DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
THE CALL OF THE WILD
LOST BOYS
THIRTEEN
BLACK FOREST FORT
WESTERN EMPIRE
Alfred threw himself behind a line of Southerners as the Eastern Army broke through the trees. They're all huge! he thought. It was like witnessing a whole army of Ivans and there were so many of them. The vanguard looked like clones of each other, each Alpha wearing a steel-grey uniform and brandishing a heavy sword. They didn't sneak like Southerners, or stalk like Westerners. They marched with purpose into the encampment without stopping or slowing. Even as their comrades fell beneath Southern swords and arrows, the Easterners pushed forward. Alfred had been captured by the Southern Army, then taken to face the Western Army, but he had never truly been afraid of any militant force until now.
For the first time in his life, Alfred cowered like a stereotypical Omega. For the first time he understood the debilitating fear that effected Omegas and left them helpless. He understood the need to submit to preserve himself.
Please, don't hurt me, he found himself thinking, rooted to the spot.
He knew that he should run, but he had always been a fighter, and just then he couldn't move. Move, move, move! He wanted to run away, but his legs were rigid and wouldn't obey. As the Easterners advanced, Alfred fell to his knees. They looked like Ivan—big and broad and stark and strong—but Ivan had never made Alfred feel like this. He had been afraid of Ivan once. He had been cowed by the Alpha's loud roar and aggression—once—but this was worse, because it was more, more, more. Facing the Easterners was like facing a pack of infuriated Ivans, and that thought alone made Alfred's nature bow in surrender.
I don't like this feeling. It's wrong, it's cruel. I don't like how frightened I am.
He thought of the Island Omegas he knew who were afraid of their Alpha-mates—a lot of them, he realized—and how they submitted and obeyed without question. They were all timid, quiet things; skittish, like Matthew. Alfred had considered them weak. He hadn't understood why they never argued or fought back when struck. He had scorned them for their lack of self-respect, and even blamed them for their Alpha-mate's abuse in some cases. (You're letting him take advantage of you! he'd thought.) And it was all because he had never understood this feeling. This horrible, paralyzing, self-preserving terror. Alfred had never understood the desire to submit. But now, with an Eastern Alpha standing over him, sword raised, he did.
The soldier cocked his head, curls red as rust and eyes a pale sea-foam green. His face was freckled with red.
At first, Alfred couldn't look away, too frightened to move, but when the Easterner frowned he quickly bowed his head. He held his breath and stared unblinking at the ground, waiting like a coward for the strike. The nature that made him Alfred screamed: Run! Fight! Do something! but the nature that made him an Omega whimpered and flinched when the Easterner knelt in front of him. He took Alfred's chin in his hand and lifted his head, eyes searching the Omega's face for a sign of—
What do you want from me? Take it! Whatever it is, take it! Just don't hurt me!
The Easterner leant curiously down and sniffed Alfred. Because of the battle—the blood, sweat, saliva—and the storm—the rain and mud—it was hard to distinguish Alfred's scent, so the Alpha moved even closer and pressed his nose directly to the Omega's skin. Alfred could feel him inhale deep as he pushed his nose up behind his ear at his hairline, like a curious newborn scenting its dam. Alfred felt his mouth, too. He was muttering to himself in garbled Russian. His intrusive wasn't gentle, but nor was he being intentionally rough. He wasn't trying to hurt or frighten the Omega, and that in itself made Alfred nervous. When the Alpha finally pulled back, he was staring at Alfred in blatant confusion.
"Ivan's alive?" he asked in disbelief.
Alfred was too shocked to speak. He merely stared, wide-eyed.
"Where?" the Easterner asked, shaking Alfred impatiently. It was urgent. "Where?"
Timidly, Alfred raised his index-finger and pointed. "The fort," he said.
The Eastern Alpha's name was Sasha. He had been one of Ivan's bedmates when they were pups living in the Capital. They had been comrades by proximity and shared experience. They had shared everything—beds, clothes, food—and because of that, fast friends. Sasha had lived in a rural village before the Capital took him, just like Ivan, except he couldn't remember any of it now. Only that he had had no living brothers. Ivan, Sasha said—grumbled, muttered; he didn't look at Alfred when he talked—was the closest thing he had ever had to a family.
"Ivan saved my life," he said, dragging Alfred along behind him as he sought shelter from the battle. Quickly, he ducked into a thicket of evergreens. "He took my punishment for me—lashings. A dozen of them. It would've killed me, but he took it. He saved my life. Then he disappeared. I thought..."
Suddenly, he shoved Alfred behind him to protect him from an attack. He wasn't fast, but he was big and strong. He reminded Alfred of a bear as he struck, cutting down the Southern attacker with a mighty blow, like batting away an incessant pest. The Southerner collapsed, his body broken.
"...I thought he was dead," Sasha finished, ignoring the interruption as he turned to meet Alfred's horrified gaze. "But he's not. I know his scent, and I can smell it here. I can smell him on you. "You're his Omega-mate."
It wasn't a question, so Alfred didn't reply.
"I owe Ivan a life-debt," Sasha said, staring intently at Alfred, and yet not seeing him. His green eyes weren't blinking and it was really beginning to creep Alfred out. The Easterner seemed... unstable. His lips curled on one side, showing his teeth. "I don't want to owe anyone anything."
"No," Alfred agreed. Cautiously, he lifted his hand and touched Sasha's face. "Protect me, and I'll take you to him."
"I want to repay my debt," said Sasha fervently. He seemed not to notice Alfred's soft touch. He seemed so... single-minded. Despite the sounds and scents of battle around them, or the rain that soaked him, it was like nothing else existed for Sasha except for Alfred and the memory of Ivan that Alfred carried on his skin.
Is this the result of the Eastern Army's training? Is this half-mad Alpha the Empire's pride? Is this poor, tortured, depraved creature the price of strength?
"Come on," Alfred said, fighting to keep his voice even. Gently, he pushed against Sasha's chest and stepped out of his shadow. Sasha growled in confusion, but quieted when Alfred took his hand. "Come," he repeated, leading the bloodied soldier toward the fort. "I'll take you to Ivan and this time you can save him, okay? You can repay your debt."
Sasha relaxed a fraction and squeezed Alfred's hand too hard. "Okay."
Ivan grit his teeth, face contorted in effort, and gave the wagon one final shove. The battering-ram swung forward and slammed against the tall gates of the Black Forest Fort. The force reverberated throughout the structure; Ivan felt it in his fingers and teeth. He could hear the Westerners shouting overhead. They peppered the covered structure with arrows—several arrowheads poked through, the shafts stuck—but Ivan was too exhausted to care. He stumbled and leant against the wagon, gasping and coughing. He was soaked and muddy. His body ached. He couldn't tell if his face was slick with rain or sweat, or if his lips were coated in saliva or blood. He spat the metal taste out of his mouth. The Westerners shouted at him from above and the Southerners shouted at him from afar, but Ivan ignored them all. He closed his eyes, blood pounding in his ears. It pounded like footsteps, like marching.
A howl—a chorus of howls—erupted over the treetops. A horn blasted.
No.
Ivan's heart pounded in time with the marching. It was slow, steady. It moved forward; forward, never back.
Go forward, comrade. Easterners do not run away. We go forward to glory or death.
Ivan's whole body tensed. No—! Not here. Not now.
Alfred!
Ivan pulled forcefully at the chains that shackled him to the wagon, digging his heels into the slick, swampy ground. He arched his shoulders and bowed his head and twisted and turned fiercely, trying to break the chains and yank himself free, but it was futile. The chains held firm and Ivan slipped in the mud. He fell to his knees and crawled, clawing at the ground. The wagon shuddered and rolled as Ivan pulled it on his hands-and-knees like a draft-horse. It retreated a foot, then sunk into a rivet on an angle and one of the wheels broke. Ivan grunted and thrashed like a wolf, but the wagon refused to budge.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
"Fuck!" he growled, swiping angrily at his face. A slick substance had dripped through a crack in the wooden roof and landed on his face. It felt warm. He stared at his fingertips as more of it dripped down on him, confused for a moment before he realized what it was:
Oil.
A moment later, several arrows struck the roof and sizzled.
"FUCK!" Ivan cursed, desperately tugging at his shackles as the wagon surrounding him burst into flames.
No, wait!"
Recklessly, Alfred grabbed the back of Sasha's tunic and jerked him back. The Alpha barely felt it, but his puzzlement soon became anger and his eyes flashed in the firelight, looking wild. For a moment, Alfred thought that Sasha would attack him. He raised his gloved hand to strike the Omega, or batter him back, but stopped when Alfred shouted:
"Archers!"
He pointed to the battlements of the fort, where Acting-Commander Beilschmidt's archers were perched, their bows drawn taut and prepared to fire on anyone who came within range. Below the wall, in front of the gate, the Southerner's siege weapon blazed in the falling darkness.
Alfred couldn't speak. He looked to Sasha in panic, pleading.
Sasha wrenched himself free, and then yanked off his breastplate. It fell to the ground with a clank! As far as Alfred could tell, the Eastern soldiers were the only Alphas who wore metal armour. The West and South favoured leather and layered fabric and chainmail for freedom of movement, but the East's forceful tactic required something a more solid. And heavy, Alfred noticed. He watched as Sasha cut the straps of his armour away, letting the front and back pieces fall open, then he hefted it overhead to use as a shield. He glanced back at Alfred, and Alfred could have sworn he saw the fearless redhead smirk. Then Sasha charged onto the muddy field surrounding the castle, howling a guttural battle-cry in accompaniment. Alfred squeezed his eyes shut when the first arrow struck upon Sasha, afraid that his Alpha champion had been struck, but when he opened them again he was relieved to see that Sasha's armour was strong, and the Alpha was still running toward the gate, arrows bouncing and sliding off of his makeshift shield.
Please, please, please, Alfred begged, watching with baited breath. He flinched at every loosed missile that hit its mark. The Westerners were frighteningly accurate bowmen; the Islanders would have approved. Please, protect him, Alfred prayed, clasping his hands, and feeling guilty about using Sasha as cannon-fodder, but not guilty enough to abandon Ivan.
It was a manipulation, but not a Southerner's sly trick—an Omega's trick. Alfred knew that he was exploiting Sasha's strength for his own benefit. He knew he was taking advantage of the abused Alpha's single-minded desires, placing Sasha in danger to get what he wanted. He knew he was an Omega using an Alpha to do his bidding, but what choice did he have? He was trapped in a body too weak to fight the battle himself. This wasn't play-fighting or hunting games, this was real warfare. He couldn't compete with armies of grown soldiers who were trained to kill. None of his Alpha tricks would help him now—pretending to be an Alpha wouldn't help him. But for the first time in his life, being an Omega would.
Sasha slipped in the mud and fell to his knees, the shield falling away. An arrow pierced his bicep.
"Sasha!" Alfred cried, deliberately making his voice high and helpless.
The Alpha tensed, hearing the Omega's pitiful cry. He looked back at Alfred and Alfred saw the moment his Alpha nature took over, responding instinctively to the Omega's call for help. He ripped the arrow out of his bicep, straightened his shield as he pushed himself back to his feet, and continued forward.
Alfred was relieved but guilty as well, because he knew he would beg and cry and scream himself hoarse if it would encourage Sasha. He felt frustrated, too, hating that screaming was all that he could do while the love of his life suffered and burned—!
NO.
Ivan was alive. He had to be alive, otherwise everything they had suffered together would be for nothing. Alfred refused to believe that he had finally found someone to share his life with only to lose him like this.
You promised that we would go home together, he thought, feeling tears on his cheeks. You promised, Ivan. I can't lose you.
You have to live.
Ivan bowed his head and coughed. He curled his body into as small a shape as possible beneath the burning wagon, afraid of the fire that licked the oil-soaked wood. Shirtless, he covered his nose and mouth with his sweaty palm and tried to take shallow breaths, but the smoke was thick and choked him. He could feel the sting of it in his throat and nose and eyes, making them water and run. He could feel it in his lungs, making him dizzy and sick. He spat onto the ground and watched his saliva sizzle like the beads of sweat on his body. He tugged at the chains, but it was useless.
He was going to die. It was already happening. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Alfred, he thought sadly.
Then suddenly the wagon jerked, as if a weight had collided with it. At first, Ivan thought that another wheel had broken, or that the heavy battering ram had fallen from its suspension chains. But instead of sinking deeper into the mud, the base of the lopsided wagon began to lift. A torrent of smoke poured in, impeding Ivan's vision, making him flinch back, then a gloved hand emerged. It groped for a moment, then landed on Ivan's shoulder and pulled him carelessly hard. He fell into a brace of sullied, sweaty fabric and felt the solid flesh and bone of an Alpha's warm chest underneath. The Alpha gasped, his breathing laboured as he tried and failed to drag Ivan from the wreck.
"Stop—" cough cough "Stop it, let go!" Ivan could feel the chains cutting grooves into his chafed skin, afraid that his forceful rescuer would pull his limbs from their sockets. "The chains!" he growled, mustering his strength to shove the Alpha back.
"Ivan," said the Alpha, making Ivan stop.
He couldn't determine the Alpha's scent because of the smoke, and he didn't recognize the growling voice, but the soldier was built like an Easterner, not unlike himself. Ivan wondered if he had been a scout pursuing he and Alfred, or a soldier of the greater Eastern Army. As the Alpha's face appeared through the smoke, Ivan wondered why a member of his former company was trying to rescue him.
"Ivan," he repeated, like Ivan's name was good luck. He forced himself closer beneath the wagon, his skin greasy with smoke residue, but it wasn't the Alpha's squared face that struck a chord in Ivan's memory; it was his mane of rust-coloured hair. He had never seen such a shade before or since. He remembered the unruly sight and feel of it. He remembered ruffling it in play, and sleeping with his nose buried in it a long time ago.
"S-Sasha?" he gasped in disbelief.
The Alpha paid him a rueful grin, then raised his sword without warning and struck Ivan's chains a powerful blow. One snapped, then the other, the iron falling away until Ivan stood wearing the manacles like bracelets. Hastily, he crawled out into the open, following his former comrade, and not a moment too soon. The wagon collapsed.
"Sasha!" he repeated, then buckled under a coughing fit. He gulped mouthfuls of fresh air to clear his lungs, purging the smoke, then tried again. "Sasha, I can't believe it!" he cried, clutching the redhead. He felt the weight of Sasha's hands on his back, clapping him in reunion. It felt good, familiar.
"I thought you were dead," Sasha said, releasing him.
"I thought I was, too," he replied, and he didn't just mean tonight. Fervently, his eyes scanned the tree-line. Sasha was wearing the uniform of the Eastern Army—sans armour—and carrying a state-issued sword, which meant the Eastern Army had finally reached the Southern encampment, which meant that Alfred was in serious danger. The fear must have shown on his face, because Sasha pointed, and said:
"Your Omega is there."
The moment Ivan locked eyes with Alfred, he started forward. Just stay there! he gestured, limping as fast as he could. I'll come to you!
Alfred smiled in relief, looking hopeful. But his expression quickly changed. His eyes went wide as he began gesturing wildly and shouting, though Ivan couldn't hear him; the roar of the fire had left him momentarily half-deaf. Ivan shook his head and non-verbally repeated his prior message:
Stay there!
That's when Sasha grabbed his arm, and only then did Ivan realize that the Western archers had gone.
A host of Southerners approached from the west; a host of Easterners took position from the east, both forces coming together to do battle at the foot of the Western fort, nothing but a muddy field and two lone Alphas standing between them.
Alfred screamed for Ivan as the armies charged at each other.
"RUN!" he hollered, gesturing wildly.
Ivan and Sasha began to run, but their pace was slow and clumsy. Alfred's heart beat madly as he watched their toddling progress, knowing that they wouldn't reach safety before the two armies collided. He watched, petrified, as a sea of bodies—steel-grey and royal blue—swallowed Ivan.
"NO!"
He could see Sasha's rust-red hair and kept his eyes locked on it, knowing that Ivan would be nearby. Sasha swung and slashed with his sword, blocking and serving blows. He fought recklessly in the melee, his teeth bared and snarling. Alfred even saw those big Alpha canines bite someone. He looked possessed. He fought with no regard for whom his attacks felled, enemies or allies, focused solely on escape. As the bodies surged and shifted, Alfred caught sight of Ivan at Sasha's side. Weaponless, he fought with his fists, looking no less desperate than his former comrade. He threw his whole weight into his fists, but relied on Sasha's sword to cover him, as if remembering a routine from long ago. They struggled through the onslaught, clawing like drowning victims for the surface. But they weren't going to make it. Ivan wasn't going to make it.
"Gods damned Alphas!" Alfred snarled.
Quickly, he doubled back into the abandoned encampment, now a cemetery of corpses, and knelt at the first body he saw that was still armed. He unclenched the dead Easterner's fingers from the handle of his sword, not unlike the one Ivan owned, and hefted the heavy weapon up. He remembered its weight and the way it pulled him forward as he ran back to the field and charged into the fray before fear could take hold of him again.
"Get—out—of—my—way!" he yelled, swinging the sword with all of his Omega strength to cut a path through the crush of bodies. He was shoved back-and-forth, the weight of the sword and slippery ground throwing him off-balance, but Alfred was an Islander. He was no novice when it came to hunting in poor weather conditions. As the soldiers fell, blinded by rain, too heavy to mind their balance, Alfred dodged around them, under them. He was faster and lighter and smaller than they. He wasn't a soldier, but he was one of the best hunters in Scott Kirkland's pack. As if he was hunting, Alfred concentrated on Ivan's deep voice and let his sensitive ears guide him in the right direction. Finally, he saw the Alpha grappling with an enemy. He saw Ivan's teeth clenched and his violet eyes blazing, his naked chest bloodied and covered in scars—old scars; new scars—as his muscles strained to fend off an attack.
"Ivan!" Alfred screamed, his high-pitched voice rising above the sounds of battle. Ivan's head snapped up and his eyes glared at Alfred, but the Omega ignored it. "Catch!" he said, and threw the sword overhand like a hunting spear. It sailed in an arc and landed a foot from Ivan's person, skinning the back of his attacker before cleaving into the ground. Alfred saw Ivan grip the handle, but nothing else. He ducked beneath a sword thrust and was forced to retreat.
I hate Alphas. I hate Alphas. I hate Alphas, he thought repeatedly as he picked his way along, keeping low. If I live through this, I'm never going to wish I was an Alpha again.
"Ah!"
Alfred cried-out when a bloody body slammed into him, then fell into the mud. It pushed him into a living soldier—a Southerner—who moved in reflex to stab. Alfred flinched and automatically closed his eyes. Then he heard Ivan's growl:
"No."
Alfred looked up to find the Southerner run through with the sword in Ivan's hand. His other hand wound around Alfred's middle and pulled the Omega snug against his chest, using his body as a shield.
One, two, three. Every step Ivan took, every swing of his sword pushed the soldiers back. He moved forward, never back. He moved forward with a strength and determination Alfred had never seen. Forward toward the forest and safety. Forward toward freedom. Alfred hadn't realized how suffocating the battlefield was until he and Ivan finally burst free of it.
"Go! Keep going!" Sasha snapped, shoving Ivan forward. "Don't look back, go forward!"
Ivan didn't look back, but Alfred did. He lifted his head for an instant, but it was enough to see the arrow—Western, Southern, Eastern; he didn't know whose—whirling toward Ivan. His heart stopped. He didn't have time to scream, or move. He didn't have time to bow his head. He saw the arrow flying through the sky. He heard the whistle of its fletching. He felt its impact as it hit its mark and he suddenly fell beneath Ivan's weight; Ivan, who had fallen beneath Sasha's weight.
"Sasha!" Alfred cried, crawling out from under Ivan.
Sasha lay sprawled upon Ivan, the slender arrow protruding from his chest. He had leapt in its path to save Ivan. And now he was dying.
Alfred grabbed the redhead's arms and began dragging him toward the forest. "No, no, no," he chanted, feeling guilt and grief press down on him. "You saved us, you can't die. You saved Ivan."
Ivan wrapped Sasha's arm around his shoulders and half-carried the redhead to safety. There, he laid him down.
Sasha's bloodied lips smiled at Ivan. He was shaking. "I-I-I—I'm not going back," he gasped, as if Ivan would reprimand him for dying. "I-I-I—I'm not going to do this anymore."
"Sasha—"
"I-I-I—I'm going to die here, so you can live," Sasha continued, as if Ivan hadn't spoken.
Ivan shook his head. "No, we can save you," he said, cupping the back of Sasha's head. "Alfred." Ivan looked back at the stunned Omega. His violet eyes were no longer fierce, but soft and pleading. "We can save him, right?"
Alfred pursed his lips. No, I don't think we can. Maybe Dad could, or Mattie, or Thierry, but we can't.
Fortunately, Sasha spoke before Alfred had to. He looked up at Ivan, and very seriously said:
"Now my debt is paid."
"No," Ivan growled. "Sasha, you can't—"
Sasha raised a shaking hand and grabbed Ivan's forearm. He squeezed weakly. "You escaped it, Ivan. Now I will, too. Go with your Omega," he said laboriously. "Go somewhere far. Have pups. Have a life free of fear. Live. We will meet again someday, comrade, in the world beyond this one. In the great hall of warriors we will feast together. I will save you a seat beside me. Until then," he gasped, his voice fading with each word, "do something for me." He lifted his head a fraction and Ivan leant down to hear his dying friend's last plea. So close, Sasha's bloody lips brushed Ivan's ear. So close, even Alfred barely heard it. "When this is over," he whispered, gasping; choking, "when you've found a new home, have a drink for me, brother... and go... forward..."
Sasha's shaking ceased and his pale eyes stared sightlessly up at Ivan. He was gone.
Matthew stood at the window, staring out into a storm of swords and blood and fire. The vicious sounds of battle hurt his ears. The sounds of Alpha's howls and screams, thunder not loud enough to drown the dying. How many of them would fall tonight? How many Alphas would die fighting their Kaiser's, Emperor's, Tsar's battle? Matthew's heart felt heavy as he touched the handle of Gilbert's dagger, which he had stuck into his sash, taking comfort in its protection, even if he didn't know how to wield it; even if he wasn't strong enough. But as he touched it, his thoughts went to his Alpha-mate—again—and that was more comforting than any weapon could be. Even though Gilbert was imprisoned, Matthew believed that the Alpha would still protect him. Somehow. Somehow he had to believe it, because what else did Matthew have to hope for? He had relied on Gilbert for everything since coming to the fort, and he had relied on his family before that.
I can't do this alone, he thought, absently touching his abdomen. Omegas aren't meant to be alone.
He stepped back, suddenly frightened of the battlefield, and bumped into the bedside table. Grey's sketch of Finn fluttered to the floor and landed face-down.
A fresh wave of anxiety flooded Matthew as he knelt to retrieve it, intending to smooth its creased edges, but he stopped when he saw a note hastily scribbled on the back. He hadn't seen it before. It was small and sloppy, and the corner was stained with Grey's dried blood, but the note itself was legible. It was a single word in French: Loup.
Wolf.
And, suddenly, the last piece of a puzzle fell into place.
Matthew stared down at the word—not in disbelief. Disbelief implied shock, as if he hadn't already suspected Wolfe of treason.
One of Gilbert's Alphas had been plotting against the fort from the beginning. One of them had reported the Fort Commander's pair-bonding to the Great House, ensuring Gilbert's imprisonment. One of them had deliberately neglected his scouting missions and lied in his reports to hide the Southerners presence. One of them had been plotting with Le Roux to depose Gilbert and usurp the fort for a long time. One of them had murdered Grey when the unfortunate squire had seen something that he was not meant to see. And now Matthew knew who it was. Grey's last word confirmed it.
I should've said something sooner, he knew. So, why didn't I?
Why didn't he reveal the evidence that pointed to Wolfe? Why didn't he say anything about his suspicions—his Omega's intuition—sooner? Why did he keep quiet and pretend he didn't know?
Because Gil trusted Wolfe. And I trusted Gil.
But even Fort Commanders made mistakes.
Matthew knew that he had to tell Ludwig as soon as possible—he had to tell anyone, everyone. They had to know that their present second-in-command was a traitor. But before he could reach the bedchamber's door, it swung open.
Second-Lieutenant Wolfe.
Quickly, Matthew hid the sketch behind his back.
"Omega," said Wolfe, stepping inside. Matthew felt urgency pull at him, but he forced himself not to tremble. He had to look natural. He couldn't risk revealing what he knew, but Wolfe's sharp eyes were not kind as he studied Matthew's figure, his face. "You're white as milk," he sneered, taking pleasure in the Omega's fear. "I told you, didn't I? That the Southerners would come for you. If this fort is taken, it'll be your fault. If all the Alphas die, it'll be because of you."
No, Matthew thought, swallowing the denial. It'll be you.
Wolfe's eyes narrowed. "What's that behind your back?"
Matthew had begun folding the sketch into a flying projectile: a paper-bird, like he and Alfred used to do to Arthur's recipes. His fingers worked deftly, but the paper crackled.
"What are you hiding? Show me," Wolfe ordered, stalking forward.
Matthew hurried backwards, retreating to the open window. "It's nothing. It's just a letter... to Gil," he lied. "Just a silly love letter from a silly Omega."
"Give it to me," Wolfe demanded, showing his teeth. "Now!"
Before he could reach him, Matthew spun and fired the paper-bird out of the window. A fierce wind caught it and it soared rapidly to the ground below, hitting a passing Alpha, but Matthew didn't see whom. Wolfe shoved him aside and flailed for the sketch, but his reach was too short and slow. He growled in frustration, then turned his eyes on Matthew, glaring coldly in hatred.
"You know," he said. It wasn't a question.
"That you're a traitor?" Matthew challenged. There was no point in denying it, now. "That you sold the fort to the South? Yes, I know."
Wolfe's hand shot out and seized Matthew's shirt-front, pulling him forward. "Do you also know that Captain Le Roux wants you dead, you little bitch? That your death is a condition of the contract he and I have?
"Let's you and I take a little walk, Matthew," he growled, his lips curling back in a cruel grin. His eyes glared dangerously. "It's time you saw the view from the top of the keep."
Wolfe manhandled Matthew roughly into the corridor, then dragged him up the stairs. Matthew had never ascended the stairs to the third-level before; there was no need. It opened onto a wide flat landing—the roof of the keep. It was windy and wet as rain lashed the stone; thunder crashing; lightning crackling in the sky above. The storm threatened to knock Matthew back, but Wolfe's grasp on his arm was tight. To the south, the sounds of struggle rose in a cacophony of shrieks and screams and howls and growls and the constant sharp sound of metal-on-metal. To the west, the Rhine was swollen. It frothed and crashed as the wind stirred it, water sloshing and spilling over the dam like an infuriated beast trying to break through. To the north the sky was dark despite dawn's approach, and thunder rumbled overhead like the hammering beat of war drums. It was to the north that Wolfe dragged Matthew, lightning flashing in the Alpha's reflective eyes, making him look like something cold and cruel from the depths of the sea. Lightning struck again and Matthew habitually began to count.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
He tried to resist Wolfe's pull. He tried to find traction on the wet stone, but the rain slicked it and his feet slid clumsily forward. "Let go of me!" he shouted, slashing at Wolfe with Gilbert's dagger. The blade sliced into the Alpha's hand and he flinched, surprised, but recovered fast.
"Bitch!" Wolfe grabbed Matthew's wrist and jerked it back, tearing the dagger from his grasp. Snarling, he threw it aside. At the edge of the rooftop, he grabbed Matthew by both shoulders, and said: "Go ahead, little Omega. Scream," he threatened, tightening his hold. Matthew felt his feet slip on the edge; the wind pushed fervently. Far below him, a wicked battle raged. Lightning struck again, closer this time.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.
Wolfe leant down over Matthew and pressed his curled lips to the Omega's ear from behind. Maliciously, he said:
"Where is your white knight now?"
Ludwig felt something brush his shoulder. He looked up, then down. A paper projectile was lying on the stone, rapidly losing its shape to the rain. He rescued it and unfolded it carefully, trying not to tear the sodden paper. It was a sketch of an Omega, a cute, smiling little thing; a rather talented study. Someone's Omega-mate? he wondered. (He was too old to be anyone's Omega-pup; Gilbert's Alphas were all relatively young.) He turned it over in his hands, searching for a signature so that he might return the sketch to its owner. That's when he saw the scribbled note: Loup. Ludwig didn't know French, but seeing it made him feel anxious. There was blood on the paper.
"Soldier," he said, halting a passing Alpha. "Can you read French?"
"No, Commander, but Fischer can," said the Alpha, pointing to his companion.
Fischer looked at the sketch Ludwig presented, and read: "Wolf, sir. It's the French word for wolf."
Ludwig looked from the sketch to the paper-bird's trajectory, following it backwards to Gilbert's window. Matthew's window.
Wolfe.
"Fuck!" he cursed.
He took off running, leaving the two stunned Alphas behind. Oh, no. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. If anything happened to Matthew, Gilbert would be heartbroken. He would be inconsolable. He would be livid. He might actually murder someone, probably me. Because whether Gilbert wanted to admit it or not, Matthew had become the most important thing in his life. Matthew, who was Ludwig's pregnant brother-by-mating-law; the Omega he had promised to protect; the Omega-mate his brother loved more than anything; the Omega whom Wolfe wanted dead—
An accident, that's all it would take. The fort was under siege, a battle raging outside. How likely it would be for a fifteen-year-old Omega to get hurt. No one would question it. No one would call it anything but a tragic accident.
Ludwig reached the keep's door and pushed, but it didn't open. He tried his key, but it wasn't locked. It was barricaded.
CRASH! Bang! Crumble—!
"Commander!" someone shouted. "The outer wall has been breached! Enemies are flooding in!"
"Commander! The west bank has been taken, it's overrun!"
"Commander! We're nearly out of oil and arrows, we can't hold them back anymore! They'll take the fort!"
"Commander, what should we do?" they begged, looking to Ludwig for guidance.
"Uh, well..." Ludwig whipped his head from side-to-side, from face-to-terrified-face. Then he looked back at the keep and felt stuck. What do I do? How do I fix it? Is this how Gil feels all the time? The weight of responsibility was crushing. The soldiers' blind trust and pleading made Ludwig feel slightly nauseous; guilty; stressed.
What do we do, Commander? Tell us what to do!
It was no wonder that after two years Gilbert was starting to break.
"Take the catapults to the south wall and scatter the enemy's forces. Scare them senseless," he said, mouth working faster than his brain. "All archers back to your posts, but fire sparingly; make them think you're fully-armed. Use what oil is left to set the field ablaze"—he thought of the barricaded keep, and added—"and barricade the doors. Use anything we've got," he ordered. "Use everything we've got. No one gets passed the outer walls. I want all infantry combat-ready and assembled in the ward five minutes ago. If that gate doesn't hold them back, we will."
"Yes, sir!"
As the officers dispersed, Ludwig rushed to the locked armoury. Matthew was his brother-by-mating-law, but he, at least, was not Ludwig's priority. He was Gilbert's.
"Open the door!" he demanded.
The sentry looked shocked. "But Commander, the Black Guards said—"
"I said open this fucking door!" Ludwig roared. "That's an order!"
The sentry hurried to obey. But in his haste he fumbled the keys, which provoked a growl from the impatient Acting-Commander, and then got shoved heedlessly aside.
"Gilbert!" Ludwig grabbed Gilbert's shirt-front and dragged him toward the door. "It's Wolfe," he explained, "he's the one who betrayed us. Matthew knows. Wolfe has him barricaded in the keep."
If Gilbert was shocked by Wolfe's betrayal, it didn't show. He didn't pause or ask questions, he just moved. In one swift motion, he unbuckled Ludwig's sword-belt and strapped it over his shoulder, then wrenched himself free of his brother's grasp and bolted out of the armoury faster than Ludwig had ever seen. He dodged the amassing infantry and ran to the keep. He ignored the battle, the storm. He didn't slow when he reached the high stonewalls that rose above him. He didn't stop to strategize the best point of entry, or worry about the danger to himself. He just leapt onto the adjacent wall and started to climb up, up, up. He didn't even look scared as the wind howled and the rain lashed and thunder and lightning filled the sky, just determined. Just an Alpha on a mission to rescue his Omega-mate. Just angry as all fucking hell.
Poor little Matthew," Wolfe taunted, leaning down farther, holding Matthew's upper-body suspended above the fall. "Such a helpless, frightened little thing. So distraught over his Alpha-mate's fate. So very young and foolishly in love. So very tragic that he slipped and fell off the top of the tower."
Matthew was frozen, too afraid to fight lest he lose his balance. If Wolfe let go, he would fall to his death.
"Don't worry, schatzi," he mocked, kissing Matthew's neck, "you'll soon be reunited with your captain in death. If the Black Guard doesn't do it"—he released Matthew's shoulder to hold his neck, miming a hanging; now supporting the Omega's weight one-handed—"then I will. One way or another, Gilbert Beilschmidt will soon die... and it'll be entirely your fault. It'll be all because of you."
No, Matthew thought, crying now. Please no, I'll do anything. I'll suffer anything—anything! Just don't hurt Gil. He doesn't deserve it. He's a good captain, and a good Alpha. He's my Alpha.
Please.
"Farewell, Matthew Beilschmidt."
Wolfe let go.
AAH—!"
Matthew's arms wind-milled as he plummeted forward, catching the edge of the stone wall in his hands. He hung there suspended above a deathly fall, fingers digging painfully into the crevices, and only then did he realize that he wasn't the one who had screamed. Wolfe had. Wolfe had been yanked suddenly back, that's why he had let go of Matthew. That's why Matthew had lost his balance, not because Wolfe had pushed him but because Wolfe had been attacked by—
Gil!
Matthew couldn't believe his eyes as he pulled himself up, back to safety. Gilbert's canines were sunk deep in Wolfe's neck, coating his lips with blood. The ex-captain was holding the second-lieutenant by the throat with one hand, while the other held a sword he tried to plunge into Wolfe's chest as Wolfe desperately defended himself. His sword was crossed with Gilbert's in a battle of physical strength; Gilbert trying to stab Wolfe and Wolfe trying to stop him. Finally, he succeeded in shaking Gilbert off. He stumbled sideways, then braced himself as Gilbert attack again. It was vicious, all swords and fists and teeth; two wild things fighting a battle of dominance. A battle of life-and-death. Matthew had never seen Gilbert move so fast or furiously before, even in practice. He had never seen his Alpha-mate look so beastly, so—dangerous. It was fierce. If Wolfe looked like something cold and cruel from the sea, then Gilbert looked like fire. He snarled and snapped as his body twisted, so agile it would have been graceful if not for his violent purpose. Violent was a very good word to describe Gilbert right then. He had lost all of his softness and kindness and compassion as he fought, reduced to his basest instincts. It was enough that Wolfe actually looked scared.
"You can't beat me!" Gilbert snarled, slashing at Wolfe. "I'm the alpha here, not you! Matthew is mine! This fort is mine! I'll tear you limb from fucking limb!"
Yes, there was naked fear in Wolfe's eyes. He was losing the fight to his junior and he knew it. Maybe that's why he suddenly shouted: "Matthew!" at the top of his voice, injecting as much fear and shock as possible.
Matthew frowned in misunderstanding, but Wolfe's trick worked. Gilbert faltered. In reflex, he turned to see if Matthew was okay, lowing his guard for the briefest moment—
—and Wolfe struck.
The second-lieutenant slammed into him, forcing the ex-captain down. Gilbert hit the stone hard and the sword was battered out of his hand. He thrust his fists up to fight, but Wolfe's weight kept him pinned, trapping the younger Alpha.
"I knew it!" Wolfe laughed, pressing down on the blade of his sword. "I knew that little bitch would be your death!"
"Have you no dignity?" Gilbert seethed. He spat in Wolfe's face. "Relying on tricks? You're a coward, Wolfe! A fucking coward!"
"Maybe," Wolfe smirked, "but at least I'm not a dead—Ah!"
Matthew leapt on Wolfe's back and snaked his forearms around the Alpha's neck, trying to choke him. I won't let you hurt my Alpha-mate! he thought as Wolfe reared back, gasping and clawing at the Omega, trying to pull him off. Matthew bared his teeth and squeezed with all of his strength. I won't let you hurt him!
"Fucking bitch!"
Wolfe's fist seized Matthew and pulled him roughly overhead. Matthew tumbled down, but rather than hit the stone, he found himself imprisoned in Wolfe's steely grasp.
"Don't move," he warned Gilbert, who stood ready to attack. "If you care at all about this bitch, don't move."
Gilbert stiffened. "Don't..." he said, reaching instinctively out. "Don't hurt Matt..."
Wolfe was panting hard; Matthew could feel it. "Don't move!" he repeated, paralyzing Gilbert mid-step. "Good. Now, drop the sword."
"Let Matt go—"
"Drop the sword, or I'll cut his fucking throat. I'll kill your Omega-mate, Beilschmidt. Your pregnant mate," he added cruelly.
Gilbert's face paled and his blood-red eyes went wide, losing their fire. Finally, he looked scared. He stared at Matthew in open-mouthed disbelief, his lips moving but no sound coming out.
"I-I-I—" He faltered, then tried again. "I-I-I—I don't... Matt?"
Matthew could only nod. I'm so sorry, Gil. I'm sorry.
The sword fell from Gilbert's hand with a clatter. He took a bewildered step back, then another. "Please," he said. He raised his hands in surrender. "Don't hurt him, Wolfe. I yield. Please, let him go. You can kill me, okay? You can do whatever you want to me, just let Matt go."
"No!" Matthew cried.
Wolfe grinned. "On your knees," he spat.
Like a defeated dog, Gilbert knelt.
Wolfe threw his head back and laughed in triumph. "Not so tough now, are you, Gilbert Beilschmidt? The Alpha-pup who became the Fort Commander, and then threw it all away for the sake of an Omega. How pathetic! The Alpha-pup who broke the law and lost the fort and got everyone killed. That's how history will remember you. Not as a leader, not as a hero—as a failure! You failed to protect the Empire. You failed to protect your comrades. You failed to protect your Omega-mate. You've failed everyone, pup,just like your sire did when the East attacked. But that's what you've always wanted, isn't it? To be just like your dear, dead sire. Well congratulations, you've done it. You're a failure and a traitor—"
"No!" Matthew yelled. "He's not! Just shut up! He's not—!Gilbert's a good captain, and a good Alpha! And that's something you can never take away from him!He's more of an Alpha than you'll ever be!"
"Silence!" Wolfe shook Matthew hard. "You know nothing about it, you fucking foreigner! You know nothing of the Western Empire!"
"The Kaiser trusted you!" Matthew argued. "He promoted you—"
"Promoted me?" Wolfe pressed a hand over Matthew's mouth to silence him. "Banished me, you mean. He sent me into the middle of gods-forsaken nowhere to play second to a swaddling-pup! It wasn't a promotion, it was a punishment! I serve the Empire loyally for ten fucking years and what do I get in return? Nothing! The chance to play second, always second! I should've been something great, but you took it from me!" he yelled a Gilbert. "I should've been the Fort Commander, not you! It should've been me!"
"Is that what Le Roux promised you?" Gilbert guessed. He spoke to Wolfe, but his red eyes were fixed on Matthew. "Once I'm dead and the fort defeated, then you'll take over command? Is that it, Wolfe? You'll become a permanent puppet of the Southern Empire? Did you really betray the West and sell the Black Forest Fort—all of your comrades—for a fucking promotion?"
"It means my own command," Wolfe said shamelessly, "so yes, I did. But know this, Captain: I would have happily sold you for free."
A lightning-bolt lit Wolfe's victorious face.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Another bolt crackled overhead, closer—closer—momentarily flooding the rooftop with light. A metallic glint caught Matthew's eye. It was Gilbert's dagger, lying on the ground just out of reach. And for the briefest moment time seemed to stop. He looked at the dagger. Then he looked at Gilbert. And he knew exactly what he was going to do. He should have been terrified, and maybe he was, but he didn't feel it. Not this time.
I'm sorry, Gil. Please forgive me.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Matthew sunk his teeth into Wolfe's ungloved hand and bit down hard until he tasted blood. Wolfe howled in surprised outrage and recoiled, and Matthew sprang forward. He ducked beneath the second-lieutenant's swiping hand and retrieved the dagger. Then he ran.
He fought the wind, slipping on stone, and leapt the final few steps to the peak of the keep. Then he rounded on Wolfe with the dagger extended, a challenge in his violet eyes.
One. Two. Three.
Wolfe was right behind him, sword in hand. He laughed in genuine glee as he squared his broad shoulders, preparing to attack.
"Oh, this is too perfect," he grinned, relishing the sight. "Do you really think you can fight me, little Omega?"
Four. Five. Six.
Matthew's posture was low, bowed in defense. Come on, he thought, counting—counting. Come and get me.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
"I'm going to enjoy this," said Wolfe, raising his long, straight sword high overhead.
Ten.
Matthew dropped the dagger and ducked as a lightning-bolt struck Wolfe, attracted by the metal sword. His body jolted and sizzled and he screamed, stumbling backwards over the edge of the tower, and plummeting down, down, down to his death.
MATT!"
Matthew had barely lifted his head before he was pulled into Gilbert's embrace. The Alpha's arms wrapped tightly around him, crushing his Omega-mate to his chest. Matthew responded by pressing his face to Gilbert's neck, nestling in the muscular divot of his collarbone, and hugging him equally as tight. Gil. Oh, gods—Gil. On his knees at the peak of the tower, soaked and shivering, Matthew clutched his Alpha-mate as fear and regret and anger receded into unbelievable relief.
"Schatzi."
Gilbert's voice was quiet and close. Matthew felt his lips.
"I've never been so scared in my entire life. I thought I'd lost you," he said, pulling back. "Matt, I—"
Matthew didn't let Gilbert finish. He cupped the back of Gilbert's head and pulled him down into a desperate kiss. It was wet and cold, raindrops sliding over their faces, but Matthew didn't care. His hands slid to Gilbert's neck as he covered the Alpha's mouth with his, pressing their lips chastely together. Gilbert's firm, warm lips tasted a little like blood—so did Matthew's—but he didn't care about that either. All he cared about was his Alpha, who was safe. He was alive. His Alpha-mate, whom he loved more than anything in the world. His Alpha-mate, who kissed him back just as enthusiastically, opening his mouth and making a chaste kiss much less chaste. When they finally parted—both gasping—Gilbert said:
"Wha—?
"Matt, I—I thought..." He blinked. "I thought you didn't want to kiss someone you weren't in love with?"
His red eyes were so big and bright and luminous in the breaking light of dawn. No longer bloodthirsty, they looked soft.
Matthew smiled and took Gilbert's hands, and he simply said: "I didn't."
Gilbert stared at him, soaked and wide-eyed and slack-jawed, and Matthew felt a bubble of laughter swell inside of him.
"I'm in love with you, Gil," he confessed happily. He couldn't seem to stop smiling. "I love you."
Gilbert squeezed his hands. "I love you, too, Matt."
The Alpha kissed him again—once, twice. A bit clumsy, and very wet. They smiled and they laughed, both suddenly a little shaky and shy; both a little overwhelmed. Gilbert's nose brushed Matthew's and Matthew closed his eyes for a brief moment, wanting to forget everything except for Gilbert's touch. Until the Alpha said:
"Is it really true?"
Matthew looked up at him and saw fear and apprehension and hope on Gilbert's flushed face, and he knew exactly what the Alpha was asking.
"Yes," he admitted, "it's true."
"You're... pregnant?"
Matthew nodded.
"With my—?"
Again, Matthew nodded. "Is that okay?" he asked timidly.
He hadn't realized how nervous he was to tell Gilbert the life-changing confession, until Gilbert's face broke into a big, baffled smile.
"Is it—?" He laughed and scooped Matthew into his arms as he stood and spun in celebratory circles. "Yes, it's okay! Of course it's fucking okay! A pup! Our pup!" He kissed Matthew's lips and cheeks and neck; he nuzzled his Omega, hugging him, whispering: "You've just made me the happiest Alpha in the whole fucking world!"
Matthew's laugh was giddy. "Careful, Captain," he teased. Gently, he pushed back the Alpha's drenched hair. It gleamed when lightning struck. "They'll all think you've gone soft."
Gilbert smiled at his Omega-mate, and his voice was tender but serious when he said: "Too late.
"I love you, Matthew."
Matthew blushed.
He looked adoringly up into the Alpha's handsome face, holding him close, and kissed him again. And again, he said wholeheartedly:
"I love you, too, Gilbert."
