DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers Hidekaz Himaruya

THE CALL OF THE WILD

LOST BOYS


SIX

WESTERN EMPIRE

WILDERNESS

I told you to stay off that leg," Ivan grumbled.

Alfred, awake from a nap begun at high-noon—it was nearly three, now—rubbed drowsily at his face. "I know. I am," he yawned. In example, he hopped one-footed. Once, twice. Swaying dangerously, he lowered himself onto his rump beside Ivan and pulled a pelt over his shoulders. Ivan glanced down at Alfred from his perch on an overturned crate by the fire, and then resumed his task. Alfred sat briefly in silence, then sighed deeply, a subtle request for attention. Ivan ignored it. "I'm bored," Alfred vocalized, staring meaningfully at Ivan. The Alpha's violet eyes didn't stray; he merely grunted in acknowledgement. Alfred waited, fidgeted. "What are you doing?" he asked inevitably.

"I'm repairing a basket," Ivan replied.

A burst of laughter exploded from Alfred's mouth. "Basket-weaving?" he grinned, then poked Ivan's shoulder in jest. "That's Omega work!"

Ivan's cold glare froze Alfred's grin. The laughter died abruptly.

"Yes, it's a shame there isn't an able Omega here to help with the chores," he chastised, "then I would be free to pursue my socially prescribed gender-role. Alphas, we hunt!" he grunted and thumped his broad chest in a boorish manner. His tone oozed sarcasm. "Omegas, you basket-weave!"

"Okay, I get it! I'm sorry," Alfred sighed. He pulled his knees to his chest and flinched.

Ivan's voice resumed its regular base. "Does your leg hurt?"

"It throbs a little," Alfred admitted.

Ivan set the basket aside and shifted on the crate to face Alfred. Wordlessly, he stretched out a hand, open-palm. It was a subtle order: Let's see. Alfred hesitated, then gingerly lifted his left leg. Ivan took it gently by the ankle and rested it on his knee. Alfred leant back to compensate for his elevated leg. He watched Ivan anxiously, secretly afraid of the pain. He didn't realize that he was holding his breath until Ivan chuckled.

"Your face is beet-red," he said as he unwrapped the bandages.

Alfred's face grew redder. He looked away, then back. His bare skin tingled at the Alpha's touch. It was firm, but careful. The higher Ivan's hands inspected, the faster Alfred's heart beat. He tried to look uninterested, but the twinkle in Ivan's violet eyes revealed the Alpha's amusement. As he rewrapped Alfred's leg with clean linen, he deliberately lingered. He held Alfred's leg just above the knee, applying the gentlest pressure to the Omega's sensitive thigh. Alfred's skin was warm, yet he shivered. Am I imagining it, or is he actually copping a feel? He considered Ivan for a moment, the stoic Lone Wolf who had showed little interest in the Omega at his mercy. No, he decided, excusing Ivan's groping. The Alpha's actions were habitual. He had tended to Alfred's injury many times already. It's not like that between he and I. I'm just an obligation. We aren't friends, just companions by necessity.

Ivan finished his work and lowered Alfred's leg, laying his foot on the hide-covered rock.

"Thank-you," Alfred said quietly.

Ivan paused and cast Alfred a look of genuine surprise. "I've done that a dozen times and you've never thanked me before."

Alfred shrugged, feeling self-conscious. He pulled his trouser-leg back down to cover his shin, then hugged the pelt around himself, burying his nose to hide his blushing face.

"Are you hungry?" Ivan asked.

"No," Alfred lied.

Ivan stoked the fire, then resumed his position, except, this time, he ignored the crate and sat with Alfred on the floor. Immediately, Alfred felt drawn toward his body. The Alpha stared absently at the flames, holding a fire-poker in one hand, sifting the embers. The half-repaired basket sat beside him, neglected. His face looked softer in the fire's yellow glow, younger. Impulsively, Alfred shimmied sideways until he was leaning up against Ivan's side. He rested his cheek just below the Alpha's shoulder and listened to his strong, slow heartbeat. Ivan didn't move, not to remove Alfred or to cuddle him. Alfred hadn't expected him to. He sighed in resignation and closed his eyes.

Ivan said: "You can't seriously be tired."

"I'm not."

Since Alfred had awoke in Ivan's arms, the other snoring—it sounded like a deep purr—contently beside him, he had taken to the Alpha instinctively, like an animal. Despite Alfred's active tongue, he was a physical being. He liked to be held and touched, preferring nonverbal affection. And Ivan obliged, even if he didn't participate. He didn't complain when Alfred crawled to his side and snuggled close. In fact, he rarely acknowledged the Omega at all. But the Alpha's body felt good. It was always warm. Not soft, but comfortable. The closer Alfred was to Ivan, the safer he felt. Being held is the best feeling there is, he thought, thinking of his family's loving embraces. I wish Ivan would hold me like that. I wish he wasn't so distant. Absently, he kneaded the back of Ivan's shirt between his thumb and forefinger. Being held by him, by those big, muscular arms—Alfred's heart fluttered—would feel so good.

"Little one?"

Alfred tensed, fantasy shattered. "Why do you call me that?" he asked, opening his eyes.

"What?"

"Little one," Alfred repeated. He turned his head, looking up at Ivan. From the angle, he could see the strong jaw and defined laryngeal prominence in the Alpha's throat. "Do you think it's funny?" he asked, a note of unhappiness in his voice.

He thought of his Alpha friends, who liked to tease him the way they teased each other, insulting each other's skills and looks. Alfred would force a good-humoured smile and laugh it off, but he always felt the bite of insecurity. He couldn't make a fuss, though; he didn't want his friends to think he was too sensitive for jokes. Alfred was thick-skinned when his household skills were criticized (usually by Arthur), but he disliked when people poked fun at his looks. It's why he had tried so hard to change them, to lose weight. Secretly, he was terrified of gaining back what he had lost.

I know I'm not delicate. I know I'm too big to be a beautiful Omega. I don't need anyone else to remind me.

"I don't like being teased," he said abruptly. The words were spoken before Alfred could swallow them. He barely had time to regret it, however, before Ivan said:

"I'm not."

"Not what? Not making fun of me?"

"No."

"Then why do you call me little one?" he asked in challenge. "I'm not little, not at all."

"You're littler than me," Ivan said simply.

Alfred stared curiously at him for a moment, searching for a lie, a cruel jest, but he relaxed when he found none. Ivan's face was as uninterested as ever, eyes fixed on the fire.

"Everyone is littler than you," he grumbled, feigning annoyance as he shimmied back down.

In truth, his stomach flipped nervously. He tried to ignore it, but he wanted Ivan to hold him now more than ever. He wanted to feel that big, broad body envelope him, warm muscles flexed with strength. Since Alfred had come-of-age, he had rarely felt small. Scott was the only Islander who made Alfred feel small, but the pack-leader was not fond of cuddling with anyone except for Matthew, whom he indulged (just like everyone else). Lars had made Alfred feel less big, but he, too, had preferred Matthew. I know it's my looks. I'm too big, too tall, too fat. A wave of self-loathing crashed over the young Omega. He tried to ignore it, but it was fueled by Ivan's disinterest. Tears burned his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. It had been many years since he had cried in front of anyone but Arthur. He tried to be logical:

What did I expect? Alphas want small, delicate Omegas that make them feel bigger and more powerful. If Mattie was here then Ivan would prefer him, too.

The thought provoked a surge of sudden envy, like nothing Alfred had ever felt before. It was accompanied by a feeling of such intense possessiveness, Alfred found himself at a loss. He felt angry and helpless simultaneously. He couldn't explain it.

"Stop whining," Ivan said suddenly.

Alfred stopped immediately. He hadn't noticed the pitiful noise he was making. He buried his face, feeling angry and embarrassed. Ivan misinterpreted Alfred's internal conflict as distress. He must have, for Alfred couldn't determine any other reason for what the Alpha did next.

Without warning, Ivan lifted an arm and wrapped it securely around Alfred's body, pulling him in close. It took a moment for the shock to dissipate, for Alfred to remember how to breathe. Since the first night Ivan had crawled into bed with him, the Alpha had let the Omega cling to him without complaint, but he had never responded before. He had never even looked down at Alfred before. Not, Alfred realized, that Ivan was looking at him now. His eyes were still plastered to the fire, sparkling as they reflected the flickering light. Alfred froze instinctively, then he slowly let himself sink into the embrace he had only moments ago been fantasizing about. As expected, he felt small. Not delicate or helpless, but like someone in need of soothing. Ivan held Alfred tightly, yet gently—as always. The comfort he lent was subtle, as if he really did think that Alfred was distressed, but wouldn't verbally acknowledge it to preserve the Omega's dignity. Still, it quieted Alfred's insecurities. It made him feel valued, as if he was something worth guarding.

I was right, Alfred thought, pressing his cheek to Ivan's chest. This feels so good.

"Ivan—?"

The Alpha grunted in acknowledgement. When Alfred didn't reply, he glanced down.

Alfred smiled up at him, and said: "I'm hungry."


Ivan sighed. Alfred was incorrigible.

"I just asked if you were hungry."

"I know. Now I am," he replied, ignoring his previous dismissal.

I knew you had to be, Ivan thought. The Omega's eating habits were inconsistent. Alfred hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, just a half-bowl of porridge. He's still healing, he needs to eat more. Ivan felt like Alfred's dam, goading him into eating, sleeping, and taking better care of himself. You're too skinny, he noted, gently squeezing Alfred's ribs. How can you think you're not little? You're half-starved! It angered Ivan when Alfred refused to eat, but he held his tongue, afraid of bullying the Omega into a fit. Alfred was the kind of Omega who would do something just because he had been told the opposite. He would not be ordered or forced, something Ivan had discovered early. If Alfred Kirkland didn't want to do something, then Alfred Kirkland didn't.

Stubborn, Omega!

Of course, it was a two-way street. He was a very self-involved Omega, very brazen. If Alfred Kirkland did want to do something, then he did it without thinking—like cuddling with Ivan.

He's like an animal seeking comfort. He just likes the warmth, my body-heat,Ivan justified, holding Alfred one-armed. The Omega had fidgeted, crawling absently onto the Alpha's lap and burying his face below Ivan's collarbone, like a nesting pup. Ivan's leg was numb under Alfred's weight, but he didn't move. He hadn't wanted to disturb Alfred, whom he had thought was asleep. Asleep again? Ivan had never met anyone who slept as much as Alfred. The Omega mumbled incoherently now and then, but mostly he just whined. It was a sad sound, as if he was distressed. What now? Ivan wondered, trying—and failing—to feel annoyed. Before he could stop himself, he had raised an arm to hold the Omega close. It was instinct, a reflex. But it felt good. Alfred relaxed and rested his head on Ivan's chest, his body curled against the Alpha, feeling safe. This feels so good.

It's the physical contact he likes, not me, Ivan reminded himself. I'm just a big, warm body. I'm replaceable. He won't stay here forever. When his leg heals, he'll leave. Someone else will hold and comfort him then. Maybe one of his Alpha friends

Ivan swallowed a growl.

His stomach knotted at the thought of being left alone again. Alfred was—annoying, talkative, disobedient—good company that he didn't want to lose.

I want to keep him, he thought selfishly, feeling possessive. But if there was ever an Omega who wouldn't be held against his will, it was Alfred Kirkland.

Ivan consoled his loneliness by gently squeezing Alfred. He wanted to hold him tighter, but he had to be careful. Alfred was small, his bones were fragile. Ivan didn't want to accidentally bruise his pretty bronze skin, especially since he was already injured. He had to be very gentle or he risked hurting the Omega through neglect. It had happened before with other Omegas, who had been afraid of Ivan because of it. More than anything, he didn't want to hurt Alfred. And he didn't want Alfred to be afraid of him.

Quickly, Ivan grabbed the fire-poker to keep his mind distracted and his hands busy. He liked to be busy, he disliked idleness. He needed to feel useful. His childhood had been too short for playing; play had been discouraged—beaten out of him—at an early age. But Alfred's impish smile and sparkly jewel-blue eyes made Ivan want to joke and play with him, like a pup. He often found himself inadvertently wrestling with Alfred when the Omega refused to comply, not because he didn't want what Ivan was offering, but because he wanted to play. Alfred liked to poke at him, provoking the Alpha. He liked to tug at Ivan's clothes and hair, like a toddler abusing an old, good-humoured dog. His mischievous smirk seemed to say: Play with me! And Ivan wanted to. He wanted to wrestle Alfred, tickle him, and make him screech. He wanted to see Alfred's flushed face, gasping, smiling, moaning. He wanted to pin the gorgeous Omega under him and tease every inch of his golden body—with his tongue. He wanted to hold Alfred, not as a friend or caretaker, but as a mate. Instead, he ignored Alfred. He actively tried not to look at him. He pushed him (gently) away when the Omega felt frisky. Ivan wouldn't admit how much he liked holding Alfred, because he was afraid of wanting more.

He likes the physical contact, but that's all it is to him. It means nothing. It's just convenient, like me.

I shouldn't indulge him, he knew. He had saved Alfred out of pity, but had never expected the Omega to survive. He hadn't intended to get attached. I can't. If he did, it would only hurt that much more when Alfred left.

"Why are you staring at me?" Alfred asked, frowning. A faint blush coloured his cheeks. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, I heard you."

Unceremoniously, Ivan stood, leaving Alfred unbalanced. The Omega fell forward with a soft: "Oof!" He looked up at Ivan from his stomach, thick eyelashes lowered, and pouted, somehow looking cute and sexy. A too-big sleeve had slipped off of his shoulder, hanging lopsidedly, revealing a generous amount of perfect, soft skin.

Ivan swallowed a mouthful of saliva and turned away.


Where are you going?" Alfred asked.

"I'm going to get you something to eat," Ivan replied curtly.

He stalked to a weathered box in the corner, heavy-footed. Is he angry? Alfred wondered, noting how tense the Alpha suddenly looked. He hadn't meant to upset Ivan. He knew that he was a burden, unable to hunt for himself. He knew how frustrating it must be for an adult Alpha to have to play caretaker to an adult Omega, an injured one, which is why Alfred tried to keep their relationship as lighthearted as possible. But Ivan didn't like to play. No doubt, he thought Alfred was annoying. I can't help it, he sighed in defeat, I'm bored. And Ivan is so easy to provoke! There was something about the big, stoic Alpha that made Alfred want to tease him, poke him, tug at him, fishing for a reaction. Come on, Ivan! Fight back! He wanted to see the Alpha smile a genuine, nonthreatening smile. He wanted to hear the Alpha's laugh. Fight me! Tackle me! Pin me down, crawl on top of me, and

Alfred blushed. Fortunately, Ivan's back was turned.

The Alpha had opened the box and was digging through it. It caught Alfred's attention. The box had sat there for as long as Alfred had been in Ivan's company, but he had never seen its contents. It seemed limitless. It was the place Ivan stored his valuables, tools, and weapons. Alfred had asked about it once, expecting Ivan to ignore him as always, but to his surprise the Alpha's eyes had narrowed in warning, and he snapped: "Don't touch it!" Since then, he had actively kept Alfred away from the wooden box. His secrecy didn't make Alfred want to investigate any less, of course, but he respected that it contained the Alpha's private property and he let it be. However, as Ivan pulled out a hunting-knife, Alfred accidentally caught sight of a grey jacket, which was folded neatly. It looked like a uniform, stitched with a foreign insignia, and his curiosity returned tenfold. A hundred questions formed on Alfred's tongue, but he stayed silent. Ivan was already tense. Alfred didn't want to upset him by breaking the only real rule the Alpha had imposed.

Ivan closed the box's lid, clutching the hunting-knife. "Stay here. I'll be right back," he said. It sounded more like a warning than a farewell.

Alfred waited for Ivan's footsteps to fade, swallowed by the forest, before he wobbled gracelessly over to the box.

He slid his fingers beneath the lid, opening it slowly. He just wanted a peek. I just want to know what you're not telling me, he thought, hoping that the box's contents would reveal Ivan's past. The lid lifted and fell back. It was a lot fuller than Alfred expected, everything stacked neatly. The grey uniform jacket sat on the top. Alfred took it and unfolded it carefully. He had never seen the insignia before, but the cut was unmistakable: a military jacket. The fabric was course between Alfred's fingers. Generic. Mass-produced. There was a dark stain on the sleeve. He set the jacket aside and sifted through a pile of tools, a couple of weapons. A knife's hilt was engraved with the same State-issued symbol. He lifted a tinder-box, which was not full of tinder, but of small trinkets, mostly jewelry. Prizes. The word jumped into Alfred's head before he could stop it and he felt suddenly chilled. Spoils of war. His stomach clenched tightly as he looked through the contents, unable to stop himself: a ring; a bracelet; a pendent; a wood necklace engraved with two sets of initials—someone's claiming gift. A pen-knife; a compass; a cracked hand-mirror. Alfred's hands were shaking by the time he lifted an Omega-pup's doll. It had a stain on it the same dark shade as the jacket. Quickly, Alfred shoved it back into the tinder-box and closed it. He dropped it. It clanged off of something near the bottom of the box, wrapped in an old oil-skin. Alfred knew it by its shape, he needn't look, but he did. A big, heavy steel sword as wide as Alfred's leg. It was well cared for, still sharp.

Alfred pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a whine. He should not have been surprised. He had been expecting Ivan's past to be something unsavoury, why else would he keep it secret? But the physical evidence hit him like a blow. The blood on the Omega-pup's doll made him feel ill.

No, no he didn't. He felt tears sting his eyes.

Oh, Ivan

"I gave you one rule."

Alfred whipped around, wide-eyed.

Ivan's silhouette stood at the cave's entrance, big and powerful, his eyes reflecting the firelight, gleaming. His teeth were clenched; his fists were balled. He took a step forward. Slow, deliberate. He didn't blink. He pierced Alfred with a haunting gaze. Alfred had never seen the Alpha look so angry. It was unlike his empty threats. It was real.

"I told you not to touch."

"I-I—I'm sorry!" Alfred choked out. He could feel himself cowering as Ivan advanced. "I just wanted to know—"

"Well now you know," said Ivan menacingly.

Without warning, he threw a dead pheasant against the cave wall. Its bones cracked on impact. Alfred flinched, shrinking lower.

"Are you happy?" Ivan asked, growling. He reached behind Alfred and slammed the box closed. "Now that you know what I am, what I've done, are you fucking happy?"

Alfred gasped when Ivan grabbed his collar and jolted him forward. Rough. He faced Ivan, nearly nose-to-nose, but for once he couldn't meet the Alpha's eyes. He felt guilty, ashamed. Afraid.

"None of that belongs to you," said Ivan, shaking in anger. "You shouldn't have touched it. I told you not to fucking touch it!"

A terrible roar filled the cave. Alfred acted in reflex. He grabbed the hunting-knife from Ivan's belt and slammed the hilt into the Alpha's temple. "Get away from me!" he shrieked, slithering out of Ivan's grasp. Clumsily, he escaped to the opposite side of the cave, to the bed. There, against the cave wall, he extended the knife's blade in threat. "Don't touch me!" he snarled as aggressively as he could.

Ivan eyed Alfred, his chest heaving as he breathed, trying to curb his fury. A growl reverberated in his throat. He took a step toward Alfred, his gaze fixed upon the defensive Omega. Alfred held his breath, paralyzed with fear. Could he really stab Ivan if he needed to? His whole body trembled. Ivan's shadow swallowed him. He didn't blink. He reached for Alfred with a powerful hand. Alfred readied to lunge.

Then, just before he reached the Omega, Ivan drew back. In effort his hand curled back into a shaking fist and he suddenly changed direction. With a loud, frustrated growl he left the cave and was gone.

Alfred barely felt the pain in his leg as he collapsed on the bedding, the knife landing mutely beside him.


WESTERN EMPIRE

BLACK FOREST FORT

Matthew?"

Matthew was staring out of the bedchamber's window at the forested landscape below. The narrow window was barely wider than an arrow-loop; the bedchamber was large, but barren, not unlike Lars'. Why don't Alphas want to be comfortable? he had thought. Then again, it wasn't a house; it was an army base. A fort. It looked like a fort and it smelled like a fort: cold, hard, empty, and built for practicality, not luxury. At least the bed was soft and the crackling hearth fire warm. Matthew had been so exhausted that he had fallen effortlessly into a deep, dreamless slumber as soon as Gilbert had let him. But it had been a short reprieve. Since Gilbert had brought Matthew to the Black Forest Fort, the Omega felt trapped. He felt safer surrounded by the thick stone walls, protected like he hadn't been in the forest, but—

I'm a prisoner here. I can't escape. If I do choose to leave, I'll die.


TWELVE HOURS AGO

Can you walk?" Gilbert asked.

Drowsily, Matthew nodded. He felt dizzy, hungry, but he didn't want to be carried into the fort like a damsel. Gilbert set him down, but took his arm in escort, folding Matthew's hand into the curve of his arm; afraid that the Omega would collapse or run, Matthew didn't know. His mouth felt dry as he looked up at the Black Forest Fort's imposing stone walls and he leant cowardly into the Alpha's body. Gilbert called to the guards, ordering them to open the gate. "It's okay, just stay close," he whispered to Matthew as he led the Omega inside. The gate closed heavily behind them, making Matthew feel instantly trapped. His heart beat faster. Timidly, he hugged Gilbert's bicep, seeking a shield from the dozens of baffled eyes that suddenly turned in his direction, watching him; some in confusion, some in suspicion, and some like they had never seen an Omega before in their lives. The soldiers didn't dare question their red-eyed commander, but they congregated in the courtyard without orders, awaiting Gilbert's explanation.

"Captain?" said a big, blue-eyed blonde in bewilderment.

"Lieutenant." Gilbert nodded curtly and kept walking. He led Matthew up a flight of wooden stairs, then stopped. In a booming voice that made Matthew flinch, he said (in German):

"This is Matthew. He is a guest of the fort and he is under my protection. He is NOT to be touched."

As Gilbert talked, presumably explaining Matthew's presence, Matthew tried to ignore the soldiers' eyes. It felt like déjà vu, standing on a dais and clutching an Alpha for safety while others gawked at him. But unlike the Low-Landers, who had smiled and cheered at the news being relayed, the Westerner soldiers stared in stony silence. Matthew heard the wind whistle through tower rafters; the faraway cry of a crow; the lazy flap of a flag. He heard his own heart beat in his ears. The atmosphere was tense and unwelcome. The Alphas themselves looked cold and tired, and the fort looked grey.

They know that I'm not supposed to be here, Matthew thought. He remembered what Captain Le Roux had said about the Western Empire's laws. They know it's illegal.

Gilbert's speech ended abruptly. The Alphas all echoed: "Yes, sir!" and then dispersed wordlessly to their duties. It was not a friendly reception, but if Gilbert was worried, he didn't show it. On the contrary, he seemed to be more relaxed now than he had been in the forest, more in command. He led Matthew into the keep, ignoring the blue-eyed Alpha who tried fervently to catch the captain's attention. It was dark and quiet inside, the walls blocking out the sounds of the courtyard. In silence, they climbed to the second level where Gilbert stopped in front of a door.

"This is my private bedchamber," he said, inviting Matthew inside. "You'll be safe in here."

"Safe for how long?" Matthew asked.

Gilbert shut the door, then turned. Matthew tensed as the Alpha stepped further into the room. Forthright, he said:

"I'm not going to sugar-coat this, okay? You're in danger, Matthew Bonnefoi. And if you haven't figured that out yet, then you're a lot denser than you look. In less than a day, Le Roux will return with a company of Southerners who will lay siege to this fort to get to you. I can't let that happen."

Matthew wrapped his arms around himself and shook his head. "But why? Why me?"

"It's because you're Francis Bonnefoi's pup—"

"Yes, you all keep saying that, but nobody has told me why my Papa is a wanted Alpha." A note of frustration leaked into Matthew's voice. "What crime was Captain Le Roux talking about?"

"Francis Bonnefoi," Gilbert hesitated, "is a murderer charged with regicide. Patricide," he added darkly. "It's said he murdered his sire, the Clan Leader, fifteen years ago. That's why he left the South."

"No." The word was quiet, but the conviction surprised Gilbert. "You're wrong. My Papa's not a murderer."

"The South thinks otherwise."

"The South is wrong!" Matthew snapped, feeling angry in defense. "I know my Papa. I know how much he loves us. He would never hurt his family, not for any reason. He loved his clan. Leaving it hurt him badly. I don't care what the South believes, he's not a murderer. It's impossible."

"Maybe."

Matthew frowned at Gilbert's yielded argument. The Alpha sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. He looked as tired as his soldiers.

"I don't know, okay? I wasn't there," he said tersely. "It was sixteen years ago, I was six. I was busy chasing birds and abusing my little brother. All I can tell you is what I've heard."

He gestured to the bed, inviting Matthew to sit. Reluctantly Matthew sat on the edge, shifting as the mattress dipped beneath Gilbert's added weight, pulling him toward the centre. The Alpha sat on the opposite end at a polite distance and faced Matthew like a storyteller. He said:

"The Southern Empire called Bonnefoi a traitor for murdering his sire, but I'm not the only one who thinks that the circumstances of Bonnefoi Senior's death were more than a little suspicious. The Southern Empire has always been power-hungry," he said, guessing at Matthew's naivety on the subject. "It swallows the free clans like a beast, steadily expanding its territory. It has been for generations.

"Sixteen years ago the Emperor set his sights on the free French clans and conquered them all, except one. Francis' clan resisted the Southern Army. They fought back and—miraculously—they won. So, the Emperor changed tactic. If he couldn't defeat them in the field, he would conquer them by negotiation. Rather than waste resources on a siege, he called a truce with the French. He sent a small party of envoys to the French city to negotiate a treaty. The Southerners spoke pretty words, making promises that I, at least, don't think they ever intended to honour. It's said that Francis was there, the Clan Leader's fifteen-year-old heir. He was just a pup, but he was arrogant. That's how the story goes, anyway. He was loud and rude to the Southerners, and made no effort to play-nice and hold his tongue. It was his pride that angered the Southerners. He openly criticised his sire, the Clan Leader." Gilbert paused to shake his head, as if he couldn't believe the gall of young-Francis; as if the mere thought of disobeying one's sire was criminal. "It was a very public display," he continued. "Eventually, Francis stormed off as a sign of protest. He hated the South. He had made that very clear.

"I wonder," he thought aloud, "if he had been older, or smarter, or just better behaved, would his clan have believed him? Would they have tried to protect him?" He shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter.

"That night, the French Clan Leader was found dead in his chambers and Francis was blamed. I don't know what evidence they found to support it, but after Francis' public disgrace nobody had trouble believing it was him. He singlehandedly proved everything that the Southerners had been saying true: That the French clan was poisoned from within, in danger of betrayal. I don't know if it was fear, or anger, or grief that made the French clan-members believe it, but they did. They swore loyalty to the Southern Emperor in exchange for the Southern Army's protection and a promise of revenge. The French militia joined with the Southern Army and they hunted Francis, the pup whom they branded a blood-traitor. The pup who hated the South so much that he had murdered his own Alpha-father.

"I'm sorry," Gilbert added, looking at Matthew.

Matthew stared at the floor, his hands folded tightly. He pursed his lips as he processed what he had just been told.

"You don't believe it, do you," he said softly. It was a statement, not a question.

Gilbert shrugged noncommittally. "It sounds a little too easy to me. Francis was a convenient scapegoat, don't you think? He was only fifteen. I think the French clans were scared and desperate, and I think the Southerners took advantage of a paranoia that was already growing inside. The South couldn't defeat the French by force, so they took a different route and crippled the clan from within, purging it of rebellious influence in the process. Had Francis stayed, he would've been a figurehead for future rebellion. Who better to rally the troops than the Clan Leader's heir? In the end, I think it had to be Francis who got blamed for the murder. He was the only logical choice, because the Southern Empire couldn't risk the French unifying and regaining their freedom. To the South, Francis' life was a representation of liberty. That's why they wanted him dead.

"That's why they want you dead, Matthew."

Matthew looked at Gilbert in disbelief. "Me? No, I—"

"You're Francis Bonnefoi's pup, which means you've got the blood of the French clan before it was annexed. You represent now what Francis did sixteen years ago, a birth-right to lead the French clan to freedom. If the French knew of your existence, then rebels—separatists—might come forward in defiance of the Southern Empire and plot to restore Francis' bloodline, you, as their leader."

Matthew shook his head fervently. He felt overwhelmed. "No, that's not true. I don't understand. On the Isles, the Clan Leader is chosen by ability, trial-by-combat."

"This isn't the Isles, Matthew," Gilbert said stonily. "Here, blood is worth more than anything. Leaders aren't just governors, they're symbols of power."

"But that's not me," Matthew argued. "I'm not like that, really I'm not. I don't want anything to do with the clans in the South. I just want..." to go home.

His voice faded as he stared vacantly at his hands. This is too much, he thought. How did this happen to me? For years he had prepared himself for a domestic life as an Alpha's Omega-mate, and that alone had been taxing. He had expected to be bred. He had promised to be a good dam to all of his pups, following Arthur's example, loving and devoted. He had decided to be a good mate, to put his Alpha-mate first. But that's all. He had never even expected to leave the Isles, let alone go from pair-bonding with a Low-Lander to being a Western soldier's voluntary captive.

These past two weeks have really sucked.

Forget the Rhine, Matthew felt like he was drowning in social politics.

"Why did you save me?" he asked Gilbert. He couldn't hide the note of suspicion in his voice. Recent events had put him permanently on-guard. "I'm a danger to you and this fort, you said so yourself. All of your Alphas know it too, I saw it on their faces. They're afraid of the South, aren't they? So are you. So why did you break the law? Why are you risking the South's wrath for me? If what you've told me about my Papa is true, then this isn't your fight."

"No, it's not."

"Then why—?"

Gilbert broke eye-contact. "Because when I saw you alone in the forest, I wanted to help you. And I still do."

Help me?

"Mate me, you mean," Matthew supplied.

Gilbert exhaled a short, nervous laugh. "See, I knew you weren't dense," he said, staring keenly at the floor. His cheeks reddened.

Matthew had never seen an adult Alpha blush before. Then again, most Alphas had taken mates by the time they were twenty-years-old; most had pups by then. It was disarming to see one—a soldier, a red-eyed wolf—so flustered at the thought of mating. Despite his defense, Matthew felt himself blush in reply.

This is ridiculous, he thought. He's a stranger, he's taken me captive, and he wants to mate me. I should be terrified of him.

Instead, he said: "Mating-law trumps blood-law, that's what you said to Captain Le Roux."

"Omegas belong to their Alphas and are adopted by their Alpha's family and clan. It's the same everywhere, I think," Gilbert said, speaking to the floor. "The West protects its kin. By adoption or not, if a clan-member is threatened then the West's laws protect him, no matter how great the danger. The Western Empire doesn't surrender," he stated proudly, regaining a spark of confidence. "As long as the Omega has been mated by a Westerner, the Empire protects him."

"That's why you lied to Le Roux. You said that I was your intended Omega-mate so you could protect me."

"Yes, that's why."

"But I can't be yours," Matthew remembered, touching the band on his finger. "I'm already pair-bonded—"

"But not mated," Gilbert said. Slowly, he lifted his red gaze. "I'm sorry if you're in love with him." He bobbed his chin, indicating the ring. "But your life now depends on being mated, not pair-bonded. I don't know what it's like on the Isles, but here on the Mainland you're not considered a true pair-bonded couple until you've been mated by your Alpha. And you haven't."

"I know I haven't, but—"

"If you leave this fort unmated, there is nothing to protect you from Le Roux," said Gilbert. He stood, distancing himself from Matthew. The bashful Alpha was gone; the soldier was back. "It won't take the Southerners long to find you, and when they do you will die. You pose too much of a threat to the Southern Empire. Those Alphas will rape you and kill you. They'll take pleasure in it. And the law will let them."

"But—"

"This isn't a game!" Gilbert snapped suddenly. Matthew flinched. There was an odious growl in his voice, revealing anger as he stood over the Omega, but Matthew could see fear as well. It's not me he's angry at. Again, he noted how tired the Alpha looked; how worried.

"This is a war," Gilbert growled. "It's fucking ugly. And if you test it then you're going to get very, very hurt. It's not a fucking fairytale, okay? It's real. There's no shining white knight waiting to rescue you, sweetheart. There's no hero. There's just me."

Matthew didn't move. He stayed perfectly silent. The Alpha's temper barely fazed him, overpowered by the threat of his words and dread of the looming decision he had to make, but Gilbert misinterpreted Matthew's silence for fear. He must have, because he backed off suddenly and knelt, overcompensating for his outburst. Suddenly, he looked more like a blushing suitor than a soldier.

"I'm sorry, uh..." Absently, he raked a hand through his silver hair, messing it. He eyed Matthew guiltily. "I'm not very good at this," he admitted, attempting a half-smile. It failed, unrequited. "I'm not trying to frighten you," he said earnestly, "but I won't lie. I'm just telling you the truth, okay? I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do. It's your choice, but I am the only thing standing between you and Le Roux. I think you know that."

"My choice," Matthew repeated, feeling hollow. Deliberately, he looked down at the kneeling Alpha. He felt cold. He didn't realize he was shivering until Gilbert held out his hand. It was so white it was nearly translucent, skin stretched taut over strong bones and crosshatched with old, pale scars. Matthew hesitated. It was a long time before he moved, but Gilbert didn't retreat. He didn't lower his proffered hand; he didn't break eye-contact; he didn't retract his offer. He stayed motionless, waiting for the Omega to come to a decision. Finally, Matthew sighed and reached forward.

"How could I reject such a charming proposal?" he said sardonically.

Gilbert eyed him uncertainly. "You'll do it then?" he asked. He pulled the Omega with him as he stood. It was a fast, forceful action, more like himself. Matthew nearly lost his balance.

"If you mean be your Omega-mate," said Matthew, lifting his head to meet the Alpha's eyes, careful violet staring into fierce red, "then yes, I'll do it.

"I don't want to die."


PRESENT

Matthew—?" Gilbert repeated.

Reluctantly, Matthew tore his gaze away from the window and faced Gilbert. It had been hours since he had seen the Alpha, not since he had accepted Gilbert's proposal. Gilbert had left him in the bedchamber to eat, wash, and rest. As Matthew scrubbed his skin clean, rinsing unscented suds from his curls, he found himself missing his family afresh. He tried not to cry, but tears fell even as he tried to wash his face. Stop it, he chastised himself. Stop crying, he's going to think you're pathetic! But he couldn't help it. He felt so alone. The last time he had properly bathed and slept in a bed, Alfred had been there. The last time he had felt trepidation to pair-bond with an Alpha, his whole family had been there to support him. I miss them so much. And Lars... I'm sorry, he thought, feeling guilty as he rubbed the Alpha's ring. I'm so sorry, but I don't want to die. He dressed in the clothes Gilbert had left for him—a squire's hand-me-downs—and briefly considered removing Lars' ring, but in the end he left it on. It was the only physical reminder he had of what he had left behind. He peered into Gilbert's small looking-glass and habitually began finger-combing his pale-blonde curls, pulling them back from his face the way Francis liked it, but he stopped abruptly. Tears filled his eyes and he couldn't meet his own reflection, so he looked away. He ate a small meal, hunger abated by anxiety, and then crawled into Gilbert's bed and slept for a long time, until the tolling of a bell shocked him awake. He bolted upright, disoriented and afraid of the last bell he had heard, but it was only the noontide bell tolling the time. The sun was high in the midday sky, but its light was weak. A hazy shine filtered in through the narrow window, revealing a curtain of grey mist.

He could see it now, coating Gilbert. It made him look like an apparition. He stood in the centre of the room in his shirt-sleeves. He had removed his metal and leather armour, and his heavy cloak in preparation. Without the articles of his profession—the regal insignia; the proud sword—his clothes looked threadbare, in desperate need of cleaning and mending. His shirt was faded and torn in places; his trousers were worn thin and frayed; his knee-high boots were well cared-for, but old and cracked. The Fort Commander's attire looked not unlike the fort itself, holding determinedly together by meager threads. It made Matthew wonder how long Gilbert and his Alphas had been living at the fort, isolated, defending an Empire that looked as if it had forgotten them. Yet despite his ragged appearance, Gilbert was strong. Like the fort, he was proud. There was a fearlessness about him that Matthew liked. He held his head high, his shoulders back, his chest out. He was a very handsome Alpha. There was a wildness about his person that lent spice to his appearance, which, for all of his stiff formality, was dashingly devil-may-care. There was a glint in the Alpha's red eyes and in the curve of his lips that whispered mischief. Matthew's stomach fluttered giddily in reply, but the feeling was fleeting. He remembered what the Alpha's return implied and a sinking feeling replaced the giddy one.

"Can't we wait?" he asked meekly. It was a futile request, he knew, likely to annoy Gilbert, but he was scared. "In three weeks, I'll be in Heat—"

"Matthew," said the Alpha soberly, "you don't have three days. Le Roux will be here by sunset. We've already waited as long as we can."

Matthew nodded in apology. His heart was pounding as he stood to meet Gilbert and his fate, resigned as he began to unbutton his borrowed shirt. He tried to hide his nerves, but his fingers trembled violently. He felt cold, full of dread. As he released a button, he pictured Gilbert watching him, as Lars had once done, and he felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment.

Don't think about what you're doing, just do it. It won't be that bad. It can't be bad, or nobody would ever want to do it. It's just mating. It'll be over quickly. All I have to do is let him—

He flinched when Gilbert gabbed his hand, stopping him. In shock, Matthew's face revealed his fear.

Oh, no! Did I do something wrong already?

Gilbert lowered Matthew's hands, neglecting the shirt buttons. "Keep it on if you want," he allowed.

Holding Matthew's hand, he led the young Omega to the bed.


Gilbert had never felt so tense, not even before a battle. At least in battle he was surrounded by his comrades, who obeyed him, who trusted him. In battle there was always a plan-of-action, rules to follow. In battle he was unafraid of a poor performance. He was confident of his abilities. In battle he knew what he was doing. Here, he did not. Here, he was alone with a traumatized Omega, barely an adult by clan-law, whom he had no idea what to do with and no one to consult. Gilbert had spent his whole life surrounded by Alphas: loud, rough, rude soldiers-in-training, who were virile, physical beings. He had never had to worry about hurting any of them. Alphas were made of sterner stuff, made to test the world with the gifts nature had bestowed upon them. But Omegas were different. Omegas were softer and quieter and more mysterious. Omegas were uncharted territory as far as Gilbert knew. It had been two years since he had so much as seen an Omega, and not one so young and pretty as Matthew. Looking at Matthew, Gilbert felt utterly lost.

But it's not just me, he realized. Matthew was shaking from head-to-toe. He doesn't know what to do either.

Gilbert watched Matthew crawl obediently onto the bed, body twisting, long legs pulled up to his chest in defense. He kept his head bowed, silky pale-blonde curls hiding his face as he awaited the Alpha's lead. He sat as still as a statue as Gilbert removed his clothes, feeling bashful as he did so. He had never been stark-naked in front of an Omega before. And he knew he was nothing pretty to look at. Maybe if he was handsomer Matthew might feel more inclined to—He shook the thought from his head. This is no time to feel sorry for yourself, Beilschmidt! You've got a beautiful Omega waiting for you, just look at him! Gilbert knew he was blushing, staring like a fool, but he couldn't look away from Matthew. His eyes hungrily drank in every detail, every angle, every clothed curve. Matthew had been an attractive vagabond, but now, clean and rested, Gilbert felt as if he had struck gold. He tried hard not to let it show, but already he felt his lower-body stir.

He stalked hastily forward until his knees struck the bed-frame, too eager. Slow, go slowly. Don't scare him. Tentatively, he reached out and touched Matthew's hand, but the Omega gave no response. Gilbert climbed onto the bed on his hands-and-knees and positioned himself in front of Matthew, placing both hands on the Omega's folded knees, but there was still no reply. Matthew kept his gaze on the window. He didn't looked at Gilbert.

Please look at me, he thought. He knew why Matthew didn't want to look, but it didn't make him feel any less slighted. Please don't make me feel like a villain.

He tried to soothe the Omega by touch, but his soldier's hands were rough and clumsy and much too eager. He tried to coax him, sliding his hands up the length of Matthew's thighs to his hips, but that only produced a shiver.

He's not going to like it no matter what I do, he knew. Because he doesn't want me touching him at all. Why am I even wasting my time? I'm just prolonging his discomfort.

Gilbert untied Matthew's belt and tossed it aside. It'll be over soon, he thought, more than a little embarrassed that this would likely be true.

Matthew didn't look at Gilbert as the Alpha slowly stretched out the Omega's legs, drawing his trousers down, but his skin flushed in response. Gilbert's stomach flipped and his nostrils flared, filling with the Omega's heady, sweet scent. He couldn't suppress a groan as he touched bared skin. The mere sight of Matthew's skin, as white as virgin snow, made the Alpha's mouth water. He wanted to lick it—

Don't! He stopped himself, his hands returning to Matthew's hips. Don't tease him. He's already trembling.

Indeed, Matthew was leaning back into the pillows, trying to distance himself from the Alpha between his legs.

He doesn't want my touch, Gilbert remembered, but self-control was quickly failing. He couldn't not touch the half-naked Omega lying defencelessly beneath him. It was too tempting. He had never held an Omega before, not like this. His heart was beating in time with Matthew's, but instead of fear it was excitement that fuelled him. He tried to resist the raw, instinctive desire that flooded him, but found himself leaning further down, wanting to smell, and touch, and taste his intended mate. And he did. He felt his cock growing uncomfortably hard as he indulged in the young Omega, provoked by the soft sounds he produced.

I'm going to mate you, he thought, feeling intoxicated. I'm going to put an invisible mark on you and make you mine. I want it. I want you. I want you to look at me. I want you to praise me. I want you to beg me. I want you to love me.

A sudden whine escaped Matthew and Gilbert's half-closed eyes snapped open.

"Matthew—?"

He intended a soothing tone, but his voice was a hoarse growl. In reply, Matthew closed his eyes. A stab of guilt pierced Gilbert, but it was quickly submerged by lust. His hard, swollen cock demanded attention. Gilbert had never mated an Omega before—his profession forbid it—but he wanted this one now.

"It's okay," he growled, fighting a losing battle to his baser instincts. "I'm not going to—" hurt you. But that was a lie. Gilbert knew next to nothing of Omega Heat cycles, but he did know that Omegas were supposed to be mated for the first time during a Heat to numb the pain. But Matthew wasn't in Heat, and he wouldn't be for three weeks. Gilbert wished that the circumstances were different, that he had courted and claimed Matthew properly as a suitor, but wishing was a waste. He knew they couldn't wait. He couldn't wait. And the truth was, it was going to hurt.

"Hold onto me," he said. He took Matthew's hands and placed them on his shoulders. The Omega's fingers felt fragile, like the hollow wing-bones of a small bird. His touch was cold and shy.

If you get scared or if it hurts too much, then use me, Matthew. Squeeze me, claw me. I don't care. You can't hurt me. Do whatever you have to.

"Ready?"

The pressure Matthew's fingers applied was evidence enough that he wasn't ready, but he gave a small head-bob in consent. It was all Gilbert needed. Instinct took over after that. And once he started, he couldn't stop.


Matthew clenched his jaw. He dug his fingers into the Alpha's shoulders, nails scoring the skin. He tried hard not to make a sound, but Gilbert's jerking rhythm pulled embarrassing, high-pitched whines and gasps from him. He felt tears bead in his eyelashes, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

So, this is being mated—? he thought, as if distanced from the act.

At first, it hadn't been so bad. Matthew's body had instinctively responded to the Alpha's exploratory touch with fondness, like he was afraid it would. Gilbert's strong scent and the heat of his healthy, virile body so close, pushed against him skin-to-skin was invigorating. Arousing. He had had to clench his jaw and claw at the bed-sheets to keep quiet as Gilbert touched him. He had had to keep his gaze focused on the window, otherwise afraid that the Alpha would see desire in his eyes; see that he was red-faced and biting his lip. Gilbert's hands were callused, blunt tools that he used to tease the Omega. And his body was so warm. It had taken willpower not to arch eagerly up into Gilbert to press himself more firmly against those delicious Alpha muscles. Gods, I can't help it. It was like being in pre-Heat, but worse, because instead of a fantasy the object of his body's erotic desire was right there in front of him. His whole figure shivered in pleasure.

It was then he made the mistake of turning his head and looking at Gilbert, and—Gods, he's handsome!

Soft sighs fell from his parted, puckered lips involuntarily. I want you to touch me. Stop teasing me and give me more. A bit harder. A bit faster. A bit rougher. Gilbert—!

At the last minute—before he could call-out the Alpha's name—he bit his tongue, and a long, desperate whine escaped him instead.

"Matthew." The voice was a husky growl that sent a shiver of pleasure down Matthew's spine."Hold onto me," he ordered. And Matthew did.

"Ready?"

Matthew nodded in nervous anticipation.

Then the pleasure was gone, replaced by a sharp pain as Gilbert's cock penetrated him.

The force of it hurt. It was intrusive; it felt foreign. His body twitched and flinched helplessly in reply, trying to accommodate the Alpha's thick girth, but the pain of being stretched and torn prevented it. Matthew's head spun. His heart pounded and his breaths were laboured, trying to keep pace with Gilbert's rhythm. The Alpha's weight pressed down on him, undulating back-and-forth as he grunted in effort, as if guided by some powerful primal force. A piercing pain made Matthew's eyes fly open and he cried-out: "A-ah!" but Gilbert didn't stop; didn't slow. Matthew clawed at the Alpha's back in retribution, his body clenched as he hugged tight. He pressed his face against Gilbert's shoulder and immediately felt the Alpha's wiry arm snake around his lower-back, supporting him. He could hear Gilbert's heavy, wet breaths in his ear; the strong drumbeat of his heart. His body was hot and sweaty, hard, and corded with athletic muscle that moved lithely beneath his skin. A whisper of something—pleasure, maybe—seized Matthew, making him feel fleetingly lightheaded, but it was gone too soon. Tears beaded in the Omega's eyes as the Alpha reached climax. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his mouth to Gilbert's skin to muffle his voice. The Alpha's swollen cock jerked finitely and released inside of him, filling the Omega with heat.

"Hah—!" Gilbert gasped, short-of-breath. Then he sighed deeply in satisfaction and collapsed atop Matthew. Matthew managed to bite back a strangled sound and fell silent, trapped beneath the Alpha.

It felt like forever before Gilbert lifted his weight off of Matthew, his sticky cock sliding out. He took care to unclench Matthew's hands, fingers stiff and nails biting into the Alpha's back. Without Gilbert's support, Matthew fell back onto the pillows, shaking. He was already starting to feel cold again, especially when Gilbert rolled clumsily to the opposite side of the bed, taking his body-heat with him. He laid there on his back, his chest heaving. Matthew stared at the ceiling, afraid to make a sound. The atmosphere was tense and smelled of salty Alpha semen, sweat, and blood, the scents of post-mating. It was quiet, except for their deep, measured breaths.

That's it, it's done. I've been mated. I'm pair-bonded for real this time. I belong to the West now. I belong to Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Matthew rolled onto his side and winced. His body throbbed. It didn't feel like his anymore, not when there was Alpha semen coating his insides, glazing his thighs. Tears flooded his eyes. He trembled. He felt cold and too exposed. Overwhelmed. He wanted more than anything to be held, to feel solid arms wrapped securely around him, reassuring him. He wanted to feel safe.

Gilbert rose swiftly from the bed, his weight gone from the mattress. Matthew heard him shuffling about in search of his clothes, tugging on each old article meticulously. Wordlessly. He was halfway to the bedchamber door before he stopped. Matthew heard his footsteps on the floorboards move back-and-forth in indecision. He stayed still and silent and waited tensely to see what Gilbert would do. He felt hopeful when the Alpha returned to the bed, momentarily reassured. But it was short-lived. Gilbert grabbed a heavy blanket and draped it courteously over Matthew's half-naked, shivering figure, then he retreated. Matthew heard the bedchamber door close behind him. He heard Gilbert's footsteps fade as he descended the stairs, leaving his Omega-mate alone.

Matthew sniffed sadly. He had never felt worse to be proved right. The Alpha had promised to protect him, but in the end he had mated him and then left without a word. Matthew couldn't believe that he had dared hope for anything more.

I want to go home, he thought sadly. He still felt lost, now more than ever. Dad, Papa, Al... I just want to go home.

In the harsh light of sunset, the newly-mated Omega buried his face in a pillow and cried.


WESTERN EMPIRE

WILDERNESS

Alfred awoke to a heavy shuffling noise. He had not intended to fall asleep, but found himself curled into a defensive ball, his face buried in a pillow that smelled like Ivan. It was dark in the cave. The fire had burned low, the embers glowing softly in the fire-pit. Alfred's eyes felt heavy, his lashes clumped, as if he had been crying in his sleep. He rubbed at them, uttering a soft sigh as the fog of sleep evaporated. That's when he saw it, a shadow. A very, very large shadow. Ivan? he thought, but it wasn't. It was bigger, broader—twice Ivan's size—and covered in a shaggy coat of coarse brown fur. Alfred's eyes went wide and he sucked in his breath, not daring to make a sound. He stayed perfectly still and watched as the bear's massive claws scraped the ground, its body lumbering through the cave in search of food. It found the dead pheasant and a rack of drying fish. If Ivan had finished mending the basket, the fish would be safely stored out of the bear's reach, but the basket lay broken on the rocks, forgotten. Alfred knew it was the pungent fish smell that had drawn the hungry beast into the cave. The dead fire hadn't frightened it off. Ivan never let the fire die for exactly that reason, to keep predators at bay. But Ivan wasn't there, he had left in a rage. And Alfred—foolish, stupid, idiot—had fallen asleep and left the fire untended.

What should I do? he panicked, eyes skirting the cave for a weapon.

The bear finished the fish, licked its maw, and lumbered over to the bed, its nose following a scent. Alfred closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and clutched the pillow tightly, trying not to shake. He felt the bear's hot, wet breath on his skin, its nose twitching in curiosity. It pawed at Alfred's body, trying to roll him over. Alfred grunted. It felt like a punch to the side.

Go away. Please go away

A long, rough tongue licked the blood from his leg, having discovered the injury.

Alfred was shaking uncontrollably now. Scared, he eyed the box in the corner with Ivan's sword tucked inside.

Then a growl erupted from the cave's entrance, drawing the bear's attention. Alfred's eyes swiveled and saw Ivan, weaponless, his lips pulled back to expose his bared canines. Alfred had never seen such large canines on an Alpha before. He spread his arms, trying to make himself look as big and intimidating as possible, but the bear was not discouraged. It reared back, away from Alfred, and shook its head fiercely at Ivan, its jowls flapping. Its roar dwarfed Ivan's, filling the cave. Alfred shrieked and covered his head.

"Run, Alfred."

It took Alfred a second to process Ivan's calm words. Then the Alpha dodged sideways, grabbed the discarded hunting-knife, and growled loudly again, provoking the bear to chase him. He drew it away from the bed, away from the petrified Omega. Alfred watched, wide-eyed in horror as the beast struck at Ivan, who ducked the massive claws by an inch. He stabbed the knife's blade into the bear's hide, but it did nothing except enrage the beast. The bear stood on its hind legs, swiping with its paws. Ivan flew back, struck by a nasty blow. Blood soaked his shirt-front.

"Ivan!" Alfred screamed.

"ALFRED, RUN!" Ivan bellowed.

Alfred ran, but in the opposite direction as the entrance. He threw himself clumsily and desperately to the back-wall, hastily retrieving Ivan's sword from the box. It was heavy. The suddenness of its weight unbalanced Alfred and he fell back against the stonewall, dragging the blade on the floor. Two hands, then. Gripping it tight, he hefted it up and charged lopsidedly at the bear. The sword's weight and shape gave him momentum, gravity pulling him forward. Just as the bear lunged at Ivan to deliver a fatal blow, Alfred thrust the blade deep into its thick neck. The beast's roar drowned in a gurgle of blood. It twitched, staggered. Then it fell down dead, the sword skewering its throat.

Alfred, too, staggered and fell to his knees, still shaking. His muscles felt like jelly. Where had that strength come from?

Wherever it came from, it's gone now.

"I-I-Ivan—?" he stuttered.

The Alpha sat against the wall, his broad, bloody chest heaving as he panted. His violet eyes looked luminous as they pierced Alfred, staring at the Omega in utter disbelief, as if seeing Alfred anew. He looked from Alfred to the bear's corpse, run-through with his sword, and his lips parted in awe. He said something quietly in Russian; a curse, maybe. After a minute of stunned silence, he regained his composure.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

The Alpha's calm voice reawakened Alfred, shattering the heavy silence, and the young Omega failed to curb the emotion that welled inside of him.

"Of course I'm fucking okay!" His outburst took Ivan by surprised, loud and high-pitched. Alfred's blue eyes were wide. "You—You—You tried to fight that thing bare-handed, you idiot! That's why I'm okay! Because you—You almost got yourself killed!" he shrieked in anger.

"Me?" Ivan balked. "You just killed a fucking bear, Alfred!"

"I had to! It was going to kill you!" Adrenalin was making him hysterical. "You got hurt..."

Ivan opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when he saw Alfred's distress. "It's okay," he said calmly instead. He reached out to the shaking Omega. "Come here, little one. It's okay." Alfred moved instinctively into the safety of the Alpha's arms. "It's over," he said, stroking Alfred gently. "You're safe now."

"We're safe now," Alfred corrected, pressing himself against Ivan's body. He nuzzled the Alpha's neck and face, making a pitiful whining noise that threatened tears. "Are you okay?" he worried.

"Yes," Ivan replied, hugging Alfred. He rested his cheek upon Alfred's golden crown. "Thank-you for asking."

"The blood—"

"Just a flesh-wound." Ivan grabbed Alfred's investigative hand and held it, squeezed it. "Don't worry about me, little one. I'm okay.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," he added after a minute of silence, "before, I mean. I lost my temper. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

Alfred could feel Ivan's callused thumb rubbing back-and-forth over the hand he still clasped. It was a meditative motion; for his benefit or Ivan's, Alfred didn't know. For both, perhaps. He peeked up at Ivan's ashen face then, pale from blood-loss. His violet eyes were half-closed and downcast in shame. His skin was growing cold.

"I wasn't frightened," Alfred lied, feeling compelled to reassure the Alpha. He looked so sad. "I'm mean, it's okay. It wasn't just you, I shouldn't have looked at, you know... the box." He blushed in guilt. "I'm sorry, too."

Ivan smiled wanly and closed his eyes.

"Ivan?" Alfred touched the Alpha's ice-cold cheek. "Hey, you okay? Ivan—? Ivan!"

The Alpha chuckled. "Yes. I told you, it's just a flesh-wound," he said, amused by Alfred's concern. "I've just got to patch it, stop the bleeding."

Reluctantly, he released Alfred and started for the box of medical supplies he kept handy to tend to Alfred's leg, but Alfred pressed a hand to his shoulder to still him. Wordlessly, he fetched the box and then proceeded to doctor the Alpha as best as he could. Ivan's shirt was ruined, so Alfred took a small folding-blade and cut it off him, revealing the torn flaps of bloody skin underneath. He sucked in his breath, but Ivan's voice calmed him. "It looks bad, but I've had worse," he promised. And, indeed, as Alfred cleaned the three-tined wound, he saw old scars reveal themselves on Ivan's skin. It was then he realized that he had never seen the Alpha without his shirt before. His torso was a canvas of old wounds, big and small; some smooth, some jagged, some only half-healed. Alfred tried not to stare, but he couldn't help it. He was captivated by those marks, feeling both horror and admiration.

"Do they... hurt?" he asked, fingers dancing over a long white scar that began at the Alpha's broad shoulder and vanished behind his back. There were a half-dozen others the same: lashing scars.

"No, not anymore. They're just... not very pretty."

"You were a soldier," Alfred guessed, voicing a long-lived suspicion. "A soldier from where?"

"The East," Ivan replied soberly.

"You left?"

"Deserted." The word stabbed the silence, heavy with shame.

"Why?"

Finally, Ivan opened his half-closed eyes and looked at the Omega, who's blue gaze was soft in sympathy but lacking in pity. Ivan was not someone to be pitied. He wouldn't have wanted it.

He said: "How much do you know of the Eastern Empire?"

"Nothing," Alfred said honestly. He shrugged. "It's big."

"Yes, it's big. And it's strong. And it's rotten." As he talked, his gaze shifted and he spoke to the cold fire-pit over Alfred's shoulder.

"It's a beautiful place, a cold, brutal beauty," he said nostalgically. "I was born on the coast in the far north, a place as wild as you can imagine, with the open sea and open sky. There was nothing suffocating about it. At night, the sky would glow with light, so bright you didn't need a fire. Have you ever seen the sky lights, Alfred?"

Alfred shook his head.

"It's said by some that they're apparitions of the gods. Others call it a reflection of the sun and stars." He shrugged. "I don't care what causes them, only that they're beautiful.

"It's been eight years since I've seen those lights," he continued, voice sobering. "In the East, military service is mandatory. Alpha-pups from every corner of the Empire are taken at ten-years-old to the Capital, where they begin their training. No exceptions. Eight years ago, when the recruiters came to my village, my sister tried to hide me. She made me stand in a bucket and lowered me into the well behind the house. I was a lot smaller then," he added with a humourless smile. "Then she faced the soldiers by herself. I was afraid. I clung to the rope and I listened to my older sister argue, telling them I'd gone. I heard them ransack the house. Then I heard my younger sister scream. I couldn't take it. What sort of Alpha lets his Omega sisters protect him? So I yelled. I yelled: Here! I'm here! over and over again until they heard me. When they pulled me up, I saw my sisters crying. I saw my older sister's bruised face. She glared at me, angrier than I had ever seen her.

"That was the last time I ever saw her. The recruiters took me to the Capital with dozens of other Alpha-pups and I never saw either of my sisters again."

"Can't you go back to your village?" Alfred asked, hoping his voice didn't betray him. Ivan's confession reminded him of Matthew, and he wondered sadly if he would ever seen his brother again. "Aren't they still there?"

"No. I did return once, but they were gone.

"In the Capital," he resumed his narrative, "Alpha-pups live in the army barracks. I shared a room with sixty others. We shared everything: beds, bowls, clothes, nothing belonged to us. As part of our training, we were made to do the menial tasks the soldiers didn't want to do. Omegas aren't allowed in the barracks, so we did all of the cooking, the cleaning, the washing, the mending. We tended to the soldiers needs. Hierarchy was beaten into us. They never let us forget that we were the bottom. Obedience and discipline are the two pillars of the Eastern Army."

Ivan paused, and Alfred intuitively knew that he was remembering the bite of each disciplinary lash.

"Alpha-pups live in the barracks for six years, training. By the time they come-of-age, they're deemed ready to see battle. They're also deemed ready to meet their Omega-mate. In the East, mates are prearranged by the State. As Alpha-pups train, their skills are under constant assessment, so the State can match them to a compatible Omega in order to breed the strongest pups. Most pups meet their mate for the first time at sixteen-years-old. Each couple is given three months leave before the Alpha must return to the barracks for duty. By then the Omega is supposed to be pregnant. Most assignments last from six to eight months, if you're lucky. If the Alpha survives those months, then he is given another three months leave to meet his newborn and impregnate his Omega again. And—repeat," Ivan said tonelessly. "This goes on until the ten years of mandatory service are up, at which time the Alpha is discharged from service and allowed to go home to the family he barely knows."

"That sounds horrible," Alfred criticized. He scrunched his nose. "I mean, you don't even choose your own mate? What if you hate each other?"

Ivan shrugged. "It's not a perfect system, but it's not supposed to be. It's supposed to breed strong soldiers, which it usually does. By the time they come-of-age, most people are resigned to it. There are few alternatives, after all. Not everyone agrees with it, of course. Some try to fight it, but the State is not something that you can fight. You can't escape it. Not unscathed, anyway."

"Is that why you left?" Alfred guessed, remembering that Ivan had left the East at sixteen-years-old.

"Yes, that's why I finally left.

"I never wanted to be a soldier," he admitted. "They told me I was strong. They praised me and told me that if I didn't make a mistake I'd be rewarded with a choice Omega someday. I obeyed my orders. I said Yes, sir! when I wanted to say Fuck you! I was a good soldier, but I've never had the disposition for it.

"I was eleven the first time I was taken on campaign. After an embarrassing defeat in the South, the Tsar was desperate for a victory, so he sent the Reserves—us, new recruits—to attack the West. We were ordered to take the fort and leave no survivors. Kill everyone. I couldn't do it and I was punished for it. The next time I saw battle, it was just a skirmish. We outnumbered the Westerners two-to-one, victory was definite, but I froze. And again I was punished. The third time, I acted on impulse. One of my bedmates—a pup from the Capital—was injured, covered in blood, and I acted without thinking. I stabbed the Western soldier from behind, like a coward. It didn't save my friend. He died of blood-loss, but I was praised for my initiative, my courage," he spat. "They praised me. They patted my back and gave me a drink and hot food and let me sit by the fire. I was the first Alpha-pup of my year to kill an enemy, and—I won't lie—I felt connected to the soldiers just then, no longer an outsider; no longer just a pup. The acceptance, the affection they showed me was more than I had expected. It was intoxicating.

"So I did it again and again and again, just to see their smiles. Nobody had ever been so proud of me before. I was very small when my parents died, so I'd never had an Alpha-parent in my life. My sister had always been soft. I'd never had to earn her approval. But those soldiers... that's all it was. If I did something good, I was praised; if I failed to impress them, I was ignored. It played with my head, the back-and-forth. I was only twelve; thirteen, by then. And I wasn't even supposed to be there."

"That tinder-box," said Alfred cautiously. "It's filled with trophies, isn't it?"

Ivan's eyes flickered to the box in the corner, then he covered his face with a hand. It took him a while before he spoke. Alfred thought that he had gone too far, but eventually Ivan said:

"I didn't want to forget them." His voice was very quiet. "I didn't want to become someone who lost count of his kills. Who didn't care. I thought"—his voice broke; he swallowed—"it's not right to just let them be forgotten."

Tenderly, Alfred took Ivan's free hand, which was shaking badly. He squeezed it, and Ivan squeezed back so hard Alfred felt his bones shift. It hurt, but he didn't pull back.

So soft, barely a whisper, Ivan said: "There was this Omega once. He was small, maybe five-years-old." The words got stuck in his throat, but he continued on. He couldn't seem to stop now. "He was still clutching his doll when I found him. It was just a little thing, you know?" Vaguely he gestured a size, spreading his thumb and forefinger. "He was covered in blood. I-I tried to make it stop, I did, but I think I made it worse. I-I scared him. He was s-so s-scared. He was crying for his mother, s-s-suffering, choking to death. He looked s-s-so scared, I just—I-I—I just—"

A tear rolled down Ivan's cheek. Alfred brushed it off. He released the Alpha's hand and cupped the sides of his face. His violet eyes met Alfred's for a moment, shining with tears.

"I cut his throat," Ivan confessed. "I made the suffering stop. And I took his doll, such a little thing. I hated myself for a long time. I still do."

"No, please don't say that," said Alfred softly, rubbing Ivan's cheeks and neck with his fingers. He felt desperate, as if experiencing Ivan's pain second-hand. The Alpha reached up and placed his hand over Alfred's, pressing it closer. He exhaled and his body shuddered and he leant into the Omega's soothing touch. His eyes closed, lashes wet.

"I was sixteen, then," he continued bravely. "I knew what would happen when I returned to the Capital. They would give me an Omega to mate, to breed, but..." He shook his head. "All I could think of was that poor Omega-pup, so small. I couldn't do it. What if my mate gave birth to an Alpha-pup, and he was made to do what I had done? What if my Omega-mate hated me for it? So, I ran. I deserted the Eastern Army. I deserted my comrades, my home, and I ran away. I never expected to survive. I didn't want to."

Slowly, he opened his eyes. "I've never told anyone that," he admitted. "There was no one to tell."

"Do you feel any better?" Alfred asked.

"That depends." Nervously, Ivan licked his lips. He held Alfred's hand tightly. The heartbreak in his eyes was crushing. "Do you hate me now, Alfred?"

Alfred's heart swelled. The pain on Ivan's handsome face was so raw and honest that it hurt. Stripped of armour, he looked so vulnerable, scared even. In his violet eyes, Alfred no longer saw a predator, but the tender soul of the pup he had once been; the heart he still had. Hate you? he thought, stroking the Alpha's cheek. It was absurd. In proof, he leant forward and pressed a soft kiss to Ivan's lips.

"No," he whispered. "I think I love you."