Author Notes: I wonder if I keep going at the pace I've recently found, will I be able to complete this story before NaNoWriMo? I have a different story planned for November. Can I finish this one first? Hehe. Challenge accepted.

Warning: Remember the warnings of the first chapter? Yeah. They apply to the whole story. Don't be surprised when the characters start having pretty weighty conversations.

Chapter 4: How Ships Fly

"That's your brilliant escape plan?"

"Yup. It's awesome."

"Do you even know how to get a ship to fly?"

"Elf magic, right?"

"Gods, no. You need Anon to make it fly."

"Anon? The slave race? There's a bunch of those running around the prison."

"I doubt there's enough here that have the abilities we would need. Each Anon only has one power, so not only do you have to find enough of them, you have to get enough that have some form of flight or wind manipulation or anything that helps keep the ship in the air."

"Ah."

"Then, if you manage to do that much, you have to find someone who can control the Anon."

"What? Like an overseer? That's not so difficult considering-"

"Sort of. An Anon overseer is usually trained to handle many of them at once. It can't be just anyone, Gilbert."

"Hm. Okay. I'll see what I can find then."

"You're not giving up on this, are you?"

"Nope. I never give up."

~!~

So our escape plans are made – my plans worked on and tweaked by Arthur – during my second week of solitary confinement. Heh. I still laugh at how it's supposed to be solitary and yet it's where I met Arthur. Thank the gods for the military being lazy, I guess. Anyway, plans are made, and I come out of solitary with a memorized list of things to do and people to look for.

Of course, the day starts in the mines, and then progresses to my daily (or at this point, weekly, I guess) public humiliation. I don't think I last as long this time, or maybe I do and I just fail to count. Ugh. Whatever. Sixteen slashes, eight fucks, and I wake up with Krija healing my wounds. Again.

Only this time things are different because someone else is in the room. I'm laying on my stomach, resting my head on my arms while the Elf medic rubs my back with cream – which both hurts and feels good as the coolness of the cream helps with the burning of the slashed skin. Instead of talking to Krija like I had planned, I find myself staring at the unexpected addition to the room.

I can't decide if the guy is an Elf or not. His skin certainly is pale enough – but then again, my skin is insanely pale and I'm only a half-elf. I don't think I've ever seen or heard of an Elf with such a huge stature though. He looks like a fully trained knight, all this muscle built up and threatening to look at even if he hasn't said a word. Definitely not someone to mess with lightly.

Interesting fact. He's not a guard. There are no guards nearby, as per usual when the cells are closed. This guy isn't one of them, because he's wearing prison garb. He's dressed in the same black-and-white stripes that the rest of us are, and he's glaring at me just like the rest of them. It makes my skin crawl – and I'm not going to admit to having a little part of me that wants to hide behind Krija's healing magic-filled hands. Keep the unnatural muscle man away from me, please and thank you.

"There," Krija says, her hands lifting from my back. "You can sit up now."

So I do, lifting up to sit on the cot and lean against the wall. Same thing as last time. Though, honestly, this time I'm not expecting the pain as I switch positions. I hiss and whine as I send a half-hearted glare to the so-called medic.

"Hey, what about your magic?"

Her blue eyes roll and she even moves away, crossing her arms to her chest. "I'm still debating if it's worth using on your sorry ass."

"Oh come on," I say, leaning forward, and then immediately regretting the movement so my next words follow a groan. "It worked so well last time."

One of her thin eyebrows raise. "So well that you immediately went back into solitary for assault."

"Eh heh." True as it is, does she have to say it like that? Does she have to look at me like that? "Thought you were in on it. I wasn't actually going to do anything. You know that, right?"

Her eyes narrow this time. "No. I don't. Honestly, considering your crime, I believe you're quite capable of attempting anything. So, no, I can't trust you not to try-"

"I'm not a fucking rapist!"

Okay, so maybe the shout is uncalled for, but the way she's talking has gotten under my skin. Of all the jeers and accusations of others in this prison, I should be accustomed to dealing with people looking at me like this. I should expect her to think of me like that. After all, everyone else does. But I had been thinking she was different. She talks to me. She heals me. She went along with me. Why is she doing this now? Why the narrowed, distrusting eyes? Gods, I hate it when people look at me like that. It just reminds me of -

"You don't make a very convincing argument, Gilbert."

My hands clench and I have to hold myself back from jumping up and shaking her (because that type of action certainly isn't a way to convince her of the truth). "I'm not – Look, what I did last week was only the quickest way I could get back into solitary. I made it look bad on purpose. I thought you understood."

As she shakes her head, I can feel my control slipping. Control over my emotions. Not anger, though, not anymore. Frustration maybe. Betrayal? Hurt? Do I even deserve to feel such things? Geh. Whatever. It's not like I'm going to cry over it. She has a right to think what she wants. My actions have to convince her otherwise, and what happened last week was apparently too quick, too sudden. I made a bet and lost. Now she hates me just like everyone else. The chance of having a friend here, gone.

Shit. She's supposed to be part of the plan, too.

"For what it's worth," I mumble. "I didn't rape him."

My backside hurts – well, a lot more hurts than just my body – as I recall those convoluted moments of selfishness. It's so hard to look back and say I'm innocent, because in truth, I'm not. I did do something awful. I did deserve to come here. But is it so clear cut to call me out for something I didn't technically do?

Although I hang my head, I can see Krija tilt hers. She's curious. About my past. Great. "Him? Oh, you're speaking of your crime. That's the main reason no one trusts you, half-elf."

I grimace. Back to calling me half-elf. So much progress out the window. "But-"

"Don't sugarcoat it. I know the extent of your crime. I'm allowed to see your files when I've been assigned to heal you. So I know exactly what you're here for." I wince because she sounds sickened. Of course. Anyone would. "Personally, I already have trouble trusting you because you're half-human, but I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. A lot of people are put into prisons for crimes they didn't actually commit or for crimes that shouldn't be crimes. You, on the other hand-"

"I didn't rape him," my denial sounds weak.

Even Krija can hear that much, I'm sure. "The file says otherwise."

"It can say whatever the hell it wants to!" I cry, standing up. Of course I sit right back down because ouch my fucking legs and ass and back and gods, that was too much. Still, I grit my teeth and force myself to look at her. "I know what I did was worth the sentence, but the file doesn't tell the whole story. I didn't rape him. I didn't rape anyone. It's much more...complicated."

I'm starting to feel sick just remembering. I can still see Ludwig's bright blue eyes. His wide smile. I can hear his gleeful and yet serious (but childish) exclamations of love for his older brother. I can feel the hugs and almost sense the warmth of the pure innocence. Water forms in my eyes, clouding the visions, as I shake my head and reach my hands up to tug my hair. Love and trust from someone dear to me...and I ruined it. One mistake. One terrible, awful moment and now I'm just a sick child rapist in the files when in truth it's so much more complicated than that.

Hands touch my own, fingers threading through my hair and I blink to see Krija close to me, and she's humming. "Whatever it says and whatever the truth may be, you obviously regret it."

"So," I croak, finding my voice not to be working quite as I want. "You trust me?"

Her eyes close and she sighs. "I wouldn't go that far. Trust is hard to earn, Gilbert, especially when you assaulted me and you've betrayed the trust of a child once before."

I wince because she's right. She's right damn it. Who do I think I am, assuming I can gather enough people in this hell hole to trust me and work with me? I have a terrible record, and my actions last week only made it worse. At least from Krija's point of view.

"So that's why you have this guy here, huh?" I mutter, glancing toward the incredibly in-shape Elf who seems to be hovering in the background. "To protect you from me?"

Her eyes glance over her shoulder and her lips press together before she answers. "Your actions appear to have changed my own image. We will speak of him in a moment. I need you to tell me when you feel the magic working."

"Ah," I lick my lips and then shut my eyes to try to relax. If she's going to use her magic now, I need to be ready for the side-effects. Eventually, I do feel the coolness of her magical healing energy or whatever the hell you want to call it, and I hum in appreciation as the soreness starts to dissipate. "There. I feel it."

Her humming changes, the pitches change, and shortly after she pulls back. The energy begins to seep out – or, technically, sweat out, I suppose. I tense up in an effort to keep from puking all over the prison floor. I really hate this side effect. Have I mentioned that yet? I almost wonder if it's worth it; maybe I should just suffer the pain of the whipping and...eh...maybe not; if she's so willing to use her magic to heal me, I should take the opportunity given.

Still. I hate it when my stomach feels so queasy for so long. Even with my eyes closed, I can tell that Krija stands up and moves away. Hell, I hear her stool scratch along the floor as she pulls it with her. After a moment, I can swallow the bile in my throat and look up to see her sitting on the stool next to the metal bars of the prison. The muscle man is still hanging off in the background, closer to her now, but still glaring at me. Shit.

"Gilbert," Krija says, pulling my attention away from the stranger. "Was it worth it?"

I blink. "Uh. What?"

She sighs. "Did you get to talk to Arthur?"

"Oh! Uhm..." I'm about to answer in the affirmative when I remember the fact that there's this guy I don't know sitting in here with us. I glance over to muscle Elf man again. "I, uh -"

"Don't worry about him," Krija says. "Borim had his tongue removed a long time ago. He can't spread anything we say here, especially because the Human guards are too stupid to realize he can write just fine."

"Oh really?"

This makes me laugh. Hah. The guy can't say anything back at me; he just glares; that's all he's got. He can't even go rat me out for anything. Definitely not scared of him anymore. Well, now that Krija's healed me and I can defend myself or at least run from anything if he tries to fight. Bigger means not as fast. So, yeah. Not scared anymore.

"Gilbert..." Krija's voice has a warning in it.

But of course I don't give a shit about her warning. "So your little bodyguard can't say shit? What's wrong big guy? Cat got your tongue?"

So, uhm, just for future reference. Don't piss off someone bigger than you. It doesn't always end up in your favor. And that little rule about big guys being slow and useless? Yeah. Forget that shit. It's a lie.

See, Borim, or whatever his name is, came at me so fast I barely had time to blink. One minute I'm poking fun at him, the next I have my head against the rock wall, a hand around my throat so tight I can't breathe, and well...my own hands being entirely useless trying to pry him off.

Shit. Shit shit shit. I fucked up. I fucked it up hard. Gray eyes are boring into my own, looking so pissed I don't even know how to take it. I can't breathe, I'm against a wall, and all my planning is about to go up in smoke because of my fucking big mouth.

"I tried to warn you," and Krija doesn't sound at all worried, though I can see that she's moved to stand beside the Elf giant. "Borim, let him be. He's a foolish half-elf, and I did just use magic to heal him so I will be sorely annoyed if you make it go to waste."

There's a grunt from the heavily muscled man and then the grip around my throat is gone and I feel my body slide against the wall, slumping down as I sit on the cot and stare back at the two Elves before me. I rub at my neck and take nice deep gulps of air. I did learn something about myself in that little moment. I definitely don't want to die from asphyxiation or choking or anything with the whole can't-breathe involved in it. None of those sound like a good way to die.

"So, uh," I manage to kinda sorta whisper as I try not to huddle against the wall – totally not scared of the big guy, nope, not at all, except maybe a little. But hey, I'm talking directly to him and not poking fun, so that's a step in the right direction, right? "What did you do, then? You know, uh, to lose your tongue? Who cut it out?"

Borim stares at me, his face an impossible mask to read. Then he turns to Krija who sighs and answers for him. "I don't know the details. I do know it was King of the Tardin kingdom. Beilschmidt was the name, right?"

My eyes go wide. The glare from Borim suddenly makes a lot more sense. Oh, shit. He hates me because of something my old man did. Not because of my crime or because of my half-elf lineage. But because of what my father -

Wait.

His skin isn't as pale as I thought it was; I can see it better from this close. It almost looks tanned. Is he even an Elf? Is that dark hair and not dirty blond? Gray eyes, dark hair...incredibly well built and tall and huge and...

...holy shit I remember.

~!~

-Tardin Palace, Years Earlier-

"Hold!"

Even though I want to press further, I can feel myself grinning as I hold as instructed. My arm is stretched out, my legs spread to help with the movement of pushing forward and up. I've got the point of my practice saber at my teacher's neck, a thrust away from digging it into flesh and cutting upwards for a killing blow. I've won this. I know it.

"Gilbert." So why does my teacher say my name with a sigh? "You lose again."

I nearly stumble at the proclamation. That can't be right! I have my saber at his throat! He's the one inches from death; there's no way he could say I lost this time!

"But-"

Speaking out loud is enough to make me realize what he's talking about, because I can feel it now. Taking in that breath makes it obvious and now I know why I lose. "No buts. Look harder. Tell me why you lose."

Still holding my position, I lower my head to see the point of my teacher's saber not just about to pierce skin but actually pressing into my belly. If we were using real sabers, my guts would have spilled out and I'd be suffering a grievous wound by now. I grimace. Even the practice ones kind of hurt.

"But I killed you, too!" I exclaim, looking back up at him.

"You might have," my teacher says. "I wounded you first and your momentum may not be enough, especially considering our differences in size."

I grit my teeth. No, he's wrong! I'm sure of it! "My momentum is enough, though! I learned about momentum from the tutors the other day and-"

"It's too risky of a move, Gilbert." There it is. The real reason I've lost according to my teacher. "You shouldn't lean so heavily on the risks."

I shut my mouth and grumble something under my breath, looking away from him. I still don't agree. I love taking risks. It makes the payout feel better if I win. And I know I won that. If this was a real fight and there was a medic nearby, then I would be okay, but he would still be dead. He just doesn't like my methods! Doesn't mean they don't work!

"Master Dusemer?" A maid enters the courtyard and my teacher gives me the signal to relax.

As the maid meets up with my fencing instructor, I stand there and rub at my stomach, still holding my practice saber in hand. Freaking jerk. He didn't have to push it in so far. If Mom was allowed to, she would throw a fit anytime someone hurt me. Accident or not. My father doesn't really care, and my mom is a servant (which the rest of the world doesn't know exists for now). They call me a bastard, but I am my father's only son, so I do have some rights, as long as my father allows me those rights at least.

Still, it's going to make me mad that Dusemer gets to say I lost. According to my teacher, I haven't won a single match and it's pathetic because usually boys my age have figured out a few tricks at least. It's made even worse by the fact that I've had twice as many years because I'm a half-elf, which basically means it's taken me twenty years to reach what humans would consider my tenth birthday. I look and act like the equivalent of a human child of ten; I've just lived for twice that long. Whatever. I think my teacher's not being fair with me, and not letting me have the wins I know I deserve. Well, not accepting it when I do win. Jerk.

If he would give me this much, my father may not hate me so much. None of the tutors in the castle share my progress as anything but sub-optimal. I'm weak and pathetic and not really worth the time. According to them. But I swear I'm doing good! I know how to read and write, even if my handwriting is awful. But they never share that with my father! They just tell him I'm a failing student when I know I'm not.

I have to work extra hard to be noticed by him. I just want to be noticed -

"Master Gilbert?" The maid is in front of me now. I blink up at her and her eyes lower immediately. "His Majesty wishes to see you."

I blink again. I never hear those words. Well, rarely. "Huh?"

"His Majesty wishes to see you," she repeats, holding a hand out to me. "Immediately."

"Oh! Uh, okay."

I look around for a place to put my practice saber and find my fencing instructor standing beside me. He sighs and takes the weapon from me. "Go on. We'll meet next time to discuss your horrendous stances."

I want to explode on him. I want to go off and complain that it's not fair for him to treat me like a failure. I've done so well so far and he just keeps pushing me down. I swear it's not me. I swear he's either holding me back or being too rough. I don't have a single chance to get anything right because he's always changing his mind on what is correct or not.

But, anyway, I'm reminded that my father has called on me. My father wants to see me. He never sends someone to find me. Never. I can't waste time. He might take it back.

So I hand over my saber and rush with the maid to the throne room where my father is currently handling a case of some sort. I've seen a few of these before, mostly from the balcony positions of the second floor. Most of them are boring. Requests for more soldiers here, more protection for planters and farmers, complaints about soldiers acting out. Any number of petitions.

But the moment I step into the elongated polished stone room, I know that today is different. This case is different. Special somehow. And when I enter, my father smiles at me. He actually smiles at me! "Ah, Gilbert, just in time."

I grin and try not to race up the stairs to stand beside him. I make it fast but hopefully not too obvious. I open my mouth to speak, but someone beats me to it. My mother. An Elven servant currently hanging on my father's arm. She's there to make him happy; I don't know what that means, but I think she does her job well most of the time. I'm just not allowed to call her mother in front of anyone else, and she's not allowed to visit me.

"Is this case appropriate, my liege?"

My father's eyes flare and my mother shrinks from his gaze. But when he turns back to me, he's smiling again. "Oh, no, this is perfect. My son," he says and I feel my heart surge in glee. "Watch closely. This is what happens to those who speak out against me."

Huh. That's a weird thing to call me for. Is it some sort of threat? Why does my mother look so upset? I don't understand... Hell, I don't care. He acknowledged me. He called me son. He never does that! Never!

So I look out at the person who has apparently spoken out against the king of the land. A large man, someone I would have trouble fighting even if I wasn't a kid I'm sure. Gray eyes glaring toward my father, toward me. Knights holding him down, pinning him to his knees and holding his head. What's going on? Why -? What are they going to do?

And then my father speaks. "Overseer Borim of the High Rangers. You have been charged with harboring rebels, consorting with rebels, and using your powers over the kingdom's Anon to aid the rebels. You know what the punishment is should I find you guilty?"

The guy spits. My eyes widen. No one would dare be so rude to my father. My father's the king. Who would stand against the king? That...why? "You can do what you wish. I will not regret my actions. I will no longer serve a tyrant king."

I blink. My father makes a motion with his arm. Gray eyes meet mine and I shrink back from the gaze. The moment is over soon, though, when someone else walks in front of the large man and I no longer see what's happening. I hear a grunt and choked cry. And then the blood flows.

The blood...everywhere. My eyes see it on the tiles. I hear noise around me as the world continues on, as my father gives more orders, as the men move away, but my eyes stay trapped, focused on the red staining the tile floor. So much blood.

And then there's a hand on my shoulder and I gasp, turning to see my father, but he's no longer smiling. "Do you understand, Gilbert? This is what happens when you disappoint me. Do not disappoint me."

I gulp and nod and feel my body shaking. A threat. All along, that's all he wanted.

...I wish I could hate him as much as he hates me.

~!~

I'm staring at Borim in the small cell, seeing him in an entirely different light as the memories rush back to me. The vivid memories of blood, of rejection, of hatred... Gods, I remember everything. It's almost a sign to prove I was traumatized myself by the event, but whatever.

Something sticks out at me. Anon. Overseer. Could this guy be useful? Could he be one of the guys Arthur said I'd need to find? If we're going to escape using the pirate ship, then we have to be able to make it fly. To make it fly, we have to have Anon. To use the Anon efficiently, we have to have an Overseer who can control them. This guy...

Holy shit. Maybe the gods don't hate me after all.

"Krija," I whisper, a little surprised to see her look up and acknowledge my words. "Do you have something he can write on?"

She takes a moment to respond, and she sounds a little hesitant. "Yes...why?"

I nod toward Borim, who is still glaring at me. Oh gods, does he remember? Or is he just hating on my name? "I want to ask him something. Well, several things. You said he could write, right?"

Heh. Common. Words are funny.

"Right..." she still sounds skeptical but she does pull out a little notepad from her shirt. Heh. That's weird. Does she not have room in her pockets? Or does she just prefer to keep it there? Eh, whatever. She then proceeds to pull out a pen and bottle of ink from her pockets, probably answering my question. Nice. "It's handy for medics to have material to write with, otherwise you would be left to reading rock scratches on the stone."

I wave my hand in the air. "Whatever. I'm just lucky, I guess."

Krija laughs as she hands the paper and pen and ink to Borim. Borim glares at me, unconvinced no doubt, but he takes the materials and then sits down so he can write. Krija hovers close to him. I stay on my comfortable cot and lean against the wall. The little distance I can keep, the less movement I make, the better. They're both on edge and not trusting of me. I have to tread lightly. Hey, I can keep control of my actions when necessary.

Eh...most of the time.

"All right, Gilbert," Krija says after a while. "Ask away. He's waiting."

I grin and lean forward a little. "First question. Do you remember me?"

Borim's eyes squint, almost like he wants to glare harder. Then he looks down at the paper, dips the quill pen in the ink and starts to scribble out his answer. Krija reads over his shoulder. "It says -"

But I stop her. "Don't read over his shoulder like that; it's annoying when people do. Besides, I can read, probably from here if he holds it up and -"

"You can read?" Krija's disbelief in this fact is a little annoying, but understandable. Not many people can, you know. Read, that is.

"Yeah," I say, crossing my arms. "I'm a noble. Eh. Ex-noble, I guess."

Krija looks curious and she opens her mouth to say something, but Borim finishes writing and holds up the pad of paper for me to read. I take a good long look, having to take a moment to discern the differences in dialect and glyph patterns. Glyphs. Good thing I learned to read those way back when. I haven't seen someone write in glyphs except for the old books. No wonder the human guards don't think Borim can write. He doesn't write in New Common. Which is interesting on its own when you think about it.

Of course the words make me grimace and hang my head like I've been shot. "Idiotic albino half-elf bastard of a king," I mumble. "Yeah, I'll take that as a yes. For the record, I didn't really like my father much either."

Borim grunts. I guess that's all he can do, really. Krija, on the other hand, looks shaken. "Bastard of a king...Beilschmidt. You're...why did I not put the pieces together earlier?"

I roll my eyes. "Come on, Krija. Wasting time here. Talk about my past later. Borim, you have power over Anon, don't you?"

Borim returns to writing. I glance over at Krija. She's staring at me now. What? Why is she staring at me? I can't read her expression. I don't think I've ever seen that expression sent my way before. What the hell does it even mean?

My attention goes back on Borim and the paper raises with his response: "Yes. Overseer. My destined job."

"Okay...not sure what you mean by destined, but okay..." I lick my lips. Perfect. I'm getting somewhere. He's talking to me; still doesn't look too happy with me, but he's entertaining me for now, at least. Maybe I'm the one worth being curious about here. "Can you still do it? With your tongue cut out and all, I mean."

Scribble. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Gods, he almost sounds angry. "Yes. Humans are fools. I do not control with voice. I control with old mind technique."

"Uhm. What? Mind magic? Elves can't do that." I turn to Krija. "Right?"

She shrugs and shakes her head. But she's smiling. What the fuck is she smiling about? Borim at least seems to be answering my question. He's scribbling again on the pad of paper, and when he lifts it up he's smiling too. What the actual fuck?

"I am not Elf. I am Rhialt. Rhialt of the 1st Degree."

I read it out loud, and then frown. "Okay, what the fuck does that even mean?"

Krija laughs, her smiles no longer holding it back. I send a glare her way, but she runs a hand through her tangled blond hair as she finds a comfortable seat on her stool again. "Rhialt is what they call themselves. As someone who grew up under Humans, you would know them as Rangers. 1st Degree to them would be High Ranger to you. It's not royalty, and not really nobility either, but Borim comes from a strong lineage in the Ranger community."

"Uhm. I don't even – what?"

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. "Mind abilities are bloodline only. I come from a strong bloodline. I control Anon because they are naturally of weaker minds. But more importantly, why do you ask about my ability, Gilbert?"

It's kind of strange how he spells my name. I mean, I've seen it in glyph form before, but usually with one glyph, not two. Oh well. Different upbringings. Different styles. And names are always weird in different alphabets anyway. Not that it's important. What matters is getting to the point of my questions, I suppose. I hadn't planned to jump ahead so soon, but once again the opportunity is there, so why not?

"Because," I say as I lick my lips. "How else are we supposed to get a pirate ship in the sky?"

~!~

A/N: New story structure! Instead of dumping all the Arthur/Gilbert dialogue at once, we get it in short spurts now as it pertains to what Gil will do / attempt to do later in the chapter. Yeah!

- Borim as a bodyguard to Krija. Because consequences.

- Flashback moment is longer than I thought it would be, but it shows several important things? Yeah, that's totally my excuse.

- Dusemer (the fencing teacher from Gilbert's past), is actually a name pulled from a Grandmaster of the Teutonic Knights(Heinrich Dusemer von Arfberg ); I did a little research to find me a Grandmaster with a) a name I could use and b) battlefield experience; it doesn't get much more detailed than that, so seriously just a cool tidbit of name usage there

- "I'm a noble. Eh. Ex-noble, I guess." Did you mean..? "I'm a nation. Eh. Ex-nation, I guess." Ah! My heart!

Review Responses:

Sora Resi: Hehehe...hehehe...Hope you enjoy finding out his plan little by little. :)

~I love all reviews, alerts, and favorites; please let me know what you think; I hope the OCs aren't too much!~

~Reda