DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

THE CALL OF THE WILD

LOST BOYS

TWELVE

BLACK FOREST FORT

WESTERN EMPIRE

I'm sorry, Captain," said Reinbeck, a member of the Black Guard—the Kaiser's private police. "I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances."

His partner, Lutz, nodded in somber agreement.

"It's been a long time," said Gil to his former schoolmates. He hadn't seen them since accepting his posting at the fort. "How's your Omega-mate?" he asked Lutz.

"Very well, thank-you. He's expecting our third pup," Lutz replied, unable to suppress a smile. "We're hoping for an Alpha this time."

"Good luck," Gil said, teasing; though his tone revealed his unease. An uncomfortable silence stretched for a minute, the Guards exchanging a weary look with Ludwig, then Gil sighed. "Is there any point in me trying to explain or defend myself?" he asked ruefully.

"Is the accusation untrue?" asked Reinbeck.

"No, it's true."

"Did you knowingly and deliberately take an Omega-mate, forsaking your sworn oath? Did you illegally bring him here to the Black Forest Fort? Is he really a Southerner?"

"Yes, yes, and"—Gil bobbed his head, then said—"he's an Islander, actually. I did it to protect him from the Southern Army."

"Did you mate him?" Reinbeck asked bluntly.

"Yes."

"Then I'm sorry, Captain Beilschmidt, but the law is the law."

"Please don't resist, Gil," Lutz added, stepping forward in sync with Reinbeck. "Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt, Commander of the Black Forest Fort of the Western Empire, you are hereby under arrest."

KNOCK. KNOCK. "Matthew Beilschmidt?"

Matt froze. He had heard the gates open and close, admitting the two capital representatives; he had heard a hushed murmur breeze through the courtyard, whispering "Black Guards". Gil had never explained to him what the purpose of the Black Guard was, but Matt could guess based on the secrecy of their entry that they were a prestigious order. How they had managed to sneak past the Southern Army to reach the fort spoke volumes for their competence. Of course, the fact that there was only two of them contributed to their stealth. Matt spied them from the bedchamber window. Both Alphas wore long black traveling cloaks over form-fitting black clothes, hoods pulled up, which made them look like duel hangmen. It was a disconcerting impression. He tried to focus on their conversation, but the fort was suddenly a hive of soft-spoken whispers and activity; the wind blew fiercely, whipping all the flags; and thunder rumbled overhead. He saw the Black Guards escort Gil into the armoury, then re-appear without him. A sentry was posted, and the chamber was locked. Matt waited, counted. Then he heard the distinctive sound of leather soles on stone as the mysterious Black Guards climbed the stairs of the keep.

They knocked again. "Matthew Beilschmidt," one said, louder.

Matt briefly considered barricading the door closed, but knew it was useless to resist. Gil hadn't, after all. Gil had known this day was coming for a long time. And even if he did refuse to come out, the Alphas would simply break in. So, taking a deep breath, he unbolted the door.

The first thing the Guard said to him was:

"Whoa."

A young Alpha—Gil's age—looked at Matt in slack-jawed surprise before his partner cleared his throat in an obvious way. "Oh, uh... excuse me," he said, bowing his head politely as he stepped into the bedchamber. A second Guard walked in behind him, a couple years older than the first, followed by Ludwig and Wolfe. Ludwig looked pale; Wolfe looked infuriatingly smug.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Matt offered. He was so nervous, he didn't know where to put his hands; he clasped them in front of himself like a beggar. His heart was pounding, and he suddenly felt embarrassed about the unordered state of Gil's bedchamber.

"No, thank-you," said the older Guard, the taller one.

Wolfe said: "I'd like a drink. A hops beer if he's got it, or spiced wine."

Matt ignored him.

"I'm Lutz, this is Reinbeck," said Lutz. He pointed to the shorter, stalker Black Guard, who smiled bashfully. "I presume you know why we're here?" Lutz asked hopefully. Matt nodded meekly. "I'm afraid Captain Beilschmidt has been placed under arrest. Reinbeck and I are here to escort him back to the Great House to stand trial; we'll leave tomorrow at twilight. In the meantime, Lieutenant Beilschmidt"—he indicated Ludwig—"will serve the fort as Acting-Commander, and you... well, as of this moment your pair-bonded union with Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt has been officially dissolved. I'm sorry," he added, noticing Matt's disbelief. "The Great House doesn't recognize your union as being legal, and therefore doesn't acknowledge you as a citizen of the Western Empire."

Matt tensed and wrapped his arms protectively around his middle. "What does that mean?" he asked softly.

"It means this fort no longer owes any loyalty to you by mating-law, and Reinbeck and I are legally obliged to escort you out."

"Out—?"

"Out of the Western Empire," Lutz clarified. "Protocol dictates that we escort you to the closest border and leave you there. Under normal circumstances, we would send a message ahead to your closest relatives to collect you there, however, circumstances being what they are, I'm afraid we can't afford to do that. But we do have to ask you to leave the fort."

A nervous, humourless chuckle escaped Matt. "Are you serious? You're really going to kick me out? Here? Now?" he emphasized. He cast a worried look at Ludwig.

"The law clearly states," said Lutz, stepping forward, "that unmated foreign Omegas—"

"But I'm not unmated! I'm Gil's—"

"No," Wolfe interrupted snidely, "you're not. Not anymore. Now you're just the lost little bitch you were two months ago."

"Second-Lieutenant," Ludwig growled in reprimand, "I'll ask you to mind your tongue." To the Black Guard, he said: "I realize that Gilbert is in the wrong here, but please be reasonable. Matthew wouldn't last a day outside the fort and you know it. The Southerners will kill him. If you force him out, then you condemn him to death. He's not the one to blame. He was a lost foreigner who didn't know our laws when he mated with Gilbert," he lied. "He's a victim of circumstance." That said, Ludwig stalked to Matt's side in support. "I'll take responsibility for him—"

"This is ridiculous," Wolfe argued. "The Omega is an illegal immigrant here. I don't care how sweet or pretty or innocent anyone thinks he is, the law is the law. If we make an exception for him, then the code we've all sworn to uphold is worthless. These are desperate times; we're at war. We can't afford such a distraction. How do you expect the Alphas to defend the fort if he"—he jerked his head at Matt—"goes into Heat again? Omegas are not permitted to live here for a reason. And foreigners are not entitled to our protection. Why should we risk our lives for him? What purpose would it serve? We need to protect ourselves right now, and this Islander bitch," he spat cruelly, "is not one of us!"

"I'm not," Matt snapped sharply in reply, "but my pup is."

The room fell silent as everyone processed the Omega's outburst. He felt everyone's eyes slide from his face to his abdomen and back in shock.

"Matt..." Ludwig gaped. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, speechless.

"He's lying!" Wolfe snarled. "He's not pregnant, it's just a trick. An Omega trick."

Matt narrowed his eyes, but he didn't bark back. Instead, he looked determinedly at Lutz and Reinbeck and opened his legs invitingly. "Go ahead," he said, steeling his nerves; holding his abdomen protectively. "I'm not a liar."

Lutz hesitated, then knelt down. "Excuse me," he mumbled, avoiding eye-contact with the Omega-father-to-be. He took a few deep whiffs of Matt's scent, then stood. "Yes," he confirmed. "It's faint, but true."

Ludwig made an involuntary noise in his throat, halfway between a croak and a groan, but nobody reacted to it.

"Well..." Lutz resumed after a tense minute, seemingly at a loss, "this changes things somewhat..."

When nobody else spoke, Matt did.

"I'm pregnant with Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt's pup," he said, in case there was any lingering doubt. "My pup will be born a citizen of the Western Empire by generations of his Alpha-father's bloodline. If you cast us out," he spoke purposely in plural, "then you're condemning one of your own—an unborn pup—to death. Just what does your law say about that? Are you still going to make me leave?"

Reinbeck looked away sheepishly, so it was Lutz whom Matt focused on. The Black Guard's pale eyes looked suddenly soft.

"No," he said quietly, "of course not. Of course you can stay."

"What? But the law—"

Lutz pierced Wolfe with a cutting glare. "By law, Beilschmidt's pup is a citizen of the Western Empire and the Omega-parent is therefore entitled to the fort's protection. But even if he wasn't, I will not cast out a pregnant Omega. The crimes of the parents do not condemn a pup to death. Not in the West. Matthew," he said more kindly, "I'm afraid you can't stay at the fort forever, but as long as you're the Omega-parent of a Westerner, we'll take care of you. Both of you." He bowed, respecting the re-establishment of Matt's high position, then jabbed his elbow into Reinbeck's ribs. Reinbeck bowed, too.

Matt sighed in relief. "Thank-you."

Lutz and Reinbeck nodded politely to Matt, then left. (Reinbeck's voice echoed in the corridor: "Law or not, I get why Gil claimed him. Did you see his face? Those hips? Wow! I'd have mated him, too!") Wolfe followed them out, looking volatile and growling like a sore-loser. Matt felt a pinch of trepidation as he watched him leave, knowing that it wouldn't be his last encounter with the antagonistic Alpha. As Ludwig was leaving, still looking dazed, Matt grabbed his forearm.

"Ludwig, please don't tell Gil," he begged, holding a hand to his flat abdomen. "I want to tell him... when it's right."

He thought Ludwig would argue, but the Alpha nodded in agreement. "Okay," he said simply, looking down at his young brother-by-mating-law. He smiled wanly, blue eyes flicking to Matt's midsection and back. "Take care of yourself and that pup," he advised kindly, though his voice harboured worry, "because this isn't over. It's only going to get worse, and if Gil..." Ludwig paused; pursed his lips. "If Gil's not here I promise I'll protect you as best as I can, but you have to take care of that pup," he repeated in earnest.

Matt felt tears spring to his eyes. "Ludwig... brother, what's going to happen?"

Ludwig didn't correct the title; he just shook his head. "I don't know." Tentatively—gently, as if he was afraid of breaking the Omega—he laid a companionable hand on Matt's shoulder. "I wish I did, but I don't. Just promise me you'll stay strong and stay safe, Matthew. Brother," he added proudly.

Matt took a deep breath and nodded. "I will."

Gil was pacing back-and-forth when the armoury door opened and Ludwig slipped inside. He stopped abruptly, and said: "Matt—?"

"They're going to let him stay," Ludwig reported, though he wore an odd expression. It was good news, but the lieutenant's brow was creased and his sky-blue eyes looked pale and distant. He looked tired.

Gil exhaled. "Oh, thank the gods." He hung his head; in relief or in thanks to a higher-power, he didn't know. His worries began to lessen, but he tensed again when he saw Ludwig's face. "What?" he added after a minute. Ludwig wasn't speaking, just staring at Gil as if seeing his brother anew; as if trying to memorize him, or appraise him. "Don't worry about me, Lud," he misinterpreted. He punched Ludwig's shoulder in a fraternal way. "I'm going to be fine, you'll see. You need to focus on the fort now, Acting-Commander," he said, smiling. "No distractions, remember?" he added.

Ludwig's return smile was wry. Then he did something Gil wasn't expecting. Without warning, Ludwig threw his arms around Gil and hugged him tightly, like he hadn't hugged him since they were pups; like he wouldn't ever see him again. Gil froze, then slowly relaxed. He patted his brother's back.

"Hey, it's going to be okay, Lud. It's not—"

"You can't die, Gil," Ludwig interrupted. It sounded like an order. "You can't."

Then, just as sudden, he let go and stepped back as if it hadn't happened. Ludwig nodded to Gil and bowed his head, as if Gil was still the captain. Gil hesitated, then nodded in acknowledgement. Ludwig left, and Gil resumed his restless pacing, somehow more anxious now than before Ludwig's visit. He wondered—worried—about everything that had happened, and about everything that was likely to happen, and agonized over how to fix it. How in the world was he going to avoid a death sentence? He had to think. There had to be something he could do—bribery; insanity; could he beg? There had to be a way out of this that wouldn't leave Matt a widow after only two months of being pair-bonded. Even if Gil was dishonourably discharged from service, it would be worth it. He didn't care about himself or his career anymore, he only wanted to keep Matt safe. Matt was the thing that mattered most to him now. He only wished it hadn't taken him so long to realize it.

Why couldn't I have figured it out two months ago? I could've resigned from service and left the fort and no one would've been any the wiser. It would've been so much easier. We could've been together. But now—?

Gil could only hope and pray that the Black Guards would see Matt safely back to the Isles once he was dead.

Suddenly, the bell-tower started chiming, loud and long in warning. Once, twice, trice.

Someone—or an army of someones—was at the gates.

The Black Forest Fort was the biggest, boldest, bleakest-looking castle Al had ever seen. (It was the only castle he had ever seen.) He stared straight up at the tall stonewalls and the Alphas who perched like gargoyles on the battlements. It had started to rain, soaking the shoulders of their coarse black-and-white tunics and clanging on metal and leather armour. The sentries held long spears that jut menacingly into the iron-grey sky. They looked mean, unforthcoming. Le Roux stood beside Al, holding his bicep, as if he thought Al would try to run.

He wouldn't run. Not without Ivan.

"Remember our deal, Alfred," he said, using Al's given-name with a casualness that made the Omega's skin crawl.

Al sneered, but didn't deign Le Roux a glance. He kept his eyes fixed on the fort, thinking: Mattie is in there somewhere. A prisoner. Is what Le Roux said true? Has Mattie really been mated by a Westerner? He didn't want to believe it until someone inside of the fort confirmed it. He sure as hell didn't trust Le Roux. Looking up at the sentries, Al felt a surge of anger and revulsion toward them. The thought of his brother being used like some Omega-whore was enough to twist his stomach. Don't worry, Mattie. I'm here. I'm going to find you. I'm going to save you—and Ivan—and we're going to go home. Until then, he had no choice but to play along with Le Roux's plan.

Finally, a towering Alpha approached the edge of the battlements, looking down on the party of Southerners. He had white-blonde hair that tugged in the breeze despites his best efforts to order it. In a deep, loud voice, he said:

"Captain Le Roux, what business do you have here?"

He spoke in German. Le Roux took the opportunity to ignore the question, and asked in French:

"You are not the Captain. Where is Beilschmidt? It's he I've come to bargain with, not some halfwit second-in-command. Fetch me the Fort Commander."

"I am Ludwig Beilschmidt, Acting-Commander of this fort," said the Westerner in thickly accented English. (Al supposed he didn't speak French.) "Tell me your business here, Le Roux—quickly."

"I want to speak to Captain Beilschmidt," Le Roux growled unhappily. "Fetch him here. Tell him that I have a proposition for him that involves the brother of his Omega-mate."

On cue, Le Roux tugged Al forward for all of the Westerners to see. But if they recognized his looks or scent as being related to Matt, they didn't show it.

Ludwig eyed Le Roux wry, then said: "No."

"No—?"

"No," he repeated definitely.

Le Roux bared his canines in frustration. He gripped Al with bruising firmness. "Perhaps you misheard me, Acting-Commander. This is Alfred Bonnefoi, brother of—"

"Yes, I heard you," Ludwig interrupted. "But I don't see why that should matter to me."

"He's your brother's brother-by-mating-law," Le Roux snapped bluntly.

Ludwig nodded. "Yes, but he's nothing to me. The law binds me to Matthew, not this Alfred."

"I'll kill him," Le Roux threatened, jostling Al. "I'll cut his throat right here."

"Go ahead."

"I'm not bluffing." Le Roux drew a knife and pressed it to Al's throat. Al felt the cold kiss of steel.

Ludwig shrugged, and repeated: "Go ahead. No one will stop you."

"Argh—! Where is Beilschmidt?" the Southerner yelled. "I want him to come here and see this!" Forcefully, he shook Al. A bead of blood rolled down Al's neck.

"I'm afraid the captain is unavailable," said Ludwig blithely. "But it doesn't matter, because I'm telling you as the Acting-Commander that the Black Forest Fort does not bargain with liars. This parley is over now," he declared, signaling to his Alphas. Several archers readied to fire.

"Then bring me Matthew!" Le Roux ordered. "Let Beilschmidt's precious Omega-mate look upon the face of his helpless brother!"

"Absolutely not," said Ludwig dryly. "Now leave our territory, or we'll stick you full of arrows. I will not say it again."

Le Roux's pale, calculating eyes swivelled between the bowmen before locking on Ludwig. "You're going to regret this," he threatened.

The Westerner grunted. "I doubt it," he said, then stalked away.

Back at the encampment, Le Roux seethed in anger. His Alphas gave him a wide berth as he marched to the captain's tent. Al struggled to keep pace as he was dragged along. He still felt weak and woozy, and though he was famished he couldn't smell food without feeling nauseous. It was a slow recovery. The lingering dregs of illness clung to him in his bones and sapped his strength. He had pretended that it was all normal for Ivan's benefit, but the truth was that the Heat-inhibiting poison had never left him feeling so depleted before. He thought of Thierry's warning, that the poison became more damaging with every dose, and tried to quell the fear and paranoia that clutched him. He didn't feel like himself. Instinctively he knew that something was wrong, but he couldn't place it, and he couldn't admit it for fear of Ivan's reaction. Instead, he tried to ignore it. Yet even as he ruminated over the Westerner's words, his head felt foggy.

Le Roux implied that Mattie is Ludwig's brother-by-mating-law. And Ludwig called Mattie by his given-name. Le Roux called him Beilschmidt's precious Omega-mate, and Ludwig didn't deny it. Why would he, unless it's true?

Despite Le Roux's facts, a part of Al had always doubted the Southerner's word. Now, it was impossible to.

It's true. Mattie really is in there. He really has been taken as a Western Alpha's Omega-mate.

"So," he said cheekily to Le Roux, trying to focus on other things, "the plan kind of backfired, didn't it?" He couldn't help grinning at the Southerner's loss. It felt good, even if Al had nothing to do with it. Either the Westerners really were as cold and ruthless as Ivan described, or they didn't trust Le Roux either. "I guess I'm not as valuable as you'd hoped. Such a pity."

Le Roux's steely gaze seized Al and for a moment Al thought the Alpha would strike him. A moment later, Al wished that he had. Instead, the spiteful captain shoved him into a gaggle of nearby soldiers. "Rest assured, I won't be making that mistake again. I know exactly what your value is, Alfred Bonnefoi," he spat maliciously. To the Alphas, he said: "Officers, report to my tent at once. The rest of you—he's yours. Have fun."

Al barely had time to curse before several hands were pulling and pushing and grabbing and groping him. He squirmed in protest as they shoved him back-and-forth, pawing at his clothes. He spit on one Alpha who ducked in for a sloppy kiss and got growled at and laughed at and poked and pinched in jest. He kept his lips pursed tightly and his jaw clenched so as not to make a sound, but he felt a whine creeping up his throat. He didn't want to give the bullying Alphas the satisfaction of his cries, and he especially didn't want Ivan to know what was happening, but it was easier said than done when they were touching him with such disrespect. Al had always considered himself desensitized to Alpha vulgarity, but he had never been treated like this before. The things these Alphas howled at him weren't in jest, but true; they weren't teasing, but threatening him. It didn't matter that he didn't understand their words, because he recognized the look in their eyes—not just lust, but greed. Mine. Mine. Mine, said their eyes. And it scared him. When someone got overexcited and shoved Al too hard, he fell to his knees with a painful yelp. Then the soldiers fell upon him, forcing him onto his back.

"S-stop—cough cough—g-get off of me, I can't—cough cough—I can't—" cough cough cough cough

I can't breathe.

Al gasped as the soldiers' heavy, humid bodies pressed down on him. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him; he tasted blood.

"What are you doing? Get off! Get off of him!"

Al nearly cried in relief when Thierry shooed the soldiers away and pulled him into a sitting position, letting him cough and cough and cough, finally coughing-up bloody phlegm. On his hands-and-knees, he gasped and swayed.

"What is wrong with you all?" Thierry snapped. He was the smallest Alpha present—he probably weighed a fraction of the others—but they yielded to his medical expertise when he said: "Can't you see that the Omega is sick? How do you know it's not contagious?"

At that the soldiers scattered, pushing and shoving each other in their haste to reach the river to wash off Al's contagion. Al would have laughed if he had the breath for it.

"Thanks," he said weakly, taking Thierry's hand.

"You're not drinking the tea that I brewed you," Thierry reprimanded him. "I told you to drink it. It'll soothe the effects of the poison."

"It tastes awful," Al complained. It's not worth it. He may not have known the extents of his sickness, but he did know that tea wasn't going to cure it. He said: "I think it would make me nauseous even if I wasn't ill. Don't worry, the effects will wear off in a few hours—"

"Alfred," said the Alpha sternly, "you don't have a few hours. You need to recover as quickly as possible if you intend to escape."

Al blinked at him in surprise. "I, uh... I'm not going to..."

Thierry cocked his head. "I'm not stupid, Alfred. And I know you're not either. You know my Alpha-father is lying to you. He has no intention of letting you and your brother live."

Al's shoulders sagged. He had suspected as much from Le Roux, but somehow Thierry's confirmation made it real. "I know," he admitted, thinking of the Southern captain's failed plan. He would've used me to find Mattie, then he would've pretended to let us go and later called our deaths a misfire or accident once he'd gotten what he wanted from us. Fortunately, Acting-Commander Beilschmidt had unknowingly crushed that plan when he had denied any interest in Al. Maybe Mattie is better off inside the fort, he considered now. At least they aren't planning to kill him—rape him, breed him, torment him—but at least he's alive.

Al swallowed a mouthful of ripe bile that had nothing to do with his sickness.

"Will you help us escape?" he asked Thierry hopefully.

Thierry hesitated. "I won't try to stop you," he said instead.

Al nodded. It was enough.

Thierry walked Al back to Ivan's prison. The Alpha had been tethered like a rapid dog to a tree with soldiers posted to either side, as if Le Roux expected trouble from the injured Easterner, but the guards, themselves, looked bored. One was half-asleep on his feet, and the other was lazily inspecting the cleanliness of his fingernails. Neither of them seemed interested in Al or Ivan, whose tense shoulders relaxed at the Omega's approach. He looked relieved to see Al whole and physically unharmed by the Southerners or Westerners, but also confused by the Omega's return.

"That was quick," he said suspiciously, looping his arms over Al's head to hold him. "Where is your brother?"

Al settled down onto Ivan's lap and rested his head on the Alpha's shoulder. "Inside the fort. Apparently the Westerners aren't as gullible as Le Roux hoped," he reported.

"Le Roux didn't hurt you, did he, little one?"

"No," Al replied, careful to keep his voice neutral. In reassurance, he leant up and pecked Ivan's lips. "I guess I'm still worth more alive than dead. But I don't think Le Roux is done yet. He wants that fort, that much is obvious. I don't think he's left anything to chance. He wouldn't have marched his whole company all the way out here if he didn't have a Plan B. He must've schemed an alternative attack in the event the Fort Commander refused to yield."

"He has," said Ivan. "I overheard his officers talking earlier. He's planning a siege. I think it's already begun."

Al considered the castle's high stonewalls; the sentries, the archers; the pale-haired Acting-Commander, who looked as strong and unyielding as the fort itself. Al didn't know much about warfare, and what he did know was field battles. When Islanders fought formally, each opposing force met at a neutral location. It was open and honest. They showed their faces to each other, they didn't hide behind walls. And they attacked with the intention of accepting the outcome, no matter the cost. The stronger force won and that was it. Al didn't know anything about Mainland battles or siege warfare. He didn't know how long a fortress like the Black Forest Fort could survive without reinforcements or supplies. Ivan shrugged when Al asked him.

"It depends. A fort like this should be able to sustain itself for months, maybe a year if she's well-supplied," he guessed. "But something tells me that's not the case here. If it were, the Southerners wouldn't have been able to get so close in the first place. There should be scouts and sentries posted throughout the forest in the watchtowers," he explained. Al nodded. He remembered how paranoid Ivan had been while traveling through the forest, so afraid of attracting the Western Army's attention. "I doubt the Black Forest Fort has more than a couple months at most," Ivan said, sounding solemn about it.

Al knew how much Ivan disliked the Western Empire, but he supposed the longer the Black Forest Fort held, the longer he and Ivan had to live. Ironically, their best chance of survival now depended on preserving the army that Ivan had once sworn an oath to destroy.

The Southern Army's attack began at dawn. It lasted all day and throughout the night, never ceasing. Matt laid awake, unable to sleep for the constant barrage. He got up and he paced back-and-forth in his bed-clothes, anxiously rubbing at the silver ring on his right hand. He stopped at the window every few seconds to look out, hoping each time that the situation had changed for the fort's benefit, but it was always the same: Le Roux's Alphas attacked and Gil's Alphas defended, like a chess game come to life. The torches of the Southern Army glowed brightly in the darkness through the rain. Oil torches, Matt knew. Gil had showed him how to light one once. The high battlements of the fort teemed with busy Westerners whose steadfast efforts worked tirelessly to ensure the stronghold wasn't breeched; the rest had fallen back to the keep. Every few hours a fresh crew would arrive to relieve their comrades so the others could return to the barracks to eat, sleep, and try to dry their drenched clothes by the fire.

On the third day at the breakfast-hour, Matt grabbed Gil's cloak and tugged it on, then left the bedchamber. Like every day since Gil's imprisonment, he left the keep and crossed the courtyard to the armoury, where he begged the sentry for permission to see his Alpha-mate.

"I'm sorry, Matthew," he said regretfully. "Orders."

Matt nodded, then went to the kitchens to help cook meals and launder clothes. The first time he had showed up begging work, they had refused and sent him away. It wasn't right, they said. He should be inside. A day later, Matt returned. "Please," he said in choppy, incomplete German, "I'm going crazy in that room. I need to keep busy. I need to do something to distract myself. There's got to be something useful I can do—?" Finally, the Cook had ceded and let Matt serve the solders' meals. He ran back-and-forth from the kitchen to the barracks, smiling at the surprised Alphas and remembering what Gil had told him about morale. When he noticed the unserviceable state of one soldier's coat, he took it, cleaned it, and mended it as best as he could. He collected the soldiers' castoffs while they slept and tried to dry the articles for when they awoke. Some of the Alphas felt self-conscious being naked in an Omega's presence, but they got over it quickly. The promise of dry, clean clothes was worth the fleeting embarrassment. And it made it easier to tend their injuries, which were mercifully minor—a few cuts and scrapes. Matt aided the Surgeon with his limited knowledge of home remedies, and spoke soothingly as he held the hand of Alphas who required more severe medical attention. "You're so brave," he said sweetly, letting the Alphas squeeze his hand as the Surgeon worked. (One Alpha whimpered and buried his face against Matt's shoulder as the Surgeon stitched a wound; Matt stroked his head and repeated "it's okay, it's okay," sympathizing with the soldier's deathly fear of needles.)

Of course, Matt's usefulness lasted only for as long as Ludwig was unaware of it. As soon as the stern Acting-Commander saw Matt running about, he dragged him away from whatever he was doing and escorted him back to the captain's bedchamber.

"How many times do I have to tell you to stay in here?" he said, frustrated. "For gods' sake, Matthew, you're pregnant!"

Matt sighed in exasperation. "Yes, I'm pregnant—not paraplegic. I'm not useless, Ludwig. I want to help—"

"It's too dangerous outside," Ludwig argued. "Or haven't you noticed that we're under attack? I know you're just trying to help, but do you have any idea what would happen to Gil if you got hurt?"

"Do you have any idea what will happen to me if Gil gets hurt—?" Matt snapped back. Insomnia was making him short-tempered. "Please, Ludwig. I can't stay locked in this room all day, I... I keep picturing Gil, and I... I need a distraction," he said ambiguously. "Please?"

Ludwig hesitated, then sighed. "Fine." Diplomatically, he said: "I'll give you a task, but you will stay here. Gil had been planning for a siege for ages. No one knows more about Le Roux's strategy than he does, and if I could have him in the war-room with us, I would. But circumstances being what they are—the law being what it is," he growled, "that's impossible. So, see if you can't find anything useful in this mess." He waved in indication of the bedchamber's disorganized state. The last few chaotic days had laid waste to the Alpha's humble library. "You can read German, can't you? Can you read Gil's chicken-scratch? Good. Find me something—anything—useful."

"Okay," Matt agreed. It was better than nothing.

Ludwig nodded curtly. "Send anything you find with a messenger. Don't leave this room. I mean it, Matthew. If I catch you outside again, I'll lock you in here."

"I'm sorry," Matt replied, bowing his head. "I can't stand being in here alone. I just wanted something to do."

Ludwig's eyes softened, but his tone was stern as ever. "You have something to do, keeping yourself and Gil's pup safe. No matter what happens to the rest of us, you have to survive, Matthew. You and you alone are carrying the continuation of our bloodline. If something happens to Gil and I, that pup"—he nodded to Matt's middle—"is the last Beilschmidt there is. You understand how important that is to us, don't you? You understand how important that is to Gil—?"

Matt's chest tightened in grief and the weight of responsibility. "Yes, I do."

"You have to be strong," Ludwig said. Awkwardly, he reached out and patted Matt's shoulder, feather-soft. "If something happens to us, then you have to be strong enough to survive. To escape. If the fort gets taken," he said seriously, "there's another way out. Go down into the cellar. In the far north-west corner there's a potato crate with a false bottom. If you pull off the bottom board, you'll see the entrance to a tunnel. It's dark and low, you'll have to crawl the whole way, but it'll take you away from the fort. It's about three kilometres long, more than enough of a head-start on any pursuers. Head west. Follow the sunset. And the markers—they look like this," he said, making a double-cross with his burly fingers. "Count them. When you reach seventy-five, turn toward the Rhine and follow it back to the Low Countries. Can you remember that?"

"Yes," said Matt.

Ludwig looked unconvinced. "Repeat it back to me," he ordered. Matt did.

Finally, the Acting-Commander nodded. "If something happens to us," he repeated earnestly, "promise me you'll escape."

Matt pressed his silver-ringed hand to his abdomen and nodded. "I promise."

That night Matt's candles burned long into the night as the siege continued and he sorted Gil's library. He knew it was a pointless task, designed by Ludwig to keep Matt occupied. Anything Gil deemed useful would have been taken to the war-room ages ago and shared with the officers. Gil was not a secretive Alpha; he trusted all his soldiers. And yet, the longer Matt spent reading Gil's diaries, taking especial notice of the dates, the more he recognized a recurring pattern. The days on which Gil wrote about encounters with the Southern Army were the days his scouting-parties returned from the forest. At first, this made sense. The scouting-parties were often sent on reconnaissance missions to gather information about the enemy's movements, but as Matt began tracking the parties to determine which ones operated where, he noticed that Second-Lieutenant Wolfe had been the most senior officer almost every time a scouting-party encountered Captain Le Roux.

Wolfe.

Matt suppressed an involuntary shiver as he sat back, thinking.

Wolfe was the most experienced officer, so it made sense that his scouts were sent into the most dangerous territory. But every single time Le Roux was there—? Matt didn't trust coincidences, but nor did he want to consider that one of Gil's officers had betrayed him. He knew that Wolfe disliked Gil, of course, but after making such a fuss about Gil breaking the law, would Wolfe really have committed treason? Gil had called Wolfe stubborn—he had called Wolfe a lot of things—but also dutiful. He had been sent to the Black Forest Fort by the Kaiser, after all.

Sent? Matt thought skeptically. Or exiled?

Gil's squire, Grey, had confided in Matt that Wolfe did not like the fort. He had taken the promotion because he had been ordered to, but did Wolfe really consider it a promotion to be sent away from the capital, where he had served his entire career? Did he really thank the Kaiser for sending him to the farthest reaches of the Empire, isolated, to be the underling of a twenty-year-old Alpha? Did he really feel praised, or did he feel abandoned? Matt tried to put himself in Wolfe's position and suddenly the Alpha's unfriendly attitude made sense. He was bitter. He resented the Great House for the position he had been placed in, especially after so many years of loyal service. But does he resent them enough to betray the fort to the Southerners? Grey had been adamant about—

Grey!

Quickly, Matt flipped to the back of Gil's diary, the day of Grey's passing. He read and re-read the passages, but nothing hinted at foul-play.

Of course not, Matt thought. Wolfe's not stupid. Even if he was a Southern spy, he wouldn't reveal anything in an officer's report.

Sighing he defeat, he closed the diary and glanced at the bedside table, where Grey's charcoal sketch of Finn was sitting.

I wonder if he knows yet, Matt thought, feeling sad. He thought of blue-eyed Finn learning of his intended Alpha-mate's death and a wave of anxiety flooded him. He rubbed his flat abdomen, his silver ring glinting in the dull candlelight.

He had been so afraid to wish for pups of his own once; so afraid of mating and giving birth. He had read too many medical texts at too young an age and the prospect of being pregnant had always frightened him. But all those fears seemed to quiet when Gil was with him, the Alpha's mere presence—his smile, his voice, his scent, his touch—chasing away the trepidation. Without even realizing it, Matt's fears had simmered since he had pair-bonded with Gil, because he trusted Gil to protect him and any family they had together. He trusted Gil not to hurt him or his pups like other Alpha-fathers sometimes did. He trusted Gil not to abuse or abandon them. Matt was still apprehensive about telling his Alpha-mate that he was pregnant, especially now—the fort was under siege; the timing couldn't be worse—but after everything Ludwig had said about Gil, and Gil's own admission that he wanted pups, Matt trusted Gil to love the pup that was slowly growing inside him. He finally understood the happy glow pregnant Omegas seemed to have. It's because they felt safe and ready to have pups; ready to stop worrying and fighting the natural instinct that pulled at them. (Or, was that just Matt?) He finally understood that unexplainable feeling people seemed to talk about; that excitement, which was equal parts nerves and joy. And he finally understood the difference between the Omegas he had been observing all his life: those who were in love with their Alpha-mates compared to those who were not. He had always associated being mated as being possessed, an act of submission, but that was all wrong. It wasn't about power, it was about balance. It was about trust. He finally understood just how deeply mated couples were bonded.

I want to be with Gil and take care of him and have pups with him, he longed—not because society had told him to, but because—I love him. I want to share everything with him. I want to make him happy. I want to keep him safe. I want to spend the rest of my life with him, because... I'm in love with him.

I can't lose him.

The only thing Matt truly feared now was what would happen to him—to them—if he lost Gil.

Just then, the bedchamber door opened without a knock. So absorbed in his thoughts, Matt hadn't heard the intruder's approach. He expected Ludwig, but Ludwig always knocked.

Wolfe stepped inside.

Matt's posture tensed defensively. "Second-Lieutenant," he said evenly. "Is there something you needed?" he added as Wolfe began a leisurely circuit of the chamber. Matt stood. He didn't feel safe confined to the bed. He asked again: "Can I help you with something? This is the Fort Commander's private chamber, if you have no business here then please leave."

Finally, Wolfe's eyes landed on Matt, brazenly roaming his body from head-to-toe. Only then did Matt realize he had never been alone with the Second-Lieutenant before.

"Yes," Wolfe patronized, "it is the Fort Commander's chamber. A shame we don't have a Fort Commander right now, and it's because of you, Matthew."

Matt stiffened. Wolfe had never used his given-name before. "What do you want?"

"I bet you're scared," said Wolfe, closing the distance between them. Matt fought the desire to run. He didn't like the soft inflection in Wolfe's rough voice, which didn't reflect the look in his eyes. "I bet you'd do anything to keep your pup safe, wouldn't you, Matthew?" As he spoke Matt's name, a near-whisper, he reached out and gently caressed the Omega's cheek. "I can keep you safe—"

Matt slapped him across the face. "Don't touch me," he said coldly in German.

Wolfe's eyes blazed dangerously, but any fear Matt felt was overrun by anger at the Alpha's adulterous offer. For the first time in his life, fury inspired bravery. If you touch me again, I swear I'll kill you. Wolfe hesitated briefly, his hands curled into fists, but the resolve in Matt's eyes was inarguable. The Second-Lieutenant sneered and stepped back.

"You remember this, Omega," he said hard-heartedly. "You remember later when you're alone and scared and at the mercy of the Southern Army that I offered to protect you."

"Get out of my room!" Matt snapped. "That's an order, Second-Lieutenant!"

The Alpha bared his canines at the Omega, then turned on his heel and left the bedchamber, slamming the door behind him.

The noise shattered Matt's courage. He sat heavily down on the bed and reached beneath his pillow for Gil's dagger, holding it tightly in both hands—shaking.

Up. Now," said someone in broken English.

Ivan felt a Southerner kick his side, felt Al jolt awake. Ivan grunted. He glared up at the curly-haired soldier in disdain. Al hadn't slept for at least forty-eight hours, too sick to rest; too preoccupied gasping and gagging to sleep. After five days, the Omega still looked disconcertingly pale. It worried Ivan, even though Al said he was fine. Liar, he thought, displeased. But rather than fight Al on it, he focused his anger on the Southerners. He blamed the soldier for waking Al now; Al, who was so exhausted that he had fallen asleep amidst the sounds of battle activity.

"Don't look at me like that, you Eastern mother-fucker," the Southerner snarled. In English, he said: "I hope you haven't forgotten how to be a soldier." He cut Ivan's tethers and hauled him roughly to his feet, dislodging Al, who blinked deliriously.

"Wha—?" he murmured, rubbing his eyes. "What's going on? What do you want?" he grumbled at the curly-haired Southerner. "What are you doing?" he gasped in disbelief as Ivan's tethers were replaced with iron manacles. He tried to fight the Southerner, battering at the chains, but someone pulled him back by the shoulders. Ivan growled. "Hasn't he suffered enough?" Al shouted angrily.

"Today's your unlucky day, friend," said the Southerner wickedly. He tugged on the chains and forced Ivan to his side. "See, Captain Le Roux needs someone to pull the battering-ram to the fort gates. Why should we endanger ourselves when we have a perfectly good Eastern brute to sacrifice, he says—and I wholeheartedly agree." He grinned, showing his teeth. "If you get stuck with a dozen Western arrows, it saves us the trouble of executing you. Now that's being resourceful."

"And if I refuse?" Ivan said defiantly. "Why should I fight your battle if you're just going to execute me?"

"Because," said the Southerner simply, "you love your Omega-bitch too much to watch him die, don't you?"

On cue, Al's captor pressed a knife to his throat. Al merely looked indignant, too used to being threatened and manhandled at this point to care.

"You lot are seriously unimaginative," Ivan deadpanned in derision (though, he tensed).

Al, too, ignored the knife, and said: "You can't do this, you cowards! Ivan's injured, those Westerners will kill him! Captain Le Roux can't—"

"He can and will," the Southerner interrupted. "Now come on, you big brute." He thumped Ivan in the back. "Better you than us. The sooner you break down that fucking gate, the sooner you'll be reunited with your diseased little bitch."

Ivan was prodded to a large contraption with heavy iron wheels that sunk into the mud, softened by rainfall. There were four protruding limbs, indicating the necessity of four Alphas to pull it, though Ivan doubted he was going to receive assistance. The battering-ram hung between two thick posts by chains, and a couple of Southerners were fixing a wooden board to roof the top. It was thick and wide enough to stop arrows, but it would be a poor shield if the Westerners used fire.

Westerners.

Despite the Southerners' rude hospitality, the Western Army still haunted Ivan. He would gladly fight a flock of Southern soldiers barehanded if it meant not facing the Westerners. The black-and-white flags flapping at the fort's summit sent an apprehensive shiver down his spine. He swallowed. His palms were sweaty as they chained his wrists to the wooden mount; his heart pounded as they prodded him from behind. "Get going!" they snarled, but Ivan's legs were stiff. He closed his eyes, saw the little Omega-pup whose throat he had once cut, and snapped them open again. He did not want to be a soldier again.

Please don't make me do it again.

He took a deep breath and slowly stepped forward, throwing all of his weight into pushing the wagon.

The mud made a gritty, sucking sound as the wheels turned laboriously. Ivan's muscles strained as he grit his teeth and pushed with all of his strength, making slow progress as the Southerners hollered at him from the safety of the forest. As soon as the battering-ram broke cover, approaching the fort, Ivan heard a piercing whistle, a signal from the Westerners atop the battlements. It's not exactly a sneak-attack, Ivan thought bitterly. His foot slipped and he fell to his knees. The constant rain and back-and-forth marching of soldiers had pounded the earth into a marshy sludge, yet the desire to stay down pulled at him. What was the point of going forward? The Westerners would kill him. What was the point of going back? The Southerners would kill him.

In the middle of the sodden no-man's-land, chained to a siege-machine, facing death, Ivan started laughing. He laughed and laughed, long and loud and hard—so hard that tears rolled down his cheeks. He laughed until he felt hot and desperate and gasped for breath.

Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this? Why don't I just end it now?

Alfred.

He howled in anguished outrage.

A clap of thunder broke overhead, drowning his rage, reminding him just how insignificant a being he was.

Reluctantly, he climbed to his feet and continued to push forward.

Forward, never back. Go forward, comrade. Easterners do not run away. We go forward to glory or death.

Forward.

Al was furious.

How dare Le Roux use Ivan like a sacrificial lamb, like his life didn't matter at all? How dare he!

A flood of the ripest, filthiest language Al knew spewed from his mouth as he paced restlessly back-and-forth like an agitated beast. It made him dizzy, but he couldn't sit still. He did his best thinking on his feet. The Southerners watched him, partly bemused, partly bored. Eventually, they ignored his senseless ramblings and settled down for the night. Al couldn't sleep, despite how fatigued he felt. His overtired brain struggled to formulate a plan-of-escape. He scanned the Southern encampment in search of tools; he spied on the soldiers, looking for greedy faces that could be bribed, or compassionate faces that could be convinced to help, or scared faces that could be convinced to desert. But it was useless. By midnight, Al felt raw.

Please, he begged the gods he barely believed in. He felt desperate. Please help me. Tell me what to do. Send me a sign.

It was very early-morning when the hollow blast of a bone-horn cut suddenly through the rainfall. At first, Al thought the Southern Empire had sent Le Roux re-enforcements and his stomach dropped in despair, but his opinion changed when his Southern guards bolted upright, startled by the noise. Quickly they drew their swords, their eyes going wide in alert. That's when Al realized he had never heard a Southern battle-call; the Southerners favoured the element of surprise. They were a quiet, creeping force.

But if it's not the South, could it be the West? Is it Western re-enforcements—?

The fetal thought died as the horn blasted again, and this time Al's sensitive ears recognized the sound. He knew that loud, brutal call. It had been chasing he and Ivan for weeks.

The Southerners scrambled into a defensive half-circle at the encampment's edge, pushing Al roughly back behind them. Their suntanned faces paled as a chorus of deep-throated howls echoed overhead and the trees began to shake as a mass of bodies approached.

A third and final horn blast chilled Al's blood.

The Eastern Army had finally arrived.