Lord knows I should be studying—it's Finals week. *sigh*

There seems to be a mix up on Victor's age—I'm sorry for not being clear on that. Thank you BaiduScorpion for pointing that out.

So, Lord Victor is 20 years old, he was supposedly killed 12 years ago—when he was 8 years old. Mind you, not as a warrior—it was a Viking raid, and they were known to kill women and children indiscriminately. Nevertheless, let's just say something happened to Victor when he was 8 years old that caused Queen Gwendolyn's Father to makeup a raid-massacre cover-up story to ease his daughter's worries. Between those missing 12 years is when he became a Lord and a General—don't worry, I'll fill in what happened in those 12 years in the upcoming chapters and also what really happened to Victor those 12 years ago (when he was 8 years old).

I hope this clears up any confusion, and I'm sorry again for not being clear enough. If you have any more questions on seeming inconsistencies, please ask!

Anyways, onwards to the story!

O0oo0O

Red Snow

Chapter 10: A Reflection, A Candle

The air shook with a thousand thundering battle cries as a stampede of horses rumbled the earth, as a shower of arrows rained upon flesh, as steel flashed and sang, and as blood drenched the snow-laden ground. The Knights charged valiantly into the enemy's ranks, swinging their blades, trampling and crushing the infantry with their battle horses. Another volley of arrows was released that crisscrossed the sky and sunk into the two opposing armies. Some fell upon wooden and iron shields, others missed their mark altogether, still others feel upon horseflesh, and the rest maimed and killed men.

Warm blood splashed Gunther's face when he hacked another foe, as his horse surged forward he saw a flash to his left. With years of training hewn into his mind Gunther instinctively parried and slashed, his sword sinking into his opponent and effectively killing him. The Knights galloped forth, after the surviving civilians were safe in the citadel, they were charged with the task of thinning and breaking the enemy's forces, leaving the foot soldiers behind them with the task of effectively routing their foes.

Not once losing his focus Gunther was surprised how composed he was in the blazing chaos around him. As homes burned, as men fought, and as death reined Gunther was calm, collective, and calculating.

Their line of Knights were closing towards the opposing archer's ranks, and he believed their business here was soon complete because from his vantage point, Gunther could see no more enemy forces behind the snipers, only the threshold of the forest. Once he neared the finish line, Gunther urged his horse to gallop faster, his veins coursing with adrenaline, his war cry raking the sky, his sword poised for the kill.

His eyes widened as another volley of enemy arrows rushed towards them. Before Gunther could blink, he heard a screeching neigh and he knew then that his horse was hit. As his flanking comrades raced past, his steed tumbled to the cold ground beneath and launched Gunther forward. He landed on his back with a sickening thud that knocked the wind from him. Dazed, he struggled for breath, fighting to take in large gulps of air.

Lying on his back, he could dimly see the faraway clouds of grey smoke, could vaguely hear the sounds of the battle blazing, but he could clearly see the white droplets falling from the sky. A strange sensation swelled within him, and he had to admire the sheer beauty of it all.

A raging shout brought him to his senses and he rolled away from an incoming sword thrust. Gunther rushed to his feet as his opponent pulled his blade from the earth and lunged towards him again. The raven-haired Knight easily dodged and struck, cutting through his unarmored back in one foul swoop. Two more enemies appeared among the chaotic pandemonium; he easily dispatched one, but had trouble with the other. His iron-helmed opponent was swift as they both coiled and pounced in their sword's lethal dance.

As Gunther fought for breath, gasping and bathed in sweat and blood, he saw an opening and quickly slammed his blade into his enemy's soft neck—beheading him in one stroke. As his foe's head rolled into the ground the helmet came off, and Gunther's eyebrows rose at the bright crimson hair that was revealed. His mind instantly flared with thoughts and remembrances of Jane, and he wondered where she was.

Probably hiding underneath her bed in fright, he sneered in thought.

After a moment, he deeply exhaled and lightly shook his head. Jane was many things—stubborn, pig-headed, completely annoying, and overly righteous, but she was not a coward. Over the years of their acquaintance, he had seen her at her best and at her worst, he saw her showered with praise, but also shoulder bigotry because of her sex, and blasted with catcalls that would even make him blush. But Jane still stood tall, with her back straight, her chin held high, and her eyes blazing—and she endured it all. She proved her worth time and time again—with her perseverance, hard work, and a will of iron.

Gunther always felt a twinge of jealousy towards her, of her unfazed attitude, her support group of friends, and her optimistic outlook on life. Every time he saw her he was faced with everything he lacked, and he hated her for it. Over the years, that intense hatred slowly turned into indifference, and that indifference morphed into something resembling admiration. Gunther would rather die than admit that Jane—with her fierce determination, her high code of morality, and her sweet heart-fluttering smile—that she could inspire him to be better, stronger, and worthy. Worthy of the title of Knighthood, worthy of being in the King's Service, and worthy of being her comrade-in-arms.

So Gunther fulfilled his honor-bound duty and, with word at hand, vanquished his Kingdom's enemies. He weaved, dodged, lunged, struck, and killed all in his path. As he raised his eyes to look out to the distance, he saw the mounted Knights destroy the line of enemy archers.

This battle will soon be over.

He was glad for that because his body was starting to tire. As Kippernia's infantry burst forth and assisted him the battle was all but won. Their forces have successfully defeated Lord Victor's standing army, and Gunther felt relief wash over him. He caught the joyful smile of Sir Ivon in the distance and shot one of his own back at the mounted warrior.

A flashing glimmer in the trees caught his attention, his gray eyes widened, and his mouth softly opened as he witnessed Kippernia's Knights being pelted by a sea of arrows from the woods. His cry of shock became a scream of rage as he led the charge to the legion of foes streaming from the forest. As they counterattacked the enemies' surprise assault Gunther was quick to realize that they were vastly outnumbered, but the collective warriors battled onward with hearts ablaze to defend each other to the death.

Amidst the bloody and horrific slaughter, the onyx-haired Knight saw a familiar figure slicing and slashing all the souls around him. The blond moved with lightning-quick precision and was soon splattered with his enemy's blood. The heart within Gunther's chest began to race, undying determination filled his stormy eyes, and he crossed the battlefield leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. He always wanted to cross swords with that pretentious, pompous, (and some would say "polite") man. At first he just wanted to test his skills against the formidable and statuesque master swordsman—but now it was personal.

Now he wanted nothing more than to violently kill him.

Not because Lord Victor had hurt Jane.

No, it was because he had destroyed the boring peace of Kippernia, because he had sent legions of men to battle his Kingdom, and because he had murdered his countrymen, comrades-in-arms, and Queen. It had nothing to do with Victor's twisted cruelty towards Jane. It was not because he had raised her hopes and Knighthood only to crush them in malevolent delight—no, it was vengeance for the fallen, a chance to prove himself worthy and become legend—it was not a vendetta for seeing those emerald eyes in despair.

So Gunther went forth and met Lord Victor's blade with unyielding force. He glared at his foe with an intense hatred and was stunned to see the blond smile back.

"I was hoping to see you here," Victor said, as if they were old friends and where anywhere but a field of carnage. His grin turned dark. "I hope you will prove yourself more amusing than the weaklings I have been facing thus far."

Victor thrust his blade and Gunther staggered back from the blow, but quickly recovered and retaliated. Gunther's war cry flew from his lips as he hacked, slashed, and swung his blade, itching to spill Victor's blood.

The golden-haired man was beaming as he dodged and blocked every attempt to claim his life.

"I knew you would not disappoint me," Victor crooned as he parried another swing. "You who has such fire behind those eyes, surely you cannot fail," his smile turned wicked, "can you?"

"Shut up and fight me," Gunther growled. "Or do you find yourself unable to? Have you met your match?" he taunted. "Reached your limits?"

Victor's icy glare silenced him, his grin twisted his features. "No, but you have."

And with those words, Victor struck, and it was then that Gunther knew true fear. The sable-headed Knight had yet to face an opponent of such caliber, such astuteness, such finesse, and such prowess of the sword. It took everything Gunther had not to be killed, for Victor was fast and unbelievably strong.

They twisted and lunged in war's deadly dance as cries of the fallen struck the heavens, as dark blood fell and stained the snow red.

Gunther lashed out and managed to nick Victor's cheek, the lord froze, eyebrows rose then fell, his lips morphed into a fiendish and wolfish grin, and then he threw back his head and laughed. Truly laughed.

As his laughter echoed skyward, Gunther stood there among the chaos, completely astounded.

"Today is such a marvelous day," Victor spoke in-between chuckles, "where anything and everything is possible, is it not?"

Gunther had the sickening feeling that the man before him was not referring to him.

"Yes, I know," the blond whispered after a moment of silence. "But if I do not rejoice now, when will I get another chance?"

Gunther quickly shook off his unease. This man is obviously mad, he reasoned. Taking advantage of the taller male's faraway and unfocused gaze the ebony-headed man struck, his blade flying towards a fatal stroke.

Victor blinked once, then parried and turned his aqua orbs to his opponent's metallic ones.

"For a Knight," he smirked, "you are not very chivalrous, are you?"

Gunther grit his teeth. This bastard never puts down his guard, does he?

"You are right," he retorted instead, "but I am not the one who would attack a defenseless woman, much less a Queen and kin."

Gunther relished his reaction, but became wary when Victor smiled—nothing good ever came from that demented grin.

"Oh, I beg to differ, Sir Knight," he calmly spoke, stepping closer. "I believe you are capable—if not more so than I—of committing such… atrocities."

Those sky-blue eyes sliced his stormy-gray; Gunther felt a chill race down his back. He had never felt as exposed as he felt now, under the unrelenting scrutiny of those cruel orbs. Gunther could not bring himself to look away, he was frozen in place, but the more he stared into that pale-blue abyss the more a familiar sensation overtook him. Then a dawning realization slowly appeared in his mind.

Gunther saw himself reflected in those sad and lonely eyes.

"Remove that mask," Victor called in such a soothing voice that it seemed to reach into his heart. "Become who you were meant to be." The golden-haired warrior then gently placed a hand on the raven-headed Knight's shoulder. "Join me, and together we can watch the world burn."

Gunther was surprised to find himself warring against himself as he shamefully contemplated those tempting words. His mind knew the morally correct and dutiful answer, but his heart, his soul cried out another.

How could a man do this? With one look, with a few words, Lord Victor was able to uncover the most secret, the long buried, and the darkest part of himself.

The part he fervently denied.

That dark yearning to destroy.

The reason why he felt so calm, so at peace, so gleefully content among the bloodied battlefield, where he could be an Agent of Death. Where he could let his deep-set anger rein freely, without reprimand. Where his blood thirst for violence would be quenched—even accepted if not encouraged and praised.

His reason for becoming a Knight—not just to liberate himself from that devil of a man, but also to liberate that caged and raging fury in his heart.

So he did.

He had undergone hardships of every kind—mental, physical, and even spiritual. He became a Knight, but Knights were not supposed to be bloodthirsty and needlessly violent.

They had a code of morality—of chivalry—they were to uphold peace and only give way to battle as a last resort.

Once again, his thoughts fluttered around an image of scarlet curls.

The epitome of righteousness.

What would she say?

And he once again felt another yearning.

That powerful yearning to prove her wrong—to prove that he was better than that. Better than her. That all those childhood schemes and manipulations were just that—childish, and that was now beneath and behind him. He wanted to prove that he was better than all of that—that he was a Knight by his own merit and hard work—not because he was male or older or because she was late that day.

No.

He fought her fairly, on an even field, and he had won.

He was a Knight, and she was a Squire still.

However, he was male, she was female.

He was older, she was younger.

He was stronger, she was weaker.

Then why?

How could she have such control over him? Dictating over his life? Always with the same question echoing in his mind, keeping him in check—"What would Jane do?"

Those first echoes started at childhood, when she would be praised and he himself scolded. He wondered what he was doing "wrong" and she "right." Why was she better?

She was female, and therefore weak.

It was shameful, embarrassing, emasculating to be bested by a girl.

He was male, and therefore stronger.

However, he soon learned that there were different kinds of strength—agility, precision, swiftness, and above all righteousness—those were her strengths: the characteristics that he himself lacked.

That conscious voice of righteousness had been snuffed out long ago by a cruel and toxic parental influence. He did not really know exactly when she supplemented his lost conscious, but she had. In a way, she had saved him—she was forever a voice of kindness, of mercy, of morality—all that he had lost long ago. She returned a missing part of himself to him.

A raw innocence.

She was an anchor as the raging darkness brutally thrashed about him. And it was her voice that cried out in the dark, violent fury he sunk in. Calling out to him and dragging him back to his lost senses.

When he reined in and suppressed those dark desires for destruction, he ultimately found his resolute answer.

"No," he replied at last, his voice filled with an unshakeable resolve, and Lord Victor's arm grew slack against his shoulder. "I will never join you."

So many emotions flickered over the general's face, but Gunther was able to identify a few of them—surprise, sadness, anger and at last disappointment, which now etched his features.

"Such a pity," Victor sighed, and the arm that was upon Gunther's shoulder snaked its way around his neck and squeezed.

Gunther, wild-eyed, took up his sword-arm and slashed, but the warrior parried his blade and deflected the blow so strongly that Gunther's sword flew from his throbbing hands and landed softly on the red-colored and spoiled ice a few feet away.

Gunther started thrashing against him for all he was worth, punching, clawing, and kicking like a human possessed, but Victor did not yield, and once the cold steel pressed against his neck, he froze.

"So weak," Victor murmured, the corners of his lips turned downwards. "We could have shown you true strength. You could have known greatness—become legend."

Victor's blade cut into his skin and Gunther began to feel the warm blood run down. He could not move, his heart was pounding loudly in his ears with a deafening roar, and terror gripped him in its cruel and calloused vice, smothered him close towards its cold yet burning form.

And Gunther internally screamed.

"Why did you not let me save you?" Victor whispered, desperation clouding his blue eyes. "Free you from your cage?" His eyes turned angry again. "Fool," he spoke, urging his sword deeper, "now you will know only death, and you will die in your cage."

Gunther shakily drew in a breath, he knew it was his last, he knew it was the end, but he could not grasp why his blinding terror suddenly fled and a feeling of calm washed over. He did not understand why his last thoughts were of his Mother. The Mother he never knew, never remembered, yet always longed for. The Mother he knew was dead and gone. But… maybe she remembered him, maybe she missed him, and maybe she loved him. Maybe she was waiting patiently, diligently, and happily for him now, with open arms. Waiting all these years.

That thought gave him comfort.

Maybe he will never be alone again.

The sword buried itself deeper.

And so he waited.

Jane knew what happened, even though she could not fathom how.

How could the enemy's flaming tar casket create an explosion strong enough to make the Castle's wall crumble beneath her feet?

Crumpled amid the fallen stone debris and that was the question that formed in her mind. She let out a shuddering breath, feeling the exhaustion and pain seep deep into her bones. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and take a moment to catch her breath, a moment of rest, but she knew that was suicide if not utterly foolish.

She slowly rose and sat upright, ignoring her body's aching protests, ignoring the dazed and cottony feeling in her head, and was about to scramble to her feet when she noticed another enemy bombardment closing in—aimed directly at her.

Wide-eyed with surprise, in that fleeting moment she knew she could not move fast enough to evade death, she knew this was the end, and she could not help but wonder at how they would find and identify her body amid the rubble of shattered stone and charred corpses that surrounded her.

Would her family and friends ever find her?

An unknown pain burned and tugged at her chest.

A torrent of flame rained down overhead and incinerated the incoming caskets in a fiery explosion.

It blazed so brightly that Jane had to shield her eyes and face from the heat, the blast was so deafening that her ears were ringing loudly, but she managed to catch a shimmer of iridescent scales, managed to discern the rustle of wings, and knew it was Dragon.

Relief swept over her like a wave.

It was going to be all right.

She was safe now.

Once the flame died down, she saw Dragon engaged in a fight over the ocean. The warships were firing their explosive caskets at the Dragon, and missing their target completely. He was weaving in and out, dodging the projectiles with fluid grace and precision.

Her Dragon was dancing in the sky.

And Jane smiled that rare smile, all her hurt, and exhaustion left her in that ephemeral instant.

Seeing an opening Dragon released a column of fire upon a warship, as Jane saw it engulfed in a quenchless blaze her ears stopped ringing and she felt like someone had lit a candle in the dark—and she could finally see.

Jane heard the terrifying screams that traveled across the water. Screams that horrified her, petrified her, and ruptured something deep inside her, screams that fractured a shard in the profound recesses of her heart.

She froze, her stomach dropped as she helplessly watched the ships and crew being set ablaze one by one, saw them bursting apart from their own explosive cargo, and she heard the bloodcurdling cries that tore her heart asunder without reprieve until they were swallowed and silenced by the dark and icy sea.

Jane stared at the calm waters with glazed eyes that saw yet did not see, with throbbing ears that heard yet did not hear, with a trembling body that felt yet did not feel. All before dark waters that was marred with pieces of burning wood and floating bodies.

And while the snow continued to fall.

Jane wretchedly wanted the world to stop. Just for a moment. A moment.

To let her mourn for something she lost. Something that she could not explain yet alone identify. To let her recollect herself. Compose herself. Lie to herself. That everything was all right. That she did the right thing. That she should feel no regrets, no guilt. That she should be proud because she helped save her Kingdom. And that a part of herself did not die alongside her enemies.

But the snow continued to fall.

The world did not stop.

"Jane?" a voice called. "Jane, are you all right?"

Her head slowly turned upwards and met Dragon's concerned face. "Jane?" he gently called.

She blinked and suddenly wished that she could cry; wished that Dragon could comfort her, hold her until she did not feel so empty anymore.

But her eyes were dry.

"Yes," she finally replied. "I am fine, Dragon." Her voice sounded strange to her ears, it was so calm. She bowed her head and closed her tired eyes. "Thank you," she murmured.

And she meant it.

He saved her and she was grateful.

She slowly, gingerly picked herself up and walked forwards to stand beside him. Beside her Dragon who was perched on the precipice, his back towards the ocean, but his head turned towards her.

She watched the wind blow harder, creating deeper ripples in the water, and sinking the remaining debris of splintered wood and disfigured bodies below.

And the snow continued to fall.

O0oo0O

Please leave me your thoughts in a review! Until next time. :)