"We don't go near The Battle, Francis. That's the rule." Arthur told him, eating a piece of meat from the deer Francis had caught a day prior. While he'd been learning magic rather well, he still felt safer with a bow and a blade on his person, the corporeal weapons seeming far more reliable.

"My brother is there, and I'm not watching that German muscle man kill him because of me. He left me in bandages every year, and Feliciano was never a fighter." He made it clear that he'd not been making a suggestion when saying he was going to The Battle. It was only an invitation for Arthur to come with him. He cared not for rules or tradition—he'd already lived far longer than he should have expected when he decided to betray the Ace of Hearts.

"There will be retaliation. There's no way you can just get away with disobeying the magic that rules this land. Maybe one of the weaker, conquered magics, but not this one. It's dark, and vengeful, and it won't take rebellion." Arthur was whispering, as if that would keep the magic in the trees and grass from hearing them. Of course, if it wanted to bother listening, it wouldn't have mattered how low they spoke. Eyes and ears were in their very minds, souls, even, watching and listening to every thought or flight of fancy that came their way.

"I don't care. I should be dead anyway. What's the worst that could happen?"

"You could be taken as the sacrifice it fed on. It would slowly devour your life, your soul. You would die a thousand times over the period of a year, and your little brother would still die at Ludwig's hand." Arthur couldn't admit that he'd grown to care for the buffoon. He was supposed to hate him, especially now when his tragedy was made increasingly obvious.

"Not if I kill Ludwig first. And everyone else who I thought would succeed him." he said it with enough cold certainty that Arthur grew scared. Before, he'd not been opposed to violence, trying every way he could think of to kill nothing more than the occasional deer, and even refusing to learn offensive magic for a while. But recently Francis seemed to have been looking for it, blood appealing to him in a way it shouldn't. He'd caught him arguing with the trees, shouting at fairies even he couldn't see. His father had done the same when they'd first arrived, but it had stopped, and he'd never got the scary glint in his eyes that Francis did. He wondered if their powers were really so different, and if somehow the markings on their chest were more than just tidings of their futures.

"You can't just go around killing people with Places! You'll tear the world down around us, you moronic git!" Now he was sure that something was driving Francis insane. He laughed, the sound hollow and dark. Before, it had always been an amused chuckle if he thought something funny, or a guffaw when he thought something exceptionally hilarious, but this was more like the voice of nightmares, no emotions and certainly no compassion.

"It will be beautiful, don't you think? I think that between the two of us, we could even beat the magic that rules. We could take over the realm, restore your own, make it a place worth living in, yes?" He licked his lips, as if he could taste the rebellious victory.

"No. It gives us a portion of It's power to keep It's order. It would destroy us, and anyone else who tried to go against it. Trust me, my father and I tried."

"You're wrong, Arthur. It's weak. The trees tell me so. And I'll prove it. Show up to the Battle, and I'll prove to you how strong I am." Arthur didn't want Francis to die, and he definitely didn't want to see the person who'd become the only break in his grief and loneliness die for insanity.

"I'm not going to go and watch you die." His voice cracked, a show of emotion he didn't want Francis to be aware of. In his bloodthirsty state, he might just take it for weakness, and Aurthur was afraid to find out what this power-mad version of his friend did to the weak.

"I'm not going to die, Arthur. I'm going to save the world. Can't you feel how fragile everything is?" He held his hands out, shaking his fingers as if this should make it obvious, like he felt a frailty that no one else could.

"No. The only thing fragile here is your sanity. You're a mad man, and you're going to end the world, not save it. Things are this way for a reason. I'm sorry." He shot his hand out, a paralysis spell. What he didn't expect was for Francis to scowl, and a wall of fire to dissipate his magic. He'd never seen that happen before—even his own father hadn't been able to cut off the most powerful spell of a type he had. And neither could he, as the same magic hit him square in the chest.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way, Arthur." Francis bent down, gave him a kiss on the lips, and disappeared with a click of his fingers.


"Dammit, hurry with the armor already." Ludwig ordered, and the servant's shaking fingers started moving faster. He was in a terrible mood, nervous for The Battle and taking it out on those around him because he was the Jack, and there were only three people for whom it wasn't his right in the entirety of the nation. He wasn't worried that Feliciano would end up hurting him, but the opposite. He promised him that he'd figure something out, but The Battle was tomorrow, and he didn't have any ideas. His honor fought with his emotions, where he needed to impress his father and brother by winning, but he also had no desire to hurt the innocent child that was his opponent. He knew what he had to do, but he'd have to give up his entire life to do it. He had to take Feliciano, and run away—leave both of them running from their families, the magic that bound them, every rule they'd ever been told. They had to break the status quo, and hope that it wouldn't end in misery. He was planning how to sneak away when as he rode to the battle field, where serfs were already setting up tents and flags. But would sneaking really do anything? Would stealing away like thieves in the night do anything but have them looked for and innocent people killed in a futile search? No, he'd have to ensure that he made it clear exactly what was going on, and dare anyone who wanted to stop him.

If anyone outside of his family tried, they'd be turned on, and they could get away in the chaos. And if his own family claimed his life...well he'd have to deal with those consequences. Anyone who would kill their own kin was no better than Romulus anyway, the monster he'd been bred to hate from the day he could understand speech. He talked with his brother as he did everytime they headed to The Battle. There were no reservations, no pride preventing them from saying just how much they loved each other, or the stories of when they were children. Only this time, rather than a vague worry than he would be felled by the Jack of Hearts, it was a certainty that he would never see Gilbert again, and, annoying as the asshole was, that was hurtful. It was his big brother, who had protected him when they were forced into The Battle as children, fighting off anyone who tried to harm him, especially Francis, who was an adult a few decades before even Gilbert. He still had a few dozen scars for his efforts, and he'd be who Ludwig would feel the most loss for.

"I know you don't like to talk about it, but what would you do if I died?" He asked, under the guise of not knowing what tricks the new Jack had under his sleeve.

"I'd have to keep doing my duty. But I'd miss you, little brother. I'd have to start being one of those boring kings who wore all black and never held parties. But this kid's a little pansy. You're not gonna die. I feel more sorry for that Asian dude. Antonio was really training this year."

"You shouldn't. You never looked good in black, and without partying, there's not much left to you. I don't think you know how to be serious." Ludwig smiled at his brother, trying to pass it off as a joke but hoping that he would remember it when he was gone. He hated the thought of the spark of fun leaving his brother's red eyes, and black made him look ghostly with his pale complexion.


Feliciano had nearly bitten his lip off as he rode with the party heading to The Battle rather than simply waving goodbye to them along with the children and disabled who stayed behind in the city. He was scared, and trying not to show it. This would normally be the part where Francis would pat him on the head, say it was going to be okay, and kill, or at least berate, whatever had frightened him. But there was no Francis, not anymore, and soon, one way or another, there would be no him either. Then his grandfather could take one of the Clubs, put them in his place, and seal the "alliance" that he'd been working on for years.

He wondered if Romano would miss him much, or if he'd be happy to be rid of his cowardly brother, too close in appearance to keep him from being an annoyance when they were mixed up. The sword he'd been training with lay slightly less heavy in his arms than it had when he'd watched his big brother be maimed in the street, but he hardly held the grace or strength of Ludwig of Spades. Certainly not enough to beat him without suffering massive injury. And yes, Ludwig had promised him that he had a plan, and that he wouldn't let anyone hurt him after they'd spent three weeks getting to know each other in his father's castle, but no one in their right mind would give up a chance for glory, and possibly moving up in rank to King, rather than Jack, for someone they'd known in person for less than a month. And his reputation hardly held enough sway to top that balance for a warrior—he was known for paintings, and song, and being generally afraid of his own shadow if it weren't to frightened to appear. He'd written a note, and left it on his bed as all those who went to The Battle were told—it was only to be read upon news of death, and should they come back alive, they would burn it on a fire where a feast was cooked in celebration both of their survival and the honored dead. Those who gave their lives for what seemed useless other than to feed a tyrant who didn't even bother to allow himself to be seen by the people he held so firmly in his grasp.

"What's wrong with you, Feliciano?" Romano asked, worried by the frown on his brother's normally grinning face. Yes, that optimistic smile got annoying sometimes, but it was better than his pale, shaky pursed expression.

"I've never wondered about death before, Brother." He answered, "But now suddenly, it's here, and I'm afraid it won't take kindly to strangers." He gulped, trying to force a smile for the sake of his brother if nothing else.

"You don't know that you're going to die. Maybe that potato bastard is all talk, or maybe you're secretly a bad ass and you just don't know it. You never know how things are going to work out, Feli." He nudged his horse closer so that he could lock brown eyes with his own green, and whisper without their father hearing, "I won't let you die, anyway. Damn the rules. I'm not loosing my little brother to something this stupid." Romano became frightened as well. He didn't want to lose his brother, but he'd also been told the same stories as everyone else—the horrible things that happened when someone didn't follow the rules.