They were half brothers, Francis had told him in a fit of anger not so long ago. It was the first time Francis had ever said it, and it hurt more than Bash had thought it would. Had thought it should.
In truth, Bash wasn't sure Francis had ever even made the distinction until Bash had taken Mary from him. He wasn't certain when he himself had, and that frightened him almost as much as the sight of his brother falling through the ice.
And suddenly he felt very numb, as a memory very similar to this rushed to the forefront of his mind, before his legs could move to help his brother.
When they were both young, Mary away at the convent and everything alright between the two of them, Bash and Francis were almost inseparable.
Bash wasn't certain when that had changed, but always found amusement in the fact that it irked Catherine to no end, and made Diane smile, for she knew that Bash's continued existence when his brother became King would depend on Francis' love for him.
Of course she wanted that love to flourish.
It was during his eleventh summer that this first became a problem.
Bash had insisted on going hunting with a boy from the kitchens. He was the King's Bastard, and so he was allowed these special privileges, without having to worry about the palace guard following him and chasing off his prey. And the boy he took with him was a quiet one, so he needn't worry about him scaring the animals in the woods.
He hadn't known his brother was following him until it was too late.
They stopped at a little inland lake, Bash insisting that they have a nice swim to cool off after hours in the woods, and the serving boy too frightened of upsetting the king's favorite son to admit that he didn't know how to swim, apparently.
They stayed near the shore, so that the serving boy didn't run the risk of drowning, and it was not until they were just about to climb out, skin puckered and cool, that Bash heard the scream.
His little brother was quite a bit shorter than he, at the time, despite the closeness in their ages. He had tried to follow Bash into the deeper edge of the lake, despite not knowing how to swim, and just managed to scream before going under at the last minute.
The serving boy let out a cry, neither having seen who the child was who had fallen into the water, and then Bash was moving, faster than he'd had occasion to do so before, because some small part of him, some part that he didn't truly wish to acknowledge, knew exactly who had fallen in. Exactly who had followed them to this particular lake.
He managed to pull Francis out of the water after some searching, too long, Francis' heavy clothes weighing down on him, looking every inch a drenched rat, and pulled him to the safety of the beach.
The serving boy was terrified, blubbering that the Queen would have his head because of what happened. Bash didn't blame him; some part of him acknowledged that she would probably have his, as well.
He didn't know, back then, that he should have woken Francis up and forced him to cough the water from his lungs. Whenever Francis or even Bash was sick before, they were told to sleep it off and take medicine, and so the sight of his half-brother, unconscious after his ordeal, didn't disturb him as much as it should have.
They didn't have horses, and had been forced to drag Francis back to the palace between the two of them. After quite some time in the woods, it had concerned Bash that Francis wouldn't wake at all, especially after the third time Bash accidentally dropped him. But still he wouldn't wake up, no matter how many times Bash cried and begged him to.
When they finally made it back to the palace, the serving boy ran ahead to find the King and Queen. They were frantic, having realized Francis was gone some time ago but unable to find him on the grounds; his usual hiding place.
And when Bash finally did walk into the palace through the front door, escorted by armed guards but refusing to relinquish his brother to their hold, after spending half a day dragging Francis through the woods, they barely looked at him before the Queen swept Francis into her own arms and called for the Court Physician.
He would live, Bash knew, despite the water filling his lungs.
But then the King's attentions turned to him, the one who had allowed the Dauphin to nearly drown in the lack in the first place.
The King had slapped him, the first time in Bash's life, and confined him to the dungeons for the rest of the day.
Bash had been terrified in those grimy, dark cells, but he learned a harsh lesson that day; though he might have been the King's favorite son, Francis was and would always be his heir, and therefore was the more important of the two.
He had been released when Francis finally woke, and, to this day, did not think his brother knew of the harshness of that lesson. Hoped that he never would.
Now, the sight of his brother, falling beneath the ice, made something freeze inisde of Bash, and, for a moment, he could only stand and stare even as Francis' scream ripped through the silent afternoon.
It reminded him so much of that day, though now the circumstances were even worse, for, where Francis had run the risk of having his lungs filled then, he now chanced succumbing to the cold before they could reach the warmth of the castle.
For a single moment, all the anger between them, the jealousy over Mary, and even the fact that Francis had sent guards to kill Bash, disappeared. All he could think about was the fact that he might have just killed his own brother by bringing him on this quest.
That was certainly what they would think back at the castle, when he returned. That he had lured the Dauphin out here with this intention all along, as petty revenge for stealing back Mary.
Even Mary would not be able to save him from the chopping block.
Then he was moving, running, and while he told himself that it was because he wanted to save his own skin, that if Francis died, he would, too, that this was depth of his brother's own affections for him these days, he knew that wasn't the case.
Because despite everything between them now, Francis was still his little brother.
"Francis!" he cried out, slamming into the ice near where the blond had gone under, hands already reaching blindly for his sword.
Some wicked part of him screamed that it was too late, that he would never find Francis now, but he shoved the voice aside, slamming his sword into the too thick ice.
"Francis!" he shouted again, and then, horribly, he could hear the sound of his brother's muffled screaming, buried under that thick foot of ice between them.
Behind him, the guard moved forward, shouting out, "My lord," and Bash wasn't certain whether he was referring to himself or to Francis.
"Stay back," he snapped. "The ice is too thin."
The guard stopped, looking rather put out, but Bash didn't have the time to deal with all of the guards who now hated him because he had killed some of their own.
"Hold on!" he murmured, more for his own benefit than Francis', for it was rather doubtful that, in his current state, Francis could hear him at all.
Then he was reaching for his sword, yanking it from its sheath and burying it to the hilt in the ice separating them. The ice cracked, but, by the time he had managed to push aside the snow in a better attempt at seeing his brother, Francis was swept away.
The current. There was a current underneath this river, pulling Francis downstream.
Jumping to his feet, Bash ran downstream as far as he dared go. He dropped to his knees once more, brushing aside the snow and slamming the sword into the ice once more. It broke, water lapping against his gloved hands.
Behind him, he could hear the sounds of a scuffle, and wondered whether the rest of the guards had returned upon hearing all the commotion, but didn't dare turn around. Didn't dare take his eyes off Francis.
All he need do was wait, wait for Francis to appear.
It did not take long.
Within moments, Francis was there, body spinning past the hole Bash had made, and he just managed to drag his little brother to freedom before he could be swept away once again.
Bash pulled Francis into his arms, choking down his horror at the sight of his blue-tinged skin and soaked skin. But what terrified him the most was that his brother did not open his eyes.
He gave his brother's cheek a little slap, in an attempt to wake him and was hardly surprised when this did nothing but elicit a small moan.
He was glad, though, when Francis opened his mouth, and gently turned his brother on his side, watching as the water erupted from his bruised lungs and emptied onto the ice.
Still, Francis did not wake, only let out another moan and fell limp against Bash.
The man standing guard on the shoreline did not come forward to help him, and he wondered at that, because even if the King's Guard resented the King's bastard they were here for the King's son.
But he didn't dare let this take his attentions away from his little brother for long, for he feared that, should he do so, he might never have the chance to look at him alive again.
Francis had been beneath the ice far too long for comfort. Even longer, this time, than he had been that fateful summer, and the ice certainly leant an even more dangerous addition to Francis' condition.
"Francis," Bash whispered down at the unconscious body of his brother, even as he attempted to stand with Francis in his arms. He knew they needed to make it back to the shoreline, and quickly. The ice had already proven itself untrustworthy.
Unthinking, he stripped off his outer coat, now rather wet from fishing his brother out of the water, but certainly not as wet as Francis' own clothing, and wrapped it tightly around him in an attempt to keep him warm.
"Francis," he whispered again, desperately trying to wake him. Although Francis shivered from the cold, he did not respond.
Francis, of course, did not respond to Bash's pleas.
His little brother was heavy, a deadweight in his arms, weighed down also by the water still filling him, but he managed to stumble forward with him in his arms and not drop him once.
Perhaps this sudden strength was found because he was terrified that Francis might not even make it back to the palace before succumbing to the cold. At this point, it was a very real threat, even with their horses travelling as fast as they could.
He was just about to run back to the shoreline, throw Francis on a horse, and ride it hard back to the palace when the smell hit him, and a horrible premonition made him turn searchingly toward the beach. The smell was one of death.
He was not a fool, and the lack of King's guard standing by the shoreline raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He could see the dark blood staining the snow even from here.
The fact that he had not even heard a skirmish, or had, but not loud enough to indicate such violence, on the shoreline whilst he had his back turned made his heart clench.
He didn't give himself time to wonder why whomever had attacked Francis' guards and the horses, had not also attacked him and Francis. They had certainly been vulnerable enough.
Cringing and wishing that he still had a hand free to shield his nose from the stench, Bash forced himself to run forward, Francis' limp body slapping against his chest with each footfall, to see what had happened.
He already thought he had a terrible suspicion. A whisper in his mind, one that he didn't wish to hear.
His horse lay slaughtered, insides erupting into the snow, throat slit. He saw it first, and forced himself not to react. The horse, a lovely mare, had been a gift from his father on his last name day, and he adored the creature. But that didn't matter.
Not until Francis was safe, out of the cold, and they were safe from whoever had attacked. Francis' horse lay gutted as well, and it stained the snow surrounding them a dull pink.
The sole guard who had remained with them while the rest checked the woods was in much the same condition, wide blue eyes, unseeing, staring up at the sun.
He had not even screamed when he was killed, and now Bash realized why; a thick rope had been placed between his teeth as a gag. Whomever had killed him and snuck up from behind, and had no honor in doing so.
Bash had no doubt that the rest of their guards had encountered the same fate, deeper in the woods.
He let out a curse, glancing down at Francis once more.
This certainly complicated matters, made what he could do for Francis in his current state a bit more difficult.
He had no doubt that this carnage was the handiwork of the Darkness, or, at the very least, pagans from the woods.
"Up, up, Francis," he hissed down at his little brother, even if he knew the younger man would not be able to hear him. "Come on, I need you to wake up now."
Francis stubbornly refused.
The castle was not far, by horseback. They had made it out here in a mere hour's time, and they had not been hurrying for, though Francis understood that this was a bad situation, Bash knew that he had been in no hurry to fight an enemy by his half-brother's side.
Bash had seen the look Francis gave him earlier, the look that had prompted Mary to remind him that this Darkness was the true enemy, not Bash.
He did not think Francis was entirely convinced.
Nor was he certain that, were their situations reversed, Francis would have fished him out of the river just now, when he had so recently sent his guards to kill him.
And that, far more than the knowledge that his half-brother could very well die from exposure out here, terrified him.
Walking back, however, carrying Francis through knee-deep snow, would not be easy, nor would it be anywhere near as quick as by horseback. They would be forced to find shelter before long, if he wished for Francis to live, and Bash knew of no close villages.
And if they remained out here for long, especially given Francis' current condition, well...Bash did not want to think about what would happen.
He did not want to think about how, twenty-four hours earlier, he was sure that Francis had probably tried to have him killed, and now, Bash might just be the cause of his brother's death.
Given, of course, that the Darkness did not find them and finish them off first.