? For a moment, he entertained the notion that his little bro in heaven had sent him someone who would help him fulfill his dreams. He didn’t push it from his mind, but he didn’t linger on it. Some day, some day he’d think about that, if the day ever came when he could do it without crying.

“I came here wanting to help,” Bernard repeated.
“And when I got my class roster I saw ‘Granseth.’ I couldn’t believe it. It was one of the names in that news report that shook me to my core. And then today… I don’t know. I just couldn’t stop worrying. You’re a very good student, Þor. I wanted to make sure you were ok.”

“And for your troubles you got to hear me unload.”

“Well, I think I knew that was a risk doing what I was doing,” Bernard said with a smile.
“I hope I helped.”

“You did…” Þorfinnur said as the muffins came.

“Are they toasted?” Bernard asked. The muffin was warm to the touch.

“How else would you eat it in the middle of winter?” Þorfinnur replied with a smile. It felt good to smile. He caught their waitress with two plates of food. Their food.

“Thanks again, Herra Barbet. For coming to my country, and for coming to see me today.” He looked down for a moment and looked up at his teacher and smiled.

Bernard nodded, smiled, and reached around to give Þorfinnur a pat on the shoulder just as the food arrived.

“Now Þor,” he said as they were prepared to dig in.
“I need to ask you something, because I admit I’m curious but very lost.”

“What’s that?” Þorfinnur asked, looking a bit confused.

“Hockey. I’m not really used to it, but it looks like great fun. Who should I support?”

“Konunglegur Býkonsviði* of course!” Þorfinnur replied with a smile. It just felt… felt good to talk.

---

*Haraldvirki- Prydania’s legislative building, home of the Alþingi
*Þitt og Mitt- Yours and Mine
*eggjakaka- a traditional Prydanian breakfast dish, a baked omelet the thickness of a pancake
*smjörbrauð- an open faced sandwich, a Prydanian dish that comes in a variety of toppings and spreads
*Konunglegur Býkonsviði- Royal Býkonsviði, Býkonsviði’s pro hockey team

This is Me Trying by Taylor Swift, 3:15

OOC Note: Thanks to @Kyle for some information that was very relevant to this post!

4 June 2017
5:07 pm
On a Sunday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Absalonhöll had haunted the centre of Býkonsviði for fifteen years. The ghosts of that battle, when the People's Militia stormed the palace to capture the Royal Family and kill the Knights of the Storm during the street battle that had accompanied the Syndicalist coup, still lingered.

Lingered as the palace sat...

In those early days of the Syndicalist regime the People's Militia, and the more radical Syndicalist supporters, had ransacked it. And then, as the Syndicalist government consolidated itself, the barriers went up and the People's Militia was used to keep people out rather than to get in.

Nielsen and his lackies on the Presidium had promised that it would be renovated or replaced with a monument and museum dedicated to the Syndicalist struggle.

But it never happened.

War had redirected much of the Syndicalist Republic'a resources. Be it their proxy war in Korova or attempting to suppress the FRE insurgency. Men, materials, and time had to be directed elsewhere. The neighbourhoods of the working class- for whom the Syndicalist Revolution was waged in the name of- remained neglected as the centres of Syndicalist power were furnished and the tightly guarded. What hope did the old place have?

Winter after winter it collected snow. Dirt, grime, water damage, graffiti... Absalonhöll became a magnet. A monument to the misery and corruption at the heart of the Syndicalist Republic's capital.
Summer after summer it dominated the city despite its relative low profile. A dark, forbidding, cordoned off monument to a regime that hated it but could do nothing about it. The torn down statues resting where they fell, like judgemental totems conveying their gods' displeasure.

Through that eerie stillness, through the ghosts of those chaotic days in the fall of 2002 though, came a new noise.

A jubilant, cheering, equally chaotic noise as the people of Býkonsviði waved the old barbed cross flag, chanted "Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla!" over and over as they gathered outside the final Syndicalist-constructed checkpoint around the palace.

The noise was overwhelming. The Syndicalists had surrendered, formally, just a half an hour ago. What had been sporadic celebrations throughout the day as neighbourhood after neighbourhood was freed from Syndicalist control had erupted into a city-wide celebration.

And Tobias found himself at the heart of it. He was with FRE soldiers, Stig, Axle, and William as more soldiers cut through the final gate. Tobias couldn't help but smile as the sign that said NO ENTRY with the Syndicalist hammer, gear, and star emblem was tossed aside.

"Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla!"

Tobias had been around crowds before but this was unlike anything. His heart was pounding in his chest under his tactical vest. He was standing amidst this crowd that would carry him on their backs if they were allowed to, chanting for him!
And he stood before this building. This massive building that had been his last home all those years ago before this madness started.

He breathed deep. Much had happened today but it had been a day that he'd dreamt about since he was a child. Now it was here...

And yet what Thomas Lasmartres, the Santonian Ambassador, had said to him earlier that day was creeping into his mind as he he stood there with his crowd, the gates to Absalonhöll ready to be opened.

"The only label that matters is that you are a human being and your fellow man is a human being; we all have rights and those rights should be respected, whatever one’s beliefs, gender, creed, or race. I sincerely hope that Prydania will change into that kind of society; and I am confident that you, Your Majesty, will help lead the change."

Tobias looked around. Yes. He had soldiers around him, but the crowd was close... and he could see the people, his people, cheering for him.

Of course Herra Lasmartres wasn't the only person to tell him things along those lines... but he was the first foreigner. The Gojans and the Andrennians well... they tended to view him like how those sympathetic to the FRE in his own country viewed him, or the Ephyrans. He was the rightful King. Ambassador Lasmartres, however, had expressed hope. And faith.

Tobias looked around. Unlike when they took the Haraldvígi there were no tanks to stand up on.

Just emptied out Syndicalist guardhouses.

William took his megaphone and made his way to the front of the crowd, before the gate. The sun wouldn't set for over four more hours, and the summer breeze seemed to amplify the city's atmosphere.

"PEOPLE OF BÝKONSVIÐI! OF PRYDANIA!"

The crowd's chants changed.

"AUBYN! AUBYN!"

William smiled just a bit, before continuing.

"WE TAKE BACK OUR DIGNITY! OUR COUNTRY! THIS BUILDING, THIS BUILDING DATES TO THE FOUNDATIONS OF THIS CITY! AND YOU ALL... ITS PEOPLE, WILL SEE ITS REBIRTH ALONG WITH OUR COUNTRY'S!"

The cheers overwhelmed Tobias a bit. Ever since that day fifteen years ago... seeing his parents die... crowds were something he never truly felt comfortable with, even if he was used to them now.

Maybe that was it? That in his discomfort he felt the need to do something. And without thinking he'd taken the megaphone.

William looked on, a bit shocked, more curious, as Tobias looked at him through the noise. The chants.

He tried to convey a look that said "fyrirgefðu*" but William just shot him a very particular sort of smile back that said "go on then."

Tobias raised the megaphone and began to speak.

"Today..."

"Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla!"

"Today..." Tobias repeated.
"The violence stops. I don't know what Tomorrow will be like. I wish I did... but whatever it is... the violence stops. Býkonsviði and Prydania are free!"

The chanting continued as two FRE soldiers opened the gates, the rest of the soldiers leading Tobias, William, Stig, Axle, and the crowd into the courtyard. The torn down statue of King Rikard III that hadn't been moved in fifteen years- SVIKARI* spray painted across its head in half-legible letters- dominating the space before the palace's entrance.

Soldiers fanned out to keep the crowd from becoming too unwieldy as the FRE leadership approached the doors.

"Welcome home, kid," Axle said with a grin. Fifteen years ago he fled with Tobias from this very building.

Tobias didn't say anything at first. This may have been the last place he was with his family, but it wasn't home in his mind. Yet that didn't take away from the moment. He smiled and looked over to Elo, who was commanding the soldiers with them.

"Let's get inside."

"Yes... Your Majesty," Elo said with a hint of a smile before commanding his men to push the old doors open.

Air filled the palace like it would an ancient tomb, as Tobias slowly entered. So much of it... the ransacked surroundings, graffiti... but there was something familiar here... he stepped slowly across the white and black marble floors. The sculpted columns of Thaunic gods... standing watch over the interregnum.

Tobias looked ahead. The grand staircase. And at the top of the first flight of stairs, a makeshift flagpole. And from it, the flag of the Syndicalist Party. Tobias moved forward.

Closer and closer. Ambassador Lasmartres' words entered his mind again. And if he was going to live up to his lofty hope, then a page had to be turned. He didn't know how long that would take...

But he slowly climbed that first set of marble stairs and when he came face to face with the Syndicalist banner he grabbed it... the dust thick enough to feel... as he yanked it down, dropping it to the floor.

---

Warriors by Imagine Dragons, 2:50

---

*fyrirgefðu- I'm sorry
*SVIKARI- TRAITOR

21 April 2018
12:04 PM
On a Saturday
Belgsdalr, Prydania

Fridgerd Osterholt stopped suddenly as she turned a corner in Fjerstad's General Store, as child- who didn't look older than seven- ran into her.

"I'm sorry," a woman who was obviously the boy's mother said, as she took him by the soldiers.

"It's ok," Fridgerd replied with a smile.

"Ragnar," the woman said in an authoritative, motherly tone.
"What do you say to the nice lady you ran into?"

"Fyrirgefðu," the boy said softly as he looked down. Fridgerd gave him a grin to let him know she wasn't angry.

"Thank you. What a polite young man you are." That made Ragnar smile a bit as Fridgerd looked at his mother.
"It's really no problem. Kids will be kids. It's my fault for walking into a hurricane."

"Oh he is certainly that. He and he brother. Ragnar, go find pabbi and Bragi and wait for me to finish up."

The boy nodded and, with the same energy he'd run into Fridgerd, ran out of the general store to meet with his brother who looked a few years older, and a man who was clearly their father loading supplies into an older Midland Motors model truck.

Fridgerd gave the family a glance as the boys chased each other around their father before she exchanged pleasantries with the mother and got in line. She wasn't here for much. Just some more coffee. They needed some more coffee at the Odegaard house and the general store was more convenient than driving into town. Haland was getting surprisingly busy.

Haland. It was Fridgerd's first introduction to Austurland, having flown in from Býkonsviði.
She had no idea what to expect and at first Haland seemed a reassurance. It was a decently sized city from what she could see. And, since it had been in FRE hands since before the end of the War, it was suitably fixed up from fighting. It was clearly still a city in recovery but it seemed to be in better shape than Býkonsviði.
And so, a city. Comfortable. She knew cities.

But then she left Haland behind, meeting the Odegaards out on their farm. A farm outside of Belgsdalr, a small town outside of Haland. And that was when the culture shock kicked in.

---

Fridgerd loaded her supplies up into her car. The coffee of course, but also chocolate milk mix. She'd remembered Ingeltore Odegaard mentioning Bjarkar loved his chocolate milk. And so did Kari, his younger brother.

Bjarkar was coming home, and that meant his mother was dropped half of what she was doing to get everything ready.
It was very sweet! It reminded her of what her father had said her mother was like the first time she came home from college, having left Saintes to study at Pouilles. So she was eager to help her in whatever way she could. Everything was nearly perfect, Ingeltore had said. They just needed more coffee and chocolate milk mix!

The drive back to the farm was a mixed bag. The War here had been over for less than a year but these parts had been liberated for five. The egregious issues that needed fixing had been fixed, and if one didn't look too closely you could miss the signs of the War and enjoy the peaceful countryside.

The most visible reminders, though, were the concrete buildings, squat and dim, that dotted the fields. Collectivized homestead centres. All of this had been collectivized farmland. These compounds of ugly buildings serving as administration centres of the giant collectivized homestead this had been. Now with the liberation and collectivization undone, smaller family farms once again dotted the countryside. But the scars... they remained.

Fridgerd didn't like those buildings. The obvious reasons were that they represented a cruel injustice. Land families had owned, in some cases, for hundreds of years stripped away and people forced to work as slaves in what was essentially a food producing labour camp. All in the same of Syndicalist "equality." Rape and abuse was rampant, people were fed little, beaten regularly. She'd seen the news reports. And her hosts, well... they'd survived it. While the Odegaards didn't speak of it often the impact was obvious.

But there was a reason beyond just these horrors that the reminders of Syndicalist collectivization bothered her. It was personal. Not really, mind you, but it felt that way. Lucky these buildings were few and far between, and she could focus on the pleasant countryside.

---

The Odegaard farm would be busy. It was April after all. The Prydanian winter was receding and the planting had begun. Farmhands were indeed coming to and fro when she pulled up. And fok, Fridgerd had work to get too. She and Gunnar needed to go over the specifics of the greenhouse. Yet she could see that was gonna have to wait! There was a new car outside the main farmhouse. Bjarkar's.

Fridgerd got out of her's and grabbed the bags of groceries, entering the house.
"Hello? I saw a new car out front!"

"Oh hi!"

Bjarkar got up from playing with his five year old brother Kari, handing him the toy space shuttle, before helping Fridgerd with the groceries.

"No, you don't need to. Go play with your brother," Fridgerd tried to insist. His brother. Kari was one of those reminders of Syndicalist collectivization. Bjarkar and his parents all had chestnut hair. Kari was blond. Fridgerd suspected that he wasn't Gunnar's. Rape was common in the Syndicalist camps after all. And she sensed that Gunnar knew it too, but he didn't seem to care. He treated the boy like he was his own.
That was another bit of culture shock. If something like this happened in her family she was sure everyone would feel compelled to talk about it at least once before making peace with it, but here no one said anything. They knew... but said nothing.

"He's far happier now that I've given him the space shuttle," Bjarkar chuckled as he helped.
"Oh sweet! Chocolate milk mix!"

"Your mama told me you liked it! So I picked it up after we heard you were coming back."

"Thank you!" Bjarkar said with a wide smile as he put the mix away in the kitchen.

"You're welcome!"
Fridgerd didn't know Bjarkar as much as she knew his mama and pabbi, or even his brother. She had arrived with a larger group of Santonian agricultural technicians, to help the recovery of the Prydanian farmlands after a decade and a half of Syndicalist mismanagement. The Odegaard farm was her assignment. She'd met Bjarkar when she first got here in 2017 but since then he'd come and gone. Sometimes spending a week or two helping his pabbi and the farmhands they'd hired on, other times he'd been in Býkonsviði.

"Did you enjoy you time in the capital? I don't know any kings personally," Fridgerd said with a smile as they put away groceries.
"I imagine it was a good time."

Bjarkar suddenly went stiff. He'd been happily playing with his brother and then quite cheerful with helping with the bags, but he suddenly went stiff.

"It was fine. You know? Nice, um, nice to see some friends."

Fridgerd could tell something was bothering him. Home early and now he seemed reluctant to talk about his trip? Still... she didn't prod.

"Have you seen the greenhouse foundations?"

Bjarkar's mood picked up.
"I did! So you're going through with it?" he asked excitedly.

"Your pabbi loved the idea," she replied.
"I didn't think he'd want more work but..."

"... but that's not pabbi," Bjarkar finished the sentence laughing.
Even after all they'd been through as a family, Gunnar wanted to get to work.
"I swear," Bjarkar added, "he'd spend the last day of a vacation itching to get back to work instead of bemoaning it was almost over."

"My pabbi is a lot like that too, so I can relate," Fridgerd replied with a grin.

"Your pabbi... what does he do again?" Bjarkar asked curiously as he finished with groceries and went back to play with Kari.

Now it was Fridgerd's turn to get a bit stiff.
"He works in the automotive industry," she said.

"Oh Saintonge has a large one, I hear."

"Já we do," Fridgerd replied, trying to quickly change the subject.
"Say! I need to talk to your pabbi about the greenhouse actually. Come on with! You'll find it interesting!"

"Honestly? I'd like that," Bjarkar replied. He ruffled Kari's hair and got up to stretch.
"I've been thinking about it and I was thinking that if pabbi went through with the greenhouse idea I'd like to take charge of it. Show him I can do more around here, ya know?"

"Oh? Are you going to opt for that? Your parents thought maybe you'd get some nice position in the capital."

"I... don't think I want to spend too much time in Býkonsviði."

There was that hesitancy again. Fridgerd made a note of it, but didn't probe.

"Well if you want to put everything you have into it, you and I can talk some more. I'm sure your pabbi would love to hand point off to you. He's busy with other things."

"I'd love to!"

"Well I'm going out to the sight where the foundation is being laid now. Your pabbi will be there in about forty five minutes?" she said as she checked her watch.
"Meet us out there!"

"I will, as soon as I get the little guy settled."

"Of course! See you soon Bjarkar. Bye, Kari!"

"Bye Fridgerd!" the five year old waved as he held a toy space shuttle in the other hand.

Fridgerd smiled watching Bjarkar take his brother to his room, and she made her way back out. She checked her watch again. She'd make good time.

---

Rescued by the Foo Fighters, 4:19

4 January 2016
9:46 PM
On a Monday
outside of Reykjadar, Prydania

“How close did he ever get?”

The voice didn't echo. It was too high pitched for that. Perhaps, under different circumstances, it wouldn't be intimidating. But right here and right now… well… it made it more so.
Just this voice… this voice that was unremarkable. And yet to Tobias it was stalking him in the darkness and the fire.

“He came closer than this,” Tobias answered. He gripped Jægerblað. It was prudent. If whoever this was had a gun he'd be under fire.
He hoped. There was the chance he was toying with him.
“But then again Kaleb wasn't a coward.”

He hoped that would do it. Maybe he could taunt
whoever this was out of hiding.

“Kaleb was… Kaleb is a traitor and I will personally see him hang," the voice said from the shadows.

Tobias stopped. It wasn't that he was being particularly elusive before, but he had to do something. And maybe he'd die. Maybe, if this person had a gun, he'd see him stop at take the shot. Maybe…
He stopped and his muscles tensed. He felt a weight of sadness, a weight of despair come over him, for dying right here and now and letting everyone down….
His heart raced until… nothing happened. And every muscle but the ones gripping the sword relaxed. Just a bit…

But now that this worry had passed… the “something” he'd hoped to do could work. He stood in the midst of the burning farmhouse.

“You burned down an entire house to get my attention. I’m here. Soon my friends will be too. So be quick about it unless you want to deal with them too.”
“God, hurry up Axle,” he thought as his voice echoed into the night.

“Oh don't worry, your highness,” the voice replied, the mocking tone used for the honorific causing the already high pitched voice to get more nasally.
But it was also coming from in front of him. Previously the voice had danced around, from side to side, high and low. But now it was in front of him… coming from the centre of the fire, the blaze he'd not been too eager to approach.

“You'll see me soon enough. Come forward.” Tobias growled softly and pulled his pistol from his holster. The gun was out of bullets. But whoever this was didn't know that. And if he really didn't have a gun then that was an advantage. So, sword on one hand and pistol in the other, he marched his way forward in the snow, stepping over the burning remnants of a collapsed juvenile tree.
And as he walked forward he began to see something in the burning inferno… it was coming from the remnants of a barn…. and….

“Oh my God…” Tobias muttered. He stopped, frozen in fear. He looked up… the frame to the front section of the barn was still standing against the inferno and strung up to it by the hands were the naked corpses of four people. A man. A woman. A young boy. And a young girl. Bloodied and lifeless as they hung against the backdrop of the fire.
Tobias starred in abject terror, his eyes locked on the horror before him. He didn't even see the sword embedded into the dirt below the bodies.

“WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DID YOU DO?” Tobias called out. Whoever did this…

“Do you like them?”

Tobias finally was able to draw his gaze down. A person emerged. The backlight of the fire made it hard to see for sure but Tobias was able to make out elements of a People’s Militia uniform. And the person in it… was skinny. A bit worryingly so, but with a round face and light brown hair cut into a short crew cut.
He looked…. all in all… ordinary. But that was even more worrying. Tobias raised his pistol, cocking the empty gun.

“WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DID YOU DO?” he called out again.

“So you don't like them?” the Militiaman asked with a self-satisfied chuckle.
“They're your handiwork after all.”

“I didn't do this,” Tobias growled, keeping his pistol aimed at the figure. The Militiaman didn't seem too put out though.

“No,” he said. “You didn't do this. I killed these people. I made a woman out of the girl while they all watched…” Tobias glanced up again. That girl… that poor girl didn't look older than ten.

“...and,” the Militaman continued, “I beat them all to death when I was done. But it's still your handiwork.”

Tobias, in that moment, desperately wished his gun had even just a single bullet. He wanted to kill this man. He had to kill this man.

“I've met fanatical Militiamen,” Tobias called back gruffly.
“But you're the first delusional one.”

“Oh?” the Militiaman remarked as he pulled the sword at the front of the burning barn out of the ground.
“Delusional? Please,” he added, his voice high pitched, self-satisfied, and most unnerving of all, calm.
“You, Your Royal Highness, have killed four million of our countrymen. And I, Captain Egil Elskasvín, stand here as your judge, jury, and executioner.”

“I’ve got blood on my hands but I’ve never killed an innocent person. But you've killed at least four,” Tobias replied as he kept the gun aimed at Egil, approaching slowly.

“You kill every day, every hour, every second you don't surrender,” Egil replied, holding the sword limply by his side.
“Every death is necessary for us to fight YOU! YOUR war killed everyone!”

It was the first time Egil seemed to be getting upset.

“I don't put innocent people into prison camps, I didn't hang people from lightposts, kill parents, pull children from their homes, or burn down the countryside. You…”

“YOU WON’T SURRENDER! EVERY DEATH EVERY DEATH EVERY DEATH IS YOUR FAULT!” Egil yelled, interrupting him.

Tobias stayed where he was for a moment. This person was unhinged. And he swung from calm if self-assured to violently angry. It reminded him of what he remembered about his uncle.

“Captain Elskasvín…”

“NO! NO YOUR HIGHNESS, YOU CAN CALL ME THE LIGHTBRINGER! AND I AM BURDENED WITH A GLORIOUS PURPOSE! TO KILL YOU!”

Egil raised the sword he had taken and began to charge Tobias. Tobias held the pistol up hoping it would dissuade him but as he got closer Tobias realized it wouldn't work. He tossed the gun down, grabbed Jægerblað with both hands, and swung. The two swords clashed, against the snowy winter night sky and the fire from the burned down farmhouse and barn.

“You think you're destined for something? You think you're entitled to something? Because of who you are?” Egil asked as their blades locked up.
“No! I’m the one destined for great things. I, some kid you never cared enough to know existed! I rose through these ranks. I proved my dedication to the Syndicalist cause, and IT’S BY MY HAND…”

Tobias parried and Egil charged him again.

“...THAT THE REPUBLIC WILL RISE!”

Tobias looked into his pale blue eyes as they locked their blades together. He was angry… but somehow Egil’s ranting had managed to capture Tobias' attention. He thought he was destined to kill him. It was a weird paradox, a Syndicalist who believed in fate. But as Egil proclaimed what he'd do, Tobias dug his boots into the snow and dirt and leaned into their crossed blades.

“All you are is someone who raped and killed a little girl and her family,” he shot back. He wasn't eager to validate this man’s delusions but he got the sense that saying that would push his buttons.
He was right.

Egil grew angry. He let out a feral scream and charged Tobias again, who brought his blade down against his, Jörn’s lessons about an angry fighter being an ineffective fighter ringing in his mind. And he was angry enough. He had to make Egil angrier.

“I didn't know about you before tonight, but now I just know you as a delusional rapist and murderer,” Tobias spat out, his voice tinged with
some of that anger of his own. He didn't buy for a second that he was responsible for Syndicalist atrocities. But he hated to see and hear one of them deny them.

“IT’S YOUR FAULT! SHE COULD HAVE LIVED IF IT WASN’T FOR YOU!” Egil yelled back.

Tobias and Egil’s blades clashed again and the two circled in front of the burning barn.

“I didn't do a single Goddamn thing! To them or you!" Tobias insisted.

“YOU WERE BORN!”
Egil swung wildly and the two locked blades again, face to face opposite the steel.

“But I’m the Lightbringer. I’m the liberator. Prepare to die,” Egil whispered,

He shoved Tobias back and swung again. Tobias, caught off balance, threw his arm up. Egil’s sword hit his forearm cutting through the black fabric of Tobias’ jacket, hitting the black metal forearm guard underneath. Tobias pushed back enough to steady himself before ducking and throwing himself low, taking out Egil’s legs. Egil stumbled over him and Tobias rolled through, rising first to his knees and then his feet, still clutching Jægerblað as he stood.

“I don't know their names,” Tobias said as he breathed deep, his throat burning in the winter air.
“But they deserved better than you. And whatever fokked up fantasy you're living.”

Egil gripped his own sword as he pulled himself to one knee. He scowled.
“All common people are Syndicalists whether they know it or not. She died a martyr.”

“As you bashed her head in?”

“Já.”

Egil breathed heavily as he stayed on one knee and raised his sword. There was a quietness of only the sound of burning wood around them for a moment before the sound of trucks cut through the night. Getting closer.

“I suppose…” Egil was breathing heavily, “...that those are your friends.”

“Miðland isn't on your side of the line anymore,” Tobias said coldly.
“And you're going to answer for what you did to this family."

“Noooo, noooo! No! I kill you! That's how this goes! And if you do kill me, it’ll be you and me! And not you and me the FRE!”

Tobias shook his head.
“They’ll be here any moment.”

Egil just grinned though, his dimples kissed flush red in the cold. Tobias gripped his sword with both hands again, ready to deal with another charge when Egil turned! He made a mad dash to the forest line bordering what used to be this property. Tobias began to chase after him but… stopped.

As Egil ran closer to the woods he realized if he chased him into there he'd be able to ambush him. And as much as he wanted to mete out justice… he couldn't risk his life like that. So as he watched Egil vanish into the woods he stewed until he let out a loud scream and kicked up a pile of snow before he fell to his knees and cried for a moment before he pulled himself up. In time to see two FRE soldiers and Axle approach.

“Tobias! What… oh my God.”

Axle saw hanging bodies and went speechless. One of the FRE soldiers just looked away as the other looked down and made the Courantist sign of the cross.

“What the fok happened here?” Axle asked in a hushed tone.

“A Syndicalist People’s Militia Captain happened,” Tobias replied. “He ran into the woods.”

“You two!” Axle barked at the two soldiers.
“See if you can find him! I'll call for backup.”

The soldiers nodded and went to pursue Egil into the woods as Axle looked over the carnage.

“You should have waited,” he said to Tobias. The Prince didn't say anything because he knew Axle was right. So rather than fight him on it he just signed and looked at him.

“Can we find out who they were?” he pointed to the bodies.
“What church they belonged to? Can we give them a proper burial?”

“Tobias, I need to call in backup. If whoever did this is out there we need more men and…”

“Axle?” Tobias replied, trying to hide his tears but just looking angry in the process.
“Please?”

Axle nodded. He took the sword away from Tobias and set it down in the snow before he hugged him.
“It's ok,” he said softly.

“No it’s not.”

“No,” Axle answered.
“It's not.”

He let Tobias go.
“I need to call in more men. But we’ll do right by them.”
Tobias nodded. He picked up his sword and studied the blade, that danced like liquid metal in the light of the fire. He sheathed it behind his back.

“Thank you,” he said softly, as he walked towards the FRE jeep just by the old dirt road.

---

Don't Fear the Reeper by Tom Rhodes, 4:07