DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers Hidekaz Himaruya

THE CALL OF THE WILD

LOST BOYS


FIVE

WESTERN EMPIRE

THE BLACK FOREST

Matthew crouched down slowly, inch-by-inch, keeping his gaze focused. His prey was close: ten, maybe twelve feet away. He could hear it's soft paws hop quietly. He barely dared to breath. It's long ears were as sensitive, if not more so, than his. He hid in the long, waxy grass; it grazed him like a teasing razor, producing a soft hiss. He swallowed. He stayed low. Thick, black tree roots spread over the undulating ground like spider legs. He crept ever closer, balancing on his haunches, inch-by-inch so as not to make a sound. He arched his back, his shoulders leaning slightly forward like a wildcat about to pounce. He inhaled, held it in his lungs, and let it out slowly. His prey paused, it's ears perked, then went back to nosing the underbrush. Absently, Matthew licked his lips. Close, so close. Just then, his stomach growled. Again his prey's head snapped up, nose twitching. Matthew froze, held his breath. Don't run. Don't run. Don't run

The jack-rabbit took off like an arrow.

Matthew leapt up and dashed after it. The paper-thin leaves sliced his skin. He chased after the rabbit, crashing clumsily through the forest, dodging trees, ducking branches, and leaping over a decaying log. Gods, no! Come back here you little—! The terrain shifted, dropping suddenly into a shallow ditch. Matthew slipped, produced a shameful noise as his arms wind-milled for balance, then he caught his footing and kept going. I'm not letting you escape, not this time!

Matthew was hungry. It had been five days since the Rhine had spit him out in this dense, dark forest. Five days that he had been wandering, directionless, lost and alone and afraid. The first day had been the worst. The forest was full of foreign scents and sounds that kept him tense, constantly on alert. He searched for an escape, following the river in both directions, accidentally going in circles. Which way? he wondered, standing at the riverbank in panic. He looked left-to-right, but, unschooled in tracking, all he saw were the same indistinguishable sights. Al would know, he thought, looking from the muddy earth to the starry sky. Al would look at the soil, the current, the sky and he would know which way to go. But Matthew had spent his childhood indoors, protected by walls. He had spent his time learning to keep-house, to mother a family. While Alfred had been exploring the outdoors, Matthew had stayed inside reading away his afternoons by the hearth. I know how to do all this, he had thought, in theory. Putting theories into practise, however, had turned out to be much harder than anticipated. When Matthew's hunger had finally become unbearable, he had foraged for food, confident in his knowledge of botany, but even then it was hard to tell what was edible and what was not. The black forest was completely unknown to him and Matthew was cautious by nature. He ate uncooked greens, which barely sated his hunger and did not satisfy his tastes. He wanted meat. He had watched his Alpha relatives for years, hunting. He had watched Alfred learn to hunt as a young pup. His blue-eyed twin had learnt to shoot birds from the treetops with a slingshot; he had learnt to entrap small rodents in snares; he had learnt to pounce like a wolf-cub and catch small prey. Alfred had been eight-years-old when he had learnt the technique of hunting. Matthew was fifteen.

How hard could it be?

"GAH!"

Matthew's foot caught on an upraised root and he fell face-first to the ground.


Gilbert stalked swiftly through the Black Forest, moving like a shadow. His footfalls were light, soft for an Alpha, and his equipment, his weapons, were muted in supple leather. His pride was in his prowling, much quieter than the average Alpha. Much faster. He had learnt the technique young, self-taught, and his Alpha-father's nod of approval had been his reward. Gilbert's long runner's body twisted around tree branches, passing within a hair's width. He moved habitually, his keen red gaze studying his surroundings in search of abnormalities. A footprint. A broken branch. A bead of blood on a blade of grass. He knelt down to inspect it. He knew this forest as well as he knew his own name. He knew when something—someone—did not belong.

Gilbert followed the scent, raising his head to sift past all the earthy smells of the dense forest. It didn't take long. His nose was exceptionally sensitive, but even if it wasn't the intruder's scent was unmistakeable. It smelled of sweat and low blood-sugar, a stranger. But I've never smelled anyone so sweet before. That's not an Alpha scent. He inhaled the pale sweetness. It was easy to track once he knew what to follow. His nose made him a good hunter, a good tracker. (As a pup, his friends used to tease him, that he would make an Omega a good guard-dog someday. But those friends were gone.) That's an Omega scent. He recognized it by memory only. It had been a long time since he had seen or smelled an Omega first-hand. Omegas were not allowed in the fort. That's a young Omega-male. Fifteen, unclaimed. Foolish. The Omega was downwind, easily tracked by any Alpha. What's an Omega doing so deep in the forest all alone?The Black Forest was dangerous, forbidden—restricted to the military. How many times must we tell civilians to stay away from the borderlands? Except, this Omega didn't smell like a civilian of the Western Empire. As Gilbert stalked closer, the scent of the his blood became more distinct. It had a subtle, foreign flavour, but it was not altogether unfamiliar. Gilbert was afraid that he knew that bloodline.

A Southerner? he wondered. In that case, I'll have to

"GAH!"

The Omega's high-pitched cry broke the silence.

Gilbert rushed to his aid, then stopped abruptly at the edge of a ditch.

That was stupid, he realized, confused by his reaction. He could be a decoy. It could be an ambush, he thought like a soldier. If he's a Southern spy, he could be luring me into a trap. He could be...

His suspicions fell away as he stared at the Omega. He stayed hidden behind a grove of spindly, black-barked trees, overlooking the dry ditch. The Omega was average-height for a Westerner, but he was slight, his limbs long and willowy. He was young, fifteen. Gilbert was too far to see details, but he looked soft. He stretched his body, covered in tattered clothes that left a generous portion of smooth, pale—bruised, scratched—skin bared. It revealed a shoulder, a sliver of stomach, and both shapely legs. One of his ankles was trapped. He struggled, trying to rise, and then fell back on his knees, ensnared in a tangle of tree roots.

I should help him, Gilbert thought for a moment, then remembered: No, he could be an enemy.

As if on-cue, the Omega muttered: "Merde!"

French, Gilbert knew. It confirmed his suspicion: A Southerner. Fuck.

Gilbert's French was incomplete. It wasn't a language he enjoyed studying. (He didn't enjoy studying, period, but French was his worst.) His French was mostly limited to military jargon, not awful, but not fluent enough to decipher the slew of soft grumblings that poured from the Omega's mouth. Gilbert's lips curled into a curious grin. He kept quiet, watching in amusement as the Omega twisted and tugged at the roots. Gilbert swallowed the lump in his throat. He wanted to help the Omega. He looked so pitiful. But if he's a decoy

Gilbert exhaled.

The Omega's head snapped up, like a spooked jack-rabbit.

Gilbert tensed. He didn't hear that, did he? No, he couldn't have. It's impossible.

He stayed hidden as the Omega scanned the forest. His body had gone rigid. When he turned his head, his eyes landing on the grove, Gilbert fought the urge to exhale again in disbelief. It was the first time that the Omega had lifted his head, and Gilbert was suddenly struck by how beautiful the foreigner was. He stared unbeknownst in the Alpha's direction, his violet eyes wide, his lips parted. Gilbert stared back, not daring to breath. He hadn't seen such an attractive Omega since—ever.

Maybe I've been at the fort for too long.

Finally, the Omega looked away. He seemed to accept that he was safe—or, alone at least—and resumed his task, albeit more urgently. With a great tug, he pulled his leg free.

"Aah-roo!" he yelped.

Like before, Gilbert moved in reflex. He moved fast, too fast. Too sudden. Oops.

The moment the Omega saw the Alpha, he leapt to his feet and fled.


Captain!" A howl pierced the forest. "Captain Beilschmidt!"

Gilbert slowed to a jog, then a walk. He let his pack—an eight-Alpha scouting party—catch up. One of the officers launched immediately into a full report, but Gilbert was barely listening. He was distracted by the Omega's scent, heading in a south-west direction, rapidly fading. He scanned the dense forest as his comrade spoke, silently berating his own stupidity. He's run back to his pack. And yet, he had looked so shocked and afraid, as if he wasn't only running from Gilbert. Omegas were generally less brave and less aggressive than Alphas, but this one seemed more timid than most. I frightened him, he knew, feeling strangely guilty. He was so young and lost-looking. Could he really be an agent of the South? Maybe he really is alone

"—traces of Southerners in the forest," said the officer. "A reconnaissance party, at least a dozen strong."

Inwardly, Gilbert groaned. Or, maybe not.

He clucked his tongue, annoyed. "Spread-out and find them. Send word back to the fort. I want them flushed out of the forest. You've got permission to engage on-sight. Howl if you find anything, or—" he thought of the Omega, "—anyone."

"Yes, sir!" said eight Alphas in union. Then they dispersed, leaving Gilbert alone again.

Southerners in the forest, that's just fucking perfect, he thought, frustrated.

Intelligence from his scouts had reported as much, but Gilbert had hoped they were wrong. My Alphas are never wrong, he ceded. He had trained every one of them himself. But it was bad news, enemies in the forest. It meant that the Southern Empire was getting closer, taking liberties, pushing further into the Black Forest, intending to annex the West's territory, like the Easterners did seven years ago

He shook his head. Now wasn't the time to dwell on old losses. Old scars. He had a job to do, a responsibility to the Western Empire to guard it against a Southern invasion; a responsibility to kill or capture anyone who crossed that border. It had been two years since Gilbert's promotion to Fort Commander—he was the youngest commander in the fort's history—and since then he had managed to keep a full Southern invasion at bay, limiting engagements to petty skirmishes and scouting missions, but for how much longer? His Alphas couldn't hold the border forever, not at this rate. The Southerners were getting bolder, sneaking further inland, preparing. If they ever discover how few our numbers really are, we'll be in trouble. Thus far, Gilbert and his Alphas had done a good job of hiding their feeble numbers by creating the illusion of a fully-equipped fort filled to capacity with merciless soldiers ready to brutally slaughter enemies with mechanic efficiency—scare tactics worked—but the truth was, the fort was under-equipped, under-supplied, and under-manned. If the Southerners laid siege, the fort would only last a month.

That's why we have to keep them away, as far from the fort and the truth as possible. If they ever discover how weak we really are, we're all dead. All of my Alphas, dead. That's why I need to strike first. I have a job to do:

"Protect the Empire," he whispered habitually.

No Southerner could be allowed to live.


Matthew doubled-over, hands braced on his knees. He was panting hard, his heart pounding. His legs felt like jelly. I think I'm safe. He scanned the forest, the shadows. I don't think he followed me.

Sighing in relief, he leant against a tree. Only then did he consider what had happened.

For five days he had searched for traces of civilization in the forest. Then, he had hoped to find someone who could help him, or at least show him the right direction. Five days ago, he would have been thrilled by the appearance of anyone if it meant him not being alone. Matthew had never been alone before. He had always been surrounded by his family. In fact, he suspected that he had been coddled even more than the average Omega. His Alpha relatives especially worried about his safety. Only Arthur was lax. He trusted his pups' judgement and often encouraged them to explore, though Matthew rarely did. Every time he had been about to head off alone, one of his Alpha relatives always appeared:

"Are you going to the river, honey? I'll go with you."

"Are you going into the village, sweetheart? I'll go with you."

"Let me escort you, chéri."

"Wait for me, Mattie!"

Do you want my help? I'll go with you. I'll carry that. I'll guard you. I'll protect you. I won't let you go alone.

Matthew sighed. I never thought I'd miss that, he thought, saddened. I'd give anything for one of them to be here with me now.

Eventually, he had given up hope of seeing anyone in the forest. So, when he had seen that Western Alpha, why did he run?

Fear.

He had not been expecting to see the Alpha. A big, mean-looking Westerner clad in black-and-white clothes, armed, and intimidating. He had startled Matthew. He had looked like a hungry white wolf on the hunt, standing on the high-ground and looking down on the helpless Omega. His tall, lithe body had moved fluidly, so sudden: sharp and fast. Matthew had spooked and fled, fearing that the Alpha would catch him, and then—what? He didn't want to think about it. But after a while he had realized that the Alpha wasn't chasing him, that he couldn't hear his footsteps or his breaths. Despite that, he kept running. He didn't want to take any chances of—

What, being found—? But isn't that what I want? Isn't that what I need?

Conflicted, he had slowed to a walk, then stopped. Maybe I should go back and try to find him.

Perhaps the Alpha knew the forest and could help him? But Matthew didn't move. He stayed rooted to the spot with his back braced against the tree trunk. Lost or not, he couldn't deny that the red-eyed Alpha had frightened him.

I'm such a coward—

In proof, he flinched.

Footsteps crunched on dry foliage, unheeded by the owner. It was faint, but drawing nearer with the hurried pace of a light-footed Alpha. Matthew's instinct was to flee, but he fought it. He balled his hands into tight fists and waited anxiously, willing bravery to envelope him. It failed. He felt his heart beating fast in his chest. Don't be afraid, he tried to calm himself. It's just an Alpha, just a... stranger. He swallowed. The noise grew in volume, boot-heels falling upon packed earth. Matthew pressed his back against the tree, taking comfort in its solidity. When the Alpha's figure emerged on the rise, jogging swiftly, Matthew's mouth went dry. I could just stay here silently and let him pass by. He hasn't seen me yet. He doesn't have to. Do I really need his help?

Yes.

Matthew called-out to the Alpha. Nervous, it came out in French.

The Alpha leapt gracefully off the rise and landed ten feet from Matthew, a rich blue cloak billowing behind him. As he rose to his full height, Matthew realized that it was not the young red-eyed Alpha he had met before, but a blue-eyed Alpha of a like-age with his parents. He cocked his head, surveying the anxious Omega from head-to-toe before he met Matthew's gaze. A self-satisfied grin revealed approval as he sauntered forward.

"Hello," he said in French, then added: "My dear."

Matthew felt his stomach twist. He struggled to produce words: "I-I—"

The Alpha stopped a few feet away, just out of striking-range. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you."

Matthew's cheeks reddened in shame. "I'm sorry, I..." The blue-eyed Alpha smiled, kinder than the red-eyed wolf had looked. "I'm lost," he said softly. "I'm not supposed to be here."

"No," the Alpha agreed, "you're not. You're on the wrong side of the border to be speaking French. So am I," he grinned, revealing a shred of wicked pleasure. "Tell me, sweetheart, where have you come from? Where," he took a step forward, "is your family?"

Matthew shrank back. He felt a knot dig into his back, but didn't care. The Alpha's slow advance made him feel trapped. His temperature rose and his chest tightened. A wave of dizziness crashed over him before it passed. It's okay, don't panic. But the Alpha was too close now. Even if Matthew sprinted, the tree blocked his escape. The Alpha would grab him before he could take a single step.

Just calm down, he hasn't even threatened you, he thought logically, though there was something worrying in the Alpha's proximity. Ask for directions.

"I'm lost," he repeated meekly. "I need to return to the Low Countries. I got separated from my family, they'll be worried about me, and I—What are you doing?"

The Alpha reached out. "I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated, chuckling. "I just want a better look at your pretty face."

He took Matthew's chin in a half-gloved hand and lifted his head. Matthew habitually lowered his eyes and tried not to whine. A callused thumb rubbed his cheek; the nail scratched. He studied Matthew's face for a long time, too long, but Matthew was too afraid to break the contact. The Alpha's proximity had revealed a wicked-looking sword. Matthew's lowered gaze saw the insignia stitched to his tunic, a black fleur-de-lis.

That's a sigil of the South, he knew. He's of the French clans, the north-west of the Southern Empire. Papa's birthplace.

"It's not possible," the Alpha exhaled in awe.

His voice drew Matthew's attention. His blue gaze was fixed on the Omega's fair face, staring at him in disbelief. He shook his head.

"You're quite a beauty, aren't you, my dear? Let me guess, you must be... fifteen?"

Matthew didn't reply.

The Alpha released him, but didn't retreat. He stayed close, nearly chest-to-chest, blocking Matthew's path.

"Yes," he continued, "fifteen would be about right. Forgive me for staring, darling, but, you see, you just look so much like your sire."

Dread filled Matthew. "I-I—I don't know what you're talking about," he lied.

"Oh, sweetheart," the Alpha chuckled. There was a bite to it. Gently, he grasped Matthew's bicep. "I would know the blood of Francis Bonnefoi anywhere. I have no doubt that you're his pup. Even if you didn't look so alike him, you have his scent. It's been such a long time since I've smelled it, him, but I'm not mistaken. Gods, fifteen years!" His grip tightened. "I thought he was dead."

"Please, let go," said Matthew softly. He was trembling now.

The Alpha ignored the plea.

"He's supposed to be dead," he growled. His eye-teeth flashed. "I saw him shot with an arrow-bolt. I saw him fall into the Channel. He was always so arrogant, so vain, so entitled." As he spoke, he squeezed Matthew's bicep, bruising it, and leant closer. Matthew could feel his body-heat, his sweat. "The day he was chased off, the day he ran for his life, I was there. I saw it. I saw him helpless like he had never been before. Pathetic," he spat cruelly. "He had nowhere to go but into the Channel to drown himself. He deserved it. But I guess he survived, after all." The Alpha was so close now. His nose brushed Matthew's nose; his lips hovered inches from Matthew's trembling lips.

"Let me go," Matthew whispered. "Please... I'm not supposed to be here..."

"No, you're not. Francis should have died. You shouldn't have been born at all. Tell me, my dear," he said as he pinned Matthew to the tree, shoving a knee between the Omega's legs, "where did he take refuge? Was it the Isles? Was it in some Islander bitch that he sunk his cock?" He jerked Matthew, growing eager. He grabbed a handful of the Omega's curls and pressed his nose to the column of Matthew's neck, inhaling deeply. "I've never smelled an Islander before."

"Please, let go of me!"

The Alpha licked his lips. "I've never tasted an Islander before."


Gilbert stayed hidden. Having tracked the Omega's scent, he watched as he met with a Southern soldier.

Fuck, I was right, he thought, disappointed. He is a spy.

He watched as the other Alpha advanced on the Omega, a swagger in his step. It looked like a prowl, a hunt. He was middle-aged—thirty—but his body was virile and smelled strongly of sweat and salt and arousal. A growl like a purr reverberated in the back of his throat. The Omega bowed his head. Are they—? Gilbert's stomach clenched as the Alpha reached out and touched the Omega's face. Are they mates? No, the Omega is unmated. I'm certain of it. He inched closer, eyes searching for a sign of ownership, a mark or gift. Ah, there. On his middle-finger, the Omega wore a gold band. Claimed, but not yet mated. This Alpha must be his intended mate then. He wouldn't be pawing at the Omega like that otherwise. Gilbert wrinkled his nose and the corner of his lip twitched, lifting in a half-snarl. Behind his lips, his teeth were clenched.

He shook his head.

Stupid! he chastised in self-discipline. Focus on what they're saying, not on what they're doing. Are they planning an attack?

The Alpha's voice was thick, like honey. He spoke huskily of the Omega's sire. Gilbert frowned. That's kind of a weird topic, he thought, considering how flirtatious the Alpha's body-language was. If I was trying to sweet-talk an Omega, I wouldn't bring up his parents. Nor did the Omega seem receptive to it. He kept his head bowed, his curls shielding his face from view. But his posture was tense, his back pressed against a tree trunk. And his scent—Gilbert inhaled. He's afraid. Maybe I'm wrong and they're not intended mates? He had known many Omegas who had been nervous of their Alpha-mates at first, especially the couples who were arranged by the parents. It wasn't uncommon. But that's not pre-mating nerves, that's fear. Absently, he touched the pommel of his sword. That's when he heard a name. And he froze.

Francis Bonnefoi.

Oh, fuck. The Omega's fear was suddenly justified. If that really is Bonnefoi's pup, he's in serious danger.

"I've never tasted an Islander before," the Alpha growled.

He forced the Omega to his knees. He tried to escape, to crawl away, but the Alpha descended upon him like a predator, pressing his weight down on the Omega's back. Fisting a chunk of pale-blonde hair, the Alpha jerked the Omega's head back, producing a cry. "Let go!" he shrieked. "Let me go!" He clawed desperately at his assailant, but it was futile. He was in no position to fight, forced onto his belly. He battered at the Alpha's tunic harmlessly. The Alpha licked his lips hungrily, bright blue eyes alight, unhindered by the Omega's pitiful struggles. He was stronger and he knew it. He pushed the blonde's head down as he anchored himself at the Omega's hips, fumbling with his belt-buckle as he positioned himself at the Omega's backside—

"Gra-aah!"

The Alpha threw his head back in pain. He dove sideways to avoid Gilbert's blade, clutching his sliced bicep as he drew his own sword in defense.

Gilbert stood between he and the trembling Omega, eyes ablaze. A feral growl—a battle-cry—tore from his throat.

The Southerner paused, reconsidering attack; the Omega whined softly. Gilbert saw him stagger to his feet and take off at a dead-run, set on self-preservation.

Good. Get away from here, it's not safe. I don't want you to see what I'm about to do. His burning red-eyed gaze swung back to his enemy, daring him to chase the Omega.

"I know who you are, Captain," the Southerner spat in French, lips wet with saliva.

"Do you know where you are?" Gilbert countered. He whipped his sword in a small arch, readying for attack. "I'll give you a hint," he said. Then leapt. The Southerner parried the blow, but it threw him off-balance. He stepped back in retreat, dodging and swiping, but much too slowly. Gilbert's sword-point bit deep, but he didn't stop. He was angry. He pounded the Southerner with ceaseless blows. So very angry about what he had seen. "You're on the wrong side of the fucking border!" he snarled, bearing his teeth. He felt powerful, fueled by a deep, dark desire to thrash the Southerner in retribution. He blocked a blow and, before the other could react, Gilbert's fist flew out lightning-fast and struck him hard in the face. His knuckles returned bloody. The Southerner staggered.

"You're going to regret coming here," Gilbert threatened.

Then he threw his head back and loosed a long, piercing howl that carried over the treetops, calling forth his comrades.


Matthew heard the long, piercing howl, but he didn't slow. It chased him. He ran faster. He had never been so afraid in his entire life. Not even the flood had scared him as badly as that blue-eyed Alpha's intent. A whine, a sob, tore past his lips at the mere thought. Tears flooded his eyes. His whole body was trembling. Is this a panic-attack? He gasped, running faster. He didn't know where he was headed or in which direction, but he didn't care. It had been a mistake to seek out others. He should have trusted his instincts and hidden, he shouldn't have let an Alpha get close enough to—

Matthew faltered, tripped. He pressed a hand to his mouth as he staggered, half-blinded by tears.

I'm such a fool! He felt so ashamed. I almost got myself

"Oof—!"

Matthew hit something—someone—and fell back. Strong hands grabbed his forearm, holding fast, reeling him in as he fought. When he saw the fleur-de-lis, he screamed.

A party of Southerners, at least a dozen, swam before Matthew's compromised vision as he twisted. He saw grins, revealing teeth. He heard jeers and laughter.

"Hey, look what I've caught! A little Western bitch!"

"Give him here! It's been too long since I've touched an Omega! I want to feel him!"

"Quit drooling, you'll get a turn!"

"Me, first!"

Matthew screamed; they laughed. But it was short-lived. Someone shouted: "Westerners!" and soon the forest had become a battleground. Matthew was discarded. He fell to his knees, chest convulsing in panic. The black forest sang with the echoes of steel-on-steel: Clang! Clang! Swish—sha-ring! Clang! A near-equal number of Alphas attacked in a fury, not with teeth and fists, like Islanders, but with swords. The Westerners' swords were long, heavy, and straight. The Southerners' swords were shorter, stouter, and tapered. They clanged together, then ripped apart. It was loud and chaotic. It hurt Matthew's ears. He ducked a misaimed blow and crawled, trying to escape the fray, but he was encircled by black-and-white bodies fighting royal-blue.

"Someone grab the Omega!" the blue-eyed Southerner's breathless voice cut the din.

Matthew bolted to the left, then stopped. A steep, mossy cliff rose before him. He cried out in frustration as he tried and failed to climb the rock, scraping his fingers, desperate for escape.

No, no, no—! Why is this happening to me? I just want to go home!

Matthew was sobbing by the time an Alpha pulled him roughly back, choking him. His hand nearly encircled the Omega's delicate neck.

"STOP!" shouted the red-eyed Westerner.

The order was repeated by Matthew's captor in French. He barked loudly at his Alphas, who quieted. He was the eldest, the leader; Matthew could hear it in his gravelly voice. He was twice the age of his red-eyed counterpart, though they seemed to share the same rank. He said: "Captain Beilschmidt," and nodded with mock-cordiality.

"Captain Le Roux," replied the red-eyed Alpha, panting.

"Captain Le Roux, that Omega-pup is the blood of Francis Bonnefoi!" shouted the blue-eyed Southerner.

Matthew flinched at the collective gasp that erupted from the Southerners and Westerners alike. In outrage, the news produced a swell of voices, arguing, and snapping, and talking over each other. A low whistle sounded from someone at the back. A threat was issued from someone else. Finally, both of the captains called for silence. Le Roux yelled; Beilschmidt raised a hand. In that moment, Matthew felt every pair of eyes rest solely on him.

"Bonnefoi's pup?" said Captain Le Roux ruminatively. "I believe you're right."

"Captain Le Roux," Captain Beilschmidt interrupted sternly. In thickly-accented French, he said: "You are trespassing on the Western territory—"

"And you are harbouring the Omega-pup of a wanted Alpha," Captain Le Roux countered. "Let's call it even, shall we, Beilschmidt-pup? We'll take the Omega with us and leave the Black Forest. No blood-shed today, deal?"

"No!" Captain Beilschmidt snarled. It startled several Alphas. "He is no belonging to you."

"Bonnefoi was a Southerner. He does belong to us by blood-law."

Captain Beilschmidt hesitated for a fraction of a second and then impulsively said: "He is belonging to me by mating-law."

Matthew nearly whined in protest, but the captain's piercing red gaze warned him not to.

Captain Le Roux clucked his tongue skeptically. "You're lying," he said, but his stony voice revealed doubt. "I know the scent of a mated Omega, Beilschmidt, and this pup"—he jostled Matthew—"hasn't been mated. I'm not the only one here who can smell how innocent and unspoiled he is, am I?"

His Southern Alphas murmured in agreement, one snickered.

"You're a liar, Beilschmidt-pup. He's not your Omega-mate."

"Not now, but soon. I have claimed him by me. Look there, on his finger." He gestured. "That is a gift. He is mine to be, uh... mine for to be, uh... mine soon-to-be..."

"Intended," supplied a Westerner helpfully.

"Right, thanks," said Captain Beilschmidt to his comrade, then to Le Roux: "He is mine intended mate."

Le Roux cocked a greying eyebrow, unimpressed and unconvinced. Stiffly, he grabbed Matthew's hand and lifted it to eye-level, inspecting the shiny gold band. Matthew held his breath, trying not to let the lie show. But Le Roux wasn't looking at him; he was looking at the Westerner. "This isn't your sire's crest, Beilschmidt-pup." His voice was suspicious. "His is the Black Cross."

"The Iron Cross," Captain Beilschmidt corrected, irked. "No, it is no belonging to mine sire. It is belonging to mine dam. It is an, uh... pass-down—?" He glanced hopefully at his comrade, who shrugged in apology.

"Heirloom," said Captain Le Roux impatiently. He scoffed, showing disdain for the ring's craftsmanship. (It was lucky that he couldn't tell the difference between German and Dutch.) "I don't believe you, Beilschmidt-pup. The Omega"—again, he jostled Matthew—"doesn't have a lick of your scent on him."

"No, of course no," said Captain Beilschmidt, adopting an indignant tone. "Here of the West, we do not maul our intended mates."

A few of the Westerners—those who understood French—chuckled.

"But," he continued, presenting a gamble, "it is the word of you against me, Le Roux. You do not believe me? Then risk it. Go now, take mine Omega-mate away and be crushed by the full force of the Black Forest Fort in lawful retribution. He is belonging to the West now. And we of the West are protective of our kin."

"He's got Southern blood—"

"He is having Island blood, too!" Captain Beilschmidt snapped. "Can you no smell it? He is being an Islander by his dam. And he is being mine by claiming. He is no stray for you to have. He is mine!"

"We'll see."

Captain Le Roux shoved Matthew roughly into Captain Beilschmidt's arms.

"I know your Western laws, Beilschmidt-pup," he threatened. "Fort Commanders such as yourself can't take Omega-mates. I know you're lying to me," he emphasized in displeasure. "And I'll prove it. I'll be back in twenty-four hours with more than a scouting-party at my back. If Bonnefoi's pup hasn't been mated by then, or if you fail to let us see him in proof, the South will attack and I'll take him by force. And I'll be well within my rights to do so. No mating-law can protect an Omega who isn't mated. That pup"—he pointed at Matthew—"shouldn't have ever been born. Now his blood will pay for the crimes of his sire, I'll make sure of it.

"Twenty-four hours, Beilschmidt-pup. Then he's mine."


Gilbert held his defensive posture until the Southerners left, then he sighed in relief. He let his body relax, hoping that the Omega hadn't felt his rapid heartbeat. That was too close, he acknowledged. He was lucky that Captain Le Roux was a cautious leader, law-abiding by nature. He liked to have the facts before acting. He knows that I'm lying, but he can't prove it—not yet. Twenty-four hours, he had said. Beilschmidt-pup. Gilbert frowned. He despised Le Roux's derogatory nickname, as if Gilbert was a swaddling-pup; as if he wasn't an adult Alpha, twenty-years-old (almost twenty-one!); as if they didn't hold the same rank in their respective armies.

Just then, the Omega pushed anxiously at Gilbert's locked arms, trying to get free. Oh, right. He hadn't noticed him wriggling, too preoccupied. He just fit so well in Gilbert's arms. The top of his head barely reached the Alpha's chin. If Gilbert tipped his head sideways, he could rest it easily—

Ahem.

The Omega ducked out of arm's reach when Gilbert let go. Despite the dead-end, he retreated to the mossy cliff. Gilbert supposed he felt safer with a rock-wall at his back. His posture was shrunken in fright, his violet eyes shiny with tears, but he didn't run, which Gilbert was grateful for. He must have realized his predicament, hopelessly trapped between Gilbert and Le Roux. He watched Gilbert and his Alphas, but made eye-contact with none. He didn't speak.

I wonder if he speaks German?

"Uh, Captain—?"

Gilbert nodded at the officer, permitting him to speak. His eight Alphas, he noticed, were all staring between he and the Omega expectantly.

"He's very pretty, Captain," the officer acknowledged, "but Le Roux is right, the Fort Commander can't take an Omega-mate. It's illegal in the West, easily disproved. Why did you lie? Do you, uh... know that Omega, Captain?"

"No, I... I'll explain later," he said in avoidance. He received several unsatisfied frowns in return. "Let's call today a victory," he continued, standing straighter. "The Southerners have left the Black Forest without a fight, we've done our job."

"But it won't take Le Roux long to return, and when he does it'll be with his entire company. With respect, Captain, if we take that Omega back to the fort, we're inviting a siege."

"Leave the Omega," someone suggested.

"Or, mate him," said another. "Le Roux said he only had to be mated—"

"It's illegal."

"For the Fort Commander, yes. Not for us. I'll volunteer—Ach!"

Gilbert's long, strong fingers dug relentlessly into his junior's neck, squeezing. A deep, angry growl rumbled from his throat. The joker cowered in submission; in apology. Gilbert released him with a shove. Deliberately, he eyed the scouting-party, intending to make it very clear:

"The Omega is under my protection. No one is to touch him."

"Yes, sir!"

"Good. Now return to the fort," he ordered. Like machines, they obeyed.

He turned and faced the Omega, who flinched. "It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you," Gilbert said, stalking over. In reply, the Omega reversed until his back met the rock. Gilbert slowed, then stopped. The Omega's big violet eyes were wide and raw from crying. Gilbert could see them properly now. They sparkled like precious-stone, framed by long, pale lashes that brushed his white skin. It was freckle-less, blemish-less except for a red cut on his cheekbone, the same shade of red as his lips. Matted curls hung in a mess about his face. His garments were tattered, barely there. (He had torn his clothes to make cloth-bandages for minor injuries, Gilbert noticed. It made him wonder how long the Omega had been alone in the forest for?) Shoeless, his feet were filthy and cut. He looked like a castaway, cold and hungry, and yet he was incomparably beautiful.

Is there anywhere you're truly safe? he wondered. He didn't envy the Omega's family. It must be a full-time job guarding you.

"Who are you?" the Omega asked suddenly in French.

Gilbert cleared his throat. "Uh, my French... no good," he said painstakingly. "Do you speak German?"

The Omega stared incomprehensively.

"No? Dutch, then? Do you speak Dutch? Danish?" Please not fucking Danish. (Gilbert's Danish vocabulary was limited to profanity and racial-slurs.) "Uh, okay... Is French the only language you speak? Oh!" He brightened, struck by the obvious. "You're an Islander, yes? So, English—? Do you speak English?"

Please not Gaelic. Please not Welsh.

"Yes, I speak English," the Omega said softly.


The Alpha's body relaxed. "Oh, good. Me too," he said in English. "You need to come with me." He took a quick step.

"No!" Matthew raised his hands in self-defense. They trembled.

Captain Beilschmidt's movements were sharp and precise, like a marching-gait, but quiet. He was a tracker, not a charger. Before, he had attacked the blue-eyed Alpha as if from nowhere, like the crack of a whip. He was faster than he was strong, built for speed. He was tall and whiplash-lean, swathed from head-to-toe in white and black, like the Reaper. But it wasn't his size that struck Matthew, nor his rare lack of pigment. It was his stern, pitiless expression and wolfish red eyes. They pierced the Omega from a snow-white face made of sharp angles, like a snowflake. Those cheekbones could cut glass, he thought. And so could that sword. The naked steel gleamed in the grey daylight, resting at the Alpha's side. It was the length of his long leg, from foot to hipbone. Matthew didn't need to feel it to know that it was: heavy as sin (he's very strong, he thought, remembering the ease with which the Alpha wielded it); and sharper than those red eyes.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. His voice was not distinctly deep, but it harboured a predator's growl.

"That's what they said." Matthew bobbed his head, implying the Southerners.

Beilschmidt paused, then nodded. To Matthew's surprise, he thrust his sword into the earth and left it there too far to reach, looking like a grave-marker. He raised his hands to show Matthew that they were empty, then slowly unbuckled the sheathed dagger from his belt and laid it across his palm. He locked eyes with Matthew and then tossed it gently. Matthew caught it clumsily and drew. It was beautiful, engraved with a majestic cross. The Iron Cross, he remembered, it's his family's crest. Carefully, Matthew held the dagger out in front of himself, two-handed, the blade facing its master. He knew it was a farce. Beilschmidt could easily disarm him if needed, but holding the dagger made him feel a fraction safer.

Beilschmidt cocked a silver-white eyebrow, empty hands still aloft. "Feel better?"

Matthew ignored the note of condescension, and asked: "Who are you?" One-on-one, he found it easier to speak. Now that his nerves had been shattered, words poured recklessly from his mouth in a torrent: "And where am I? Why does everyone seem to know me? And my Papa? Who are those Alphas, and why do they want me? I don't understand. I-I—I don't even know where I am! My family, they—I mean, I-I—I'm not supposed to be here! I just want to go home! I-I-I—"

Beilschmidt's face revealed shock. "Are you okay?"

Matthew's knees buckled and he collapsed. The hand holding the dagger shook violently; the other clutched his chest. His heart raced. His temperature rose, sweat beading his forehead. "I can't—I-I—I can't breathe," he gasped.

He squeezed his eyes closed as panic overwhelmed him. Oh, not now! he begged. He had held back the panic while facing the battle, the negotiation, the hoard of competing soldiers, but now that it was just he and the captain he was breaking. He felt lightheaded, then his body pitched sideways.

"I've got you, it's okay," said Beilschmidt, catching him. He knelt, holding the Omega snug against his chest. It was like before; Matthew could hear his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. Fresh tears spilled out. Beyond the Alpha, the world spun. It was upside-down. Matthew whimpered in fear. He tried to draw a deep breath, but his airway constricted and he choked. I can't breathe! I can't breathe! he panicked. It hurt. He couldn't remember the last time he had fallen victim to such a consuming panic-attack. Not for years.

Oh, gods! I'm going to suffocate! My heart is going to burst! I'm going to die!

Beilschmidt grabbed Matthew's chin and lifted his face to the sky, opening his airway, encouraging him to breathe. And slowly, he did. One, two, three times he inhaled. It felt familiar. One of the Alpha's firm hands wrapped around his stomach, supporting his weight; the other cupped the back of his head, fingers coiled in his pale curls. The Alpha's fingers were slimmer than Scott's, but not as long and gentle as Francis'; his touch was deliberate, like Liam and Patrick's; but practised, like Owen's. His proximity calmed Matthew's racing heart. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that he was in his family's protective embrace. Almost. But I'm not. He's not them, he noted the subtle differences. He's a stranger. And yet, he found himself leaning into the Westerner's body, drawing comfort from his warmth and pungent, soothing scent.

"It's okay," said that raspy voice. "I've got you, it's okay."

"I-I—I'm sorry," Matthew whispered. "I'm better now."

Shyly, he pushed against the Alpha's chest with his right hand. In his left, he was still clutching the dagger.

"Whoa, careful!" Beilschmidt grabbed Matthew's shoulders to stay his swaying.

Matthew dismissed his help. "I'm fine. I just... I just panic sometimes," he said in embarrassment.

The Alpha eyed him skeptically. "O—kay?"

He didn't understand, but it didn't matter. Matthew wasn't about to explain it in detail right now. He twisted a curl self-consciously, his gaze downcast in shame. The panic-attack had stolen his fight. Or, he thought it had, until the Alpha said:

"Let's go to the fort."

Matthew shook his head (the world shuddered). "No," he said weakly.

Beilschmidt sighed. "If you stay here, Le Roux's Alphas will rape you and kill you," he said bluntly.

Matthew wanted to argue, but there was no lie in the Alpha's forthright tone, no embellishment. It was honest, like Alfred's. He pursed his lips. "And if I go with you—?" he asked. Bravely, he lifted his gaze for a fleeting second. "How do I know you won't do the same?"

"You're just going to have to trust me.

"I'm Gilbert," he added in good-faith. "Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt, Fort Commander of the Black Forest Fort of the Western Empire."

"Matthew," Matthew replied softly.

"Matthew," Gilbert repeated, "I promise that you'll be safe with me, but first you have to trust me."

Matthew hesitated, and then nodded in surrender. He felt tired—so very tired. All of the stress, fear, and exhaustion he had tried to suppress since getting lost seemed to crash down on him all at once, stealing the little strength he had left. He felt helpless. He just wanted to close his eyes and sleep. "Okay," he agreed.

Then he whispered: "Captain—?" The Alpha leant closer to hear. Matthew swayed; his vision blurred. "I'm going to faint now."

Gilbert's smile was gentle. "Okay," he said. And caught Matthew a second later.