DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
THE CALL OF THE WILD
LOST BOYS
ELEVEN
THE LOW COUNTRIES
Arthur, chéri, it's time to go."
Arthur was standing atop a shallow incline, surveying the wreckage of the village. The floodwaters had receded, but the damage done to the Low-Landers' homes, fields, and storehouses would cripple their chance of surviving the winter. They would have to work fast to make repairs and empty all of their coffers to purchase food now that the growing season was over. The free-trade agreement that they had just signed with the Islanders might be the only hope many Low-Lander families now had of dodging starvation.
It was late-October; the heart of the harvest season. At home, Owen would be managing it all. He was a good hunter, but a better judge. He was fair and everyone trusted him to distribute the gains of the harvest to ensure that every family had enough to eat; oft times reminding them—the hunters, like Scott—that their diets needed more than just meat to stay healthy. Arthur missed Owen. And Liam and Patrick, whose scouting-parties would be guarding the pack against thieves and butchers, protecting the harvest from rival packs whose harvests were not so plentiful. If Scott were home, he and his hunters would be leaving for the last hunting trip of the year—which was a month-long excursion—and Alfred would be upset that he couldn't go. Instead, he would neglect his chores and run off with Liam and Patrick, playing at being a warrior. Arthur was always bothered and worried by it, but Francis let Alfred go. He reminded his Omega-mate that Alfred could cause much less trouble running around the perimeter than he could getting in the way of the work. Francis was in charge of doing the inventory; he was good at sums. He kept logbooks, something that the Islanders had never done before, and something which Scott had initially scoffed at. But time had proven the tediousness of bookkeeping useful, especially wherein petty disputes were concerned. Besides, Francis had the nicest handwriting of any pack-member. He had taught Matthew to write neatly as well, and Matthew sometimes helped when Arthur didn't need him elsewhere. Because Scott didn't have an Omega-mate, Arthur—as the second-in-command's mate—held the most senior Omega position in the pack, which kept him busy. Matthew's assistance was often a blessing, but, unlike Alfred, the family tried to keep Matthew confined to the house during the harvest season for two reasons:
Firstly, with all of them working such long hours elsewhere, they needed someone to keep the household in order. Without Matthew, they would've all returned each night to no supper, no baths, no clean clothes, no rest; they wouldn't have anyone to bring them dinner, and then tea in the afternoon; they wouldn't have anyone to soothe their sunburns or treat minor injuries. Simply put, they wouldn't have anyone to take care of them. And more than anyone else, the four Kirkland Alphas needed someone to take care of them. They were a pitiful, undignified sight when left to themselves.
And secondly, the harvest was a very busy time with lots of inter-clan business taking place. Tradesmen and merchants flocked to Scott Kirkland's pack—it was one of the biggest packs in the whole clan—which filled the village with strangers. The day a wine merchant had tried to abduct twelve-year-old Matthew was the day Arthur and Francis had decided to stop letting their timid Omega-pup run about the village unescorted. If Alfred hadn't attacked that Alpha—wild and fearless; other clan-members had to pry Alfred's teeth from the merchant's bicep—then they might have lost Matthew that day for good.
Arthur had always felt bad about restricting Matthew, which is why he was more lenient than the Alphas, but he still worried. He worried about both of his pups, who had developed in such different ways. He worried about both of them getting hurt by different things and for different reasons. He worried about what people said to them and about them, and about what people thought of them. He worried about their futures in the pack, and often worried about what kind of Alpha-mate each of them would someday pair-bond with. Sometimes, he prayed for good, kind, strong Alphas to claim his pups for their own safety and his own peace-of-mind. Other times, he prayed that neither of them ever found an Alpha-mate. The thought of losing Alfred and Matthew had always throbbed at the back of Arthur's mind, but he had resigned himself to it, as every dam must. Alfred and Matthew were too valuable to keep locked away; they couldn't stay with the family forever. He was always going to lose them in some way or another.
But not like this. Never like this.
Arthur felt tears pool in his eyes as he looked at the broken floodgates, the wide canal, and the forest beyond.
It had been two months. Scott and Francis and the Low-Landers had been searching the Low Countries and surrounding regions for two months while Arthur waited and worried (and cried). They had combed the landscape for any sign of Alfred and Matthew, dead or alive, but they had found nothing. There was no sight, nor sound, nor scent of the Omegas. Nobody could find a trace of them, as if Arthur's pups had never existed at all. They were just gone.
"Arthur," Francis repeated gently. He placed a hand on his Omega-mate's slight shoulder; even slighter now that he refused to eat. "It's time to go."
Go. Going. They were going, leaving, leaving Alfred and Matthew. After two months of searching—hoping—they were finally giving up and going home. They were leaving Alfred and Matthew behind.
Arthur thought he had cried all of his tears by then, but they rolled down his cheeks, now. He didn't care who was watching anymore; at this point, everyone had seen him cry. He arched his shoulders and clutched his stomach and bowed his head and he cried; teeth clenched, body trembling. Francis pulled Arthur close and tightly wrapped his arms around him, but he didn't speak. He was finally, despairingly bankrupt of promises and reassurance and he, too, was grieving for his pups. Arthur could feel it.
"I-I—I can't l-l-leave..." he whispered, clutching Francis. After two long, desperate months, leaving the Low Countries would be finally admitting that Alfred and Matthew were dead. "I-I—I can't l-l-leave them, Francis... I-I—I can't."
Arthur felt Francis' chest expand as he took in a deep breath. His voice was horse when he spoke. It sounded tortured as he forced out the words:
"We have to. It's time."
Time to accept it. Time to go home.
Francis and Scott all but carried Arthur onto the ship. Arthur kept his head bowed. He felt heavy, weighted down by grief that he knew he would carry for the rest of his life. Omegas didn't recover from the death of their pups. They just didn't. He kept his head bowed, even as the Clan Leader of the Low Countries conveyed his deepest sorrows and regret. He apologized again, but Arthur didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to see the Clan Leader or Lars, who stood solemnly aside. Every time Arthur looked at them he felt sick with guilt. It's all my fault, he thought regretfully. I should've stopped it. I shouldn't have let Alfred and Matthew come here. Arthur didn't want to see sympathy on the Low-Landers' faces. It only made him angry. What did they have to be sorry for anyway? What had any of them lost? He didn't want to look at Scott either. Every time he did, he was torn between wanting to hug his brother for support, and wanting to lash-out and claw at him for letting this happen. In the end, he chose the former.
Arthur stood at the stern of the ship, watching the Low Countries slowly fade away into the fog. Scott stood on his left, holding his shoulders; Francis stood on his right, holding his waist. Maybe they wanted to comfort him, or maybe they wanted to prevent him jumping overboard. Either way, Arthur was—deep down—glad for their presence. He didn't know what he would have done without them. He didn't know what he was going to do without Alfred and Matthew. How did you recover from a broken heart?
As a thick fog swallowed the last sights of the mainland, Arthur closed his eyes and saw his pups in his mind. He saw them as newborns, as pups, as youths, and finally as adults; saw them the way they had been the last time he had ever seen them. They were both so beautiful. They had been his precious, perfect pups since the day they were born.
My Alfred, my Matthew. I love you. I love you more than anything in this world or the next. I'll always love you, my pups.
My beautiful, perfect pups...
Goodbye.
BLACK FOREST FORT
WESTERN EMPIRE
Matthew awoke, gasping for breath. The rapid floodwaters of his nightmare receded as the bedchamber came slowly into focus. He had dreamt of the storm again. The memory of it still terrified him. Even now, his waking-mind could see Alfred's pale, frightened face as he clung helplessly to the canal wall, and he could hear his parents' screams, even though he hadn't heard them at the time. He felt guilty as he reached up and wiped tears off of his cheeks. It had been two months already since that tragic day; his family probably thought that he and Alfred were dead. For all Matthew knew, Alfred was dead, and that thought hurt more than anything.
A whine escaped him, and he pressed a hand to his mouth before he woke Gilbert. Gilbert had been sleeping like a rock lately, falling unconscious the moment his head hit the pillow, only to be roused four or five hours later by his Alphas. Matthew did whatever he could to ease his Alpha-mate's discomfort, but Gilbert's fire was slowly burning out. Gently, he pulled a blanket up over Gilbert's bare shoulder and laid down beside him, resting his head against the Alpha's arm, taking comfort in his close proximity; his scent and body-heat. Since the beginning, Matthew had always felt safe with Gilbert, and over the last two months those feelings of security had been slowly yielding to affection. If anything happened to Gilbert now, Matthew didn't know what he would do. Not only because he would be abandoned once again in the heart of a war-zone, but because he would lose someone he deeply cared for. Until Alfred, Matthew had never experienced that feeling of loss before. That horrible, sickening feeling of utter helplessness. He hated it; was afraid of it. And Gilbert had become the closest friend Matthew had ever had. Alfred would always be his twin brother, but Gilbert was becoming something more.
I can't lose you, too, he thought, pressing a kiss to the captain's arm.
On top of everything else, Gilbert had never stopped trying to track Alfred's whereabouts. He had ordered his scouting-parties to report any sign of Matthew's twin-brother, however miniscule, though no one had found anything. Still, Matthew appreciated the effort. Gilbert didn't know Alfred, and had no reason to waste his time and resources searching for him; just like he had no reason to send messengers to the Low Countries in an attempt to contact the Kirkland family, but he did that, too. Not that any of his messengers had been able to slip past the Southern Army. Le Roux had been weaving a web around the Black Forest Fort, cutting the Westerners off from everything. The Southern Army had been intercepting all of Gilbert's messages until he had inevitably stopped sending them. It was a crushing tactical defeat. By preventing communication with the Great House—the Western Empire's capital—Le Roux had ensured that Gilbert couldn't send word for aid or re-enforcements, and made it so that the distant Black Forest Fort and everyone in it were on their own.
Gilbert hadn't actually told Matthew any of this, of course, but nor did he deliberately keep secrets from his Omega-mate, and Matthew had seen enough letters and overheard enough angry conversations to know that the Southern Army's advance had isolated them. It was only a matter of time before Captain Le Roux laid siege to the fort, and then what? What would Gilbert do when that happened? What could Gilbert do, except abandon the post he had been trusted to protect?
Matthew closed his eyes and tried not to think of it. Any of it.
Maybe Alfred was better off, after all... wherever he was.
WESTERN EMPIRE
WILDERNESS
I need you to do something for me," Alfred said quietly to Thierry, Captain Le Roux's timorous Alpha-pup. "It's really important."
Thierry looked at Alfred's flushed face, his fervent eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked in concern.
"No," Alfred replied.
It had been nearly a week since Le Roux's Alphas had captured he and Ivan, and three weeks since they had set off for the Low Countries. Alfred had been so distracted since then, he hadn't stopped to consider that nearly a month had passed since his last Heat, and if his math was correct, then... Nervously, he glanced around the crowded camp of Southern soldiers, dozens of unmated Alphas lounging about in boredom. Whenever a pair of eyes landed on him, he felt the owner's hunger. Alfred wondered how many of them were sensitive enough to know that he was in pre-Heat, and that he would soon be reduced to a desperate, writhing ball of hormones helpless to reject any Alpha who approached. The mere thought twisted Alfred's gut and made him breakout in a cold sweat; or, maybe that was because his body felt so uncomfortably hot. Regardless, he refused to let it happen. He wouldn't be mated by anyone except Ivan, even if that meant taking extreme measures to prevent his Heat from coming at all. He looked down at Ivan now, who was sleeping soundly on his lap, and gently squeezed his intended's hand, drawing courage for what he was about to request.
"Do you have these ingredients?" he asked Thierry, handing him a list he had scratched onto a piece of bark.
The medic's grey eyes scored the list, then he frowned. "Uh, yes, but... Alfred," he said apprehensively, eyeing the Omega, "half of these ingredients are poisonous. And the doses you've indicated are dangerous. What is this for?" he asked dubiously.
"It's a potion to stop an oncoming Heat," Alfred answered.
Thierry's frown deepened, then his eyes grew big and round in embarrassed realization. "Oh! Oh, you mean that you're... Oh."
"This is really important," Alfred repeated firmly, injecting as much urgency into his tone as possible without betraying fear. "If I don't take this potion soon, I'll go into Heat sometime within the next forty-eight hours. That can't happen. Please," he said, folding Thierry's hands around the ingredients list.
It was the only potion Alfred knew how to brew by heart, not because Arthur had taught him, but because he had stolen the recipe from his dam's book. A large, private book, which Alfred and Matthew had been warned against touching. Scott often teased Arthur, calling his talent for healing witchcraft, which bemused the other Alphas, much to Arthur's chagrin. But Alfred had seen more than one Omega come to the pack-leader's backdoor late at night to beg potions of Arthur Kirkland; potions that the pack's apothecary refused to prescribe. Alfred had stolen the recipe the first time because he couldn't accompany Scott's hunting-party if he was in Heat, and he had really wanted to go. It was the first time that he had been invited on a real, month-long excursion—and Alec Frasier had been going, too. He knew the potion would make him sick for a while, but that's also why he trusted it to work. It was an aspect of the body's natural defenses to protect itself when internally attacked. Even if an Omega was in pre-Heat, a threat to his health—like illness—would trigger a reaction to divert all of his energy to fighting the threat and repairing itself. It was why most Omega's didn't experience Heats if they were sick or starving. Heats were a signifier of health; the longer and more intense the Heat, the healthier the Omega was supposed to be. It was dangerous to intentionally poison oneself, of course, but Alfred had risked it back then and it had worked. He had recovered from the illness and gotten what wanted, which gave him incentive to try it again. It had worked twice since then with no notable side-effects, so he had no reason not to risk it now. Now more than ever, it was necessary.
"Alfred," said Thierry seriously, "if you take this potion, it'll make you very, very sick. Omegas... you're meant to have Heats. This potion will prevent your body from doing what it's naturally programmed to do."
"I know, but it'll be fine. I'll be fine. I've taken it before—"
"That's another reason why you shouldn't take it again then," Thierry argued. "Alfred, you're poisoning your body to prevent its natural reproductive function. Do it enough times and you won't be able to conceive pups ever."
"I know!" Alfred snapped impatiently. "And if you've got a better solution right now, I'd love to hear it. But if not, don't you dare patronize me. I know that what I'm doing is damaging," he said stubbornly, "but I will not go into Heat here. Do you understand?"
Sheepishly, Thierry looked from left-to-right and surveyed the encampment of leering soldiers. Both of them knew what the sweet scent of Alfred's pre-Heat implied, and both of them knew they didn't have much time left to prevent it developing into something much more appetizing—and chaotic. As horrifying as it would be from Alfred's perspective, it wouldn't be much better for the Southern Army. If Alfred went into Heat in the open and unguarded, Le Roux's command would crumble against the force of raw arousal and violent competition that would consume his Alphas as they fought for dominance and ownership of the young Omega. Alfred refused to let that happen, even if he had to poison himself to do it. He refused to be the prize of an Alpha who had ripped apart his comrades like a big snapping, slobbering beast. His determined gaze told Thierry as much.
The Alpha pursed his lips anxiously, cowed by reality. "I've never brewed anything like this potion before," he confessed. "I'm just an army medic, a surgeon, not an alchemist. If I brew it incorrectly, it could kill you, Alfred."
"I trust you," Alfred said, squeezing the Alpha's hand. He tried to smile, but it revealed his fear. "Thierry," he begged, "please help me."
The medic opened his mouth to refuse, but it came out: "Okay."
TWELVE HOURS LATER
Alfred was leaning back against a tree, looking soft and flushed, fidgeting, and fanning himself despite the night's chill. He looked very uncomfortable, but he smelled wonderful. Ivan was afraid he knew why; he had smelled Alfred's Heat-scent before. He tried to stay calm for Alfred's sake. He tried not to be bothered by it, but the truth was he was panicking inside; half-aroused and half-afraid. If Alfred went into Heat, then Le Roux's Alphas would—Ivan clenched his jaw. He tried not to feel angry or aroused, but his body was instinctively reacting to the appetizing change in the Omega's heady hormones. The more pronounced his Heat-scent became, the harder it was for the unmated Alpha to concentrate on anything but claiming him and mating him. Over and over and over again, until everyone knew that Alfred Kirkland belonged to Ivan. Only Ivan. It was a battle for self-control, but one he had to win. Because if Alfred went into Heat, then Ivan would have to protect him. Somehow, he would have to fight off all of the other Alphas. Or, maybe he could strike a bargain with Le Roux and have Alfred taken somewhere safe. Alfred would have to endure another Heat alone, but it was far better than the alternative. At least he would be safe. Besides, the Southern captain needed Alfred if he was going to use him as leverage against the Westerners. But for that to work, Alfred only needed to be alive, unspoiled or not. Even if Alfred was raped, Ivan was fairly certain that Matthew Kirkland would still want his brother returned to him.
What do I do? he worried, feeling torn between mind-numbing anger, arousal, and panic. What can I do?
It was then he spotted Le Roux's Alpha-pup hurrying over, and he growled. Somewhere in his subconscious, Ivan was grateful for the medic's assistance—his wounds were healing much better, now—but given their situation, he felt defensive of anyone who approached. Ivan's growl was low and antagonistic, but it didn't stop Thierry. Could the medic smell Alfred's Heat-scent, too? Is that why he was unperturbed by Ivan's warning? Deliberately, he moved in front of Alfred, only to have the Omega crawl heedlessly around him.
"It's about time," Alfred said to Thierry. He sounded annoyed, but Ivan heard fear as well.
After all, if he—an Alpha—was afraid, then how much more frightened was Alfred about his oncoming Heat?
"What is that?" Ivan asked as Thierry handed Alfred a small glass bottle. It contained a mouthful of a clear, scentless liquid. "Alfred—?"
Alfred ignored him. Thierry said:
"I'm sorry, Alfred. I brewed it three times, just to be safe. I wanted to be certain it was right. I... I think it is."
"Alfred," Ivan repeated sternly, "what is that?"
Finally, Alfred faced Ivan and smiled. And it was Alfred's smile, not the smile of an Omega scared witless. There was courage in it, despite everything; the same unrefined courage reflected in his blue eyes, made strikingly bluer by his flushed cheeks. Gods, Ivan thought, momentarily stunned, is there anyone more beautiful in the whole world? Alfred planted both of his hands on the Alpha's shoulders and applied enough pressure to still his trembling.
"This is going to be a little scary, and probably get really gross," he admitted, "but I don't want you to worry, sweetheart. Because I'm going to be okay, I promise."
Before Ivan could argue or interrogate Alfred, the Omega kissed him on the lips.
Then he swallowed the potion.
LATER
Ivan looked on in horror as Alfred lurched forward and vomited for the umpteenth time. His whole body convulsed as he gagged and gasped and coughed, covered in cold sweat. He looked like death warmed-over. He was hollow-eyed and pale. Tears of fatigue and pain and effort rolled freely down his sallow cheeks. He breathed deeply, his weight braced on trembling hands-and-knees as he vomited bile and acidic fluid. He had purged what little food they had been given to eat hours ago. Ivan did everything he could to try and ease Alfred's pain. He braced the Omega's weight, and held back his damp hair, and rubbed his back, but it was difficult to play caretaker with his hands and legs bound.
"Oh, what have you done to yourself, little one?" he asked. He wasn't expecting an answer; Alfred merely croaked dryly, which made the Alpha feel worse. At that moment, he wished that he had been taken ill instead, if only to spare Alfred the horrible pain. And Ivan the fear.
The truth was, Alfred looked so weak—he was so weak—that a recovery didn't even seem possible. Shaking, vomiting, dehydrated, sobbing, and convulsing; the strength sucked from his bones. Alfred Kirkland looked like he was going to die.
Ivan knew why Alfred had done it, of course. As soon as ten minutes after taking the potion, his Heat-scent had begun to fade as the symptoms of poisoning took over. What Ivan didn't know was what Alfred had done. The fact that he had voluntarily ingested poison worried Ivan, and no amount of hope from self-conscious Thierry could convince the Alpha that his intended Omega-mate wasn't going to die. If he did, Ivan would kill Thierry. He would rip the Southern soldier apart with his bare hands. Then he would kill himself, taking as many Southerners with him as possible.
The only good thing about Alfred's state was that Le Roux's Alphas were staying as far away from the sick Omega as they could get.
"What in hell is that? It's disgusting!"
"Here, don't let him touch you!
"Is it the flu? Is it the pox? Is it the plague?"
"Is it contagious?" Le Roux asked his Alpha-pup, betraying the slightest hint of fear.
"No," Thierry answered. "It's definitely not contagious, Papa—I mean, sir. Captain. I, uh... suspect that it won't last for more than a couple of days."
"It had better not," Le Roux warned, as if Alfred's illness was Thierry's fault (which—technically—it was). "I want that pup on his feet in time to march on the Black Forest Fort. Our whole plan of attack depends on him being alive. Is that understood?" His steely gaze relayed the order: Fix him!
"Yes, sir."
Ivan growled deeply at the look of disdain Le Roux threw at Alfred, his lip curled back to reveal his teeth in revulsion. He knew it was a good thing that the Southerners didn't find Alfred attractive right then, but Ivan still felt insulted on the Omega's behalf. When Alfred suddenly collapsed in Ivan's looped arms, exhausted, the Alpha made an intentional show of holding him and stroking him and kissing his clammy, sweaty skin to prove that Alfred's state didn't bother him. To shield Alfred from ridicule. To lend Alfred comfort, as only an Alpha-mate could. And to feel Alfred's heart beating in his chest to prove he was still alive, if only just.
Alfred Kirkland, what in hell did you do to yourself? he thought in agony.
"Don't worry," Alfred croaked weakly, drawing Ivan's attention. He looked so faint; he could barely keep his eyes open. Gingerly, he reached up and touched Ivan's cheek. "It's going to be okay, sweet—"
Before he could finish, Alfred lurched forward and—
BLACK FOREST FORT
WESTERN EMPIRE
—vomited.
Matthew wiped his mouth and stared incredulously down into the sullied washbasin. He didn't feel sick. And by some sheer miracle he hadn't eaten anything questionable yet (he lived in a fort, after all). The nausea had surfaced so fast he barely had time to react to it, and then it was gone just as suddenly. But he didfeel something... internal. It wasn't physical, though. It was intuitive, something he couldn't put into words. Arthur would have called it Omega's intuition. It's how he described everything that Alpha's couldn't understand. And this feeling was certainly something no Alpha would ever understand. Instinctively, Matthew had pressed a hand to his lower abdomen before he even realized it. And he froze.
Then he counted.
He counted the days of the month backwards since his last Heat, and he realized:
I'm late. I should've gone into Heat two days ago, but I didn't.
Matthew hadn't ever missed a Heat since he had started having them two years ago. The absence of it now could only mean one thing, that he was—
The bedchamber door swung open and Gilbert strode loudly in, his boots stomp, stomp, stomping over the floor. "Hey, schatzi," he said, distracted by an administrative task. But when Matthew failed to reply, or even move, Gilbert reconsidered his stunned Omega-mate. "Matt," he asked, cocking his head, "you okay?"
"Mm hmm," Matthew murmured, trying to look composed. He pursed his lips, but the moment he looked up and saw his Alpha-mate's puzzled face, he broke into a giddy smile of disbelief. "Yes," he said, feeling dazed. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. I'm just... fine." He pressed his left hand to his mouth to quell a high-pitched hiccup of nervous laughter and apprehension and fear; his right hand planted firmly on his abdomen.
Gilbert offered a bemused half-grin as he regarded his Omega-mate's curious behaviour. "Uh, okay then," he said skeptically, feeling as though he had missed something. "I just came back to get that report I finished last night. Have you seen it—Oh, thanks," he nodded, taking the book Matthew handed to him. Matthew's hand was trembling.
Gilbert started to turn away, but he paused again, unable to shake the instinct that something was amiss.
"Are you sure nothing's wrong, schatzi?"
Matthew thought. Wrong—?
He was the fifteen-year-old Omega survivor of a natural disaster, now trapped in a military fort in the middle of a war-zone; pair-bonded to an Alpha facing a Court Martial (if the enemy didn't kill him first); wanted dead by the enemy for a blood-crime he didn't even commit; and who had just realized that he was—
His dazed, wide-eyed gaze landed on the Alpha, violet met by wine-red, and an unexpected wave of affection overwhelmed him. He looked at the big, strong, handsome Western Captain, who was everything he could have ever hoped for in an Alpha-mate and a sire for his pups, and everything else suddenly faded away as his eyes flooded with tears. Impulsively, he wanted to leap joyfully into Gilbert's arms and hug him and kiss him.
But he didn't.
Instead, he took a deep, calming breath and blinked the tears from his eyes. He smiled, walked to his Alpha-mate's side, and kissed his cheek.
"No, darling," he said. "Nothing's wrong."
Gilbert was still puzzled by Matthew's peculiar behaviour as he entered the armoury, but he sharpened the moment he spotted Ludwig, who was taking inventory. The lieutenant stilled for a moment, then stiffly inclined his head to acknowledge Gilbert's higher status. Gilbert gave him a wordless at-ease command and stepped awkwardly into the circular chamber. The brothers hadn't interacted much lately, except to relay orders and give reports. They had both been too busy to act like brothers, and neither one had yet acknowledged the tragic circumstances of Matthew's last Heat, because neither of them knew what he should say. What do you say to your little brother who saw and smelled your Omega-mate naked and in Heat? Your little brother who rescued your Omega-mate from rape, because you weren't there to protect him? Because you're a fucking failure as an Alpha-mate. And a fucking coward because you can't admit that you made a mistake. Gilbert simply decided to go with:
"Thanks."
Ludwig's face revealed his understanding, but he still asked: "For what?"
Gilbert really wished he hadn't. He wished his brother would just accept his unvoiced apology and forgive him for his mistake so they could put it behind them and move on, but the look on Ludwig's stony face told Gilbert he wasn't going to make this easy. When Gilbert failed to explain his ambiguous gratitude, Ludwig sighed.
"You made a mistake, Gil."
"I know," Gilbert agreed. "I should've been there with him—"
"You made a mistake bringing Matthew here," Ludwig cut in.
Gilbert stared at him, taken aback. His brother's sky-blue eyes were cold. He wanted to argue, but how could he? Ludwig's proceeding words echoed Gilbert's greatest fears:
"You can't be the Fort Commander and an Alpha-mate," he said sternly. "There's a reason it's against the law and it has nothing to do with cruelty. What's cruel is forcing your Omega-mate to live in a fort in the middle of a war-zone. He's too young, too soft. He doesn't belong in here, Gil, and frankly I'm starting to wonder if you do either. You can't just neglect the fort to be an Alpha-mate, and you can't neglect your Omega-mate to be the Fort Commander. It doesn't work. Look at you," Ludwig criticized. "You're not sleeping; you're barely eating; you're short-tempered and unfocused; you're worried about things you shouldn't be, like your Omega-mate's brother, who's dead for all we know, instead of being worried about the immediate danger we're facing. You're too weighted down, Gil, and it's starting to break you. That's not what the fort needs from its commander right now. The Alphas need your strength. They need you to lead them, to inspire them, because right now they're all fucking terrified. Their courage is hanging in shreds. The last thing they need is a commander who looks scared—"
"I am scared!" Gilbert yelled, shocking them both. His voice echoed in the stone chamber.
"I'm scared because I don't know what the fuck to do! Is that what you want me to say, Ludwig? That I don't know what I'm doing? Fine! I'll say it: I'm fucking terrified!
"It kills me to know that people I care about are getting hurt because of me," he admitted. "It fucking kills me to know that if you hadn't been there to save Matt, then he would've been... he might..." Gilbert's lip twitched in anger as he tried to speak the words. "He might have someone else's... pups," he spat. "I know I keep making mistakes, Lud. I know I'm letting people down. Like Grey." He paused; swallowed a lump of grief. "I shouldn't have sent him out on that scouting-mission; I shouldn't have brought him here at all. But I did, and now he's dead. I brought them all here," he said, implying his Alphas. "I brought them here to fucking die. How many more of them are going to die because of me? Le Roux is coming for us, and when he does it won't be merciful. What if next time it's you, Lud? Or Matt? You're right, okay? I shouldn't have brought Matt here, but I did. I did, and I don't regret it because... because I'm fucking in love with him," he confessed. "If anything were to happen to him, I'd lose my fucking mind.
"I lost Grey because I chose Matt," he said, looking ashen and torn. "Then Matt was attacked because I chose the fort. No matter what I do, someone gets hurt. I'm destroying everything, Lud. I'm tearing this fort apart brick by fucking brick and I don't know how to fix it short of abandoning it. But if I do that then Le Roux wins. If I do that then I'm not the Alpha our sire raised. It would be like throwing away everything he died for. Everything I've ever believed in. And I hate myself for wanting that, for wanting to run away, but—gods!—sometimes that's all I can think about. I just want to take Matt and get the fuck out of here, go somewhere else and start over. But I can't. No matter where in the Empire I go, I'll be a wanted Alpha for mating Matt in the first place. I've dug myself a hole and I've dragged you and Matt and everyone else down with me, because I'm too weak to face the consequences of my actions.
"I can't do it! I'm too fucking weak!" he snarled, grabbing angrily at his hair. "And everyone fucking knows it! You said it yourself: the Alphas know it! They know I can't protect them! Matt knows I can't protect him! Gods, what if I have pups someday and I can't protect them—"
Ludwig's fist flew out and punched Gilbert in the face. His silver-white head whipped to the side on impact and he stumbled sideways, dazed.
He was wide-eyed and gasping. He hadn't realized he was gasping.
He said: "Thanks."
Ludwig nodded. "Deep breath," he ordered, as if he was coaching a new recruit. "You need to calm down, Gil. You can't panic."
Gilbert blinked dumbly for a moment, then nodded. "I... I know."
"You need to sleep, brother," Ludwig advised. "You're not thinking logically. You're letting passion rule your decisions. You're worrying about pups you don't even have," he added, pushing his point. "Go lie down for a bit," he ordered, patting Gilbert's shoulder.
Gilbert shrugged him off. "I can't," he said, shaking his head. "I've got too much to do."
"You're no good to anyone broken, Gil," Ludwig argued. "And you're sure as hell in no fit condition to give a motivational speech.
"You need to stop fixating on everything that could go wrong and accept that you can't protect everyone," he said, more gently. "You can't save everyone, especially not like this. We've got a war with the Southerners coming to a breaking-point on our doorstep. We need our commander, the Alpha we trust. The Alpha we all swore loyalty to. Not whatever the fuck it was I just witnessed. If it helps," he suggested, "Matthew needs that commander, too. Because if Le Roux gets in, then guess who he's going after first?"
Gilbert clenched his jaw and nodded resolutely.
"We all need you to be you, Gil, not this frightened ghost you've become. Right?" Ludwig offered his hand.
Gilbert clasped it. "Right," he agreed.
"Thanks."
Before Ludwig could reply, the armoury doors swung open with a heavy bang, revealing a panting, red-faced Alpha, who had been posted to sentry duty.
"Captain!" he gasped, buckled-over.
The Beilschmidt brothers both tensed in alert. There was fear apparent on the sentry's face.
"Yes?" said Gilbert, sounding a lot more authoritative than he felt. Sounding as if he hadn't just confessed all of his deepest, darkest fears and insecurities to his little brother, rambling like a madman until Ludwig had needed to physically silence him.
At least, he thought in solace, things can't possibly get any worse right now.
He cleared his throat, injecting as much confidence into his tone as he could, and demanded: "What is it?"
The sentry straightened and pointed over-the-shoulder to the front gates. Regretfully, he said:
"It's the Black Guards, sir. The Black Guards from the Great House. They've been sent here by the Kaiser, Captain Beilschmidt. Sent to arrest you for treason."
