His eyelids parted to darkness. It appeared his sleep cycle was back on track. This was good, save for the fact that his nightmares had returned.

He gave a groggy groan as he rubbed his eyes. The dreams had been kept at bay by sheer exhaustion — quite possibly the only positive thing to come out of his punishment. However, yesterday's events had eased his physical expenditure, thus giving the terrors an opening to manifest.

Hans pushed himself out of bed, still wearing his outfit from the previous day. He was assigned to the palace stables today, so he retrieved the bag containing his old suit and boots. Upon opening the sack, he discovered it not only held the articles he sought, but additional clothes as well.

He pulled everything out to examine his new gifts. Clink! Something hit the stone floor and rolled away. He knelt to investigate, his fingers brushing rough rock before finding cool metal. He brought the object into sight and froze, staring at the item in his hand while his mind struggled to comprehend it.

The gold coin was the highest level of currency in the Southern Isles. The profile of Bernard the First was stamped on the surface, with the Isles' emblem on the back. His bafflement lasted a split-second, giving way to shock as his gaze remained fixed on the piece.

There's no way they could afford to give me this. There must have been some sort of mistake.

He flipped the small disk between his fingers as though that would help him make sense of the situation.

No one in their right mind just gives this kind of money to a stranger. One of them must have dropped it in the bag by accident. Or maybe it's a test to see how honest I am.

He clutched the piece in his fist.

Yes, that's far more logical. If I keep it, I show that I'm a thieving scoundrel. If I give it back, I prove that I won't take advantage of innocent blunders.

After swiftly changing into his old attire, he carefully hid the coin alongside his new wardrobe and resolved to return the money as soon as possible. At the moment, however, his presence was required elsewhere.

The Westergaards employed several stable hands, so Hans was always given the most repugnant tasks: mucking stalls, scraping hooves, washing muddy coats, and whatever else the paid men didn't feel like doing. They chose the fun or easy jobs, like exercising or feeding the horses.

Hans had already finished most of the stalls by the time his coworkers arrived. He remained silent as they conversed, oblivious to his presence. A quarter-of-an-hour later, the last of the horses were led outside. The voices and hoofsteps faded, leaving him alone once more.

Normally, he preferred the solitude, but right now he would have appreciated a distraction. So much had happened in the past day-and-a-half that his brain was starting to feel as worn as his body. Then again, his body was currently in a better state than it had been a few days ago, so the comparison of mentality and physicality wasn't quite as profound.

He removed one of his work gloves to massage his forehead, his eyes briefly lingering on the blue lining before tugging his hand free. The gloves were the only new thing he dared to wear. Any outfit other than his shabby royal costume would undoubtedly raise suspicion. However, Natalia had been correct when she'd observed that his old gloves wouldn't last much longer. Hans was counting on his coworkers being as dull-witted as they appeared, chancing that they wouldn't notice the switch from (filthy) white cloth to brown leather. Even if they did, it would be easy enough to explain away.

Hans re-gloved his hand without bringing any relief to his head. The ache was likely because he had shut off his mind nearly a year ago to keep himself sane. With all the recent commotion, he'd been forced to re-engage his surroundings, and everything he'd buried was beginning to bubble to the surface. The ex-prince sighed in disgust as he resumed his work, hoping to cloud out the stream he'd unintentionally un-dammed.

If you had simply kept your mouth closed, you'd be wearing a crown — instead of sweat — on your brow right now. Hans' arms moved faster, ignoring the internal sneering. But no, you just had to take the opportunity to gloat, didn't you? He shook his head, which only worsened the throbbing pain. That was the most critical juncture of your life. After all those years of toil, you were a hair's breadth from achieving your goal... and you threw everything away for a fleeting feeling of triumph. He slammed the rake against the floor, which caused it to bounce out of his hands and clatter across the stall.

Hans pressed his forehead against a wall as the tool slowly lost its momentum and at last lay still. The barn was quiet but the rush between his ears was deafening. You're nothing but a worthless failure. Always have been, always will be. He desperately ransacked his mind for something to fight back against the berating voice, but it was useless. There was no counterargument to be made. There was only well-deserved rebuke. Why do you persist? His chest tightened. Cease this pointless struggle. His breath stopped. Give up. He was about to drown.

I need—

"Hello?"

His body reacted before his mind regained its bearings. He whipped around, grabbed the coat now in his sight, and slammed its wearer into the wall. His fist recoiled before the haze finally broke, the face before him coming into sharp focus.

Damian.

Hans' youngest older brother was wide-eyed and white as a sheet. He remained motionless, his terrified stare transfixed on the ex-prince.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hans relished the fact that, after all the years of living in fear of his brothers, the tables were now turned. However, the notion was fleeting, and common sense prevailed. Dishing out an apropos beating would only bring worse repercussions in addition to being held liable for what he'd already done.

Hans released his brother, backing away but staying defensive. His thoughts flashed to one of the hall closets, which housed an assortment of hunting weapons. He always made certain one pistol was loaded, should he ever need it. He doubted this interaction would require its retrieval, but he'd underestimated his brothers once before. I won't make that mistake again.

"What are you doing here?" he growled, glaring down the interloper.

Damian nervously adjusted his coat, still shaken from his fright. "I was looking for a horse."

Hans rolled his eyes. "They're all out in the corral during the day. They always are, unless the weather's miserable." Anyone with a speck of intelligence knows that.

"Oh, of course," Damian mumbled.

Hans expected his brother to leave, but Damian didn't budge. Instead, he kept fiddling with his coat, as though Hans had forever ruined its perfect placement.

The ex-prince sighed in annoyance. "Are you incapable of finding the corral on your own?"

Damian raised his eyes, but wouldn't fully look at Hans. "No, I just... I haven't ridden in years. I suppose I'm a bit... apprehensive."

"Go find one of the other stable hands," Hans ordered with a wave. "I'm sure they'll be more than happy to assist you with whatever you need."

The twelfth prince nodded, but otherwise remained still. Hans turned, about to walk away, when his brother's voice became audible again.

"Do you wear those clothes every day?"

Hans' head snapped back. He was partly amazed that Damian had noticed, and partly angry that his brother didn't realize the obvious answer.

"A change of clothes is a luxury reserved for human beings," the fallen royal quipped with a shrug.

Damian was not amused. "Prisoners in the city jail receive better treatment."

Hans cocked his head. Was this a trick? Show some empathy (at least, what passed for empathy in his family), then do something awful? Don't read into it. Stay on guard. Go on the offensive.

"What are you doing here, Damian?" Hans repeated. "Why the sudden interest in riding?"

Damian shifted uncomfortably. "I met a woman at a party a few months ago. She said she loved horseback riding, so I told her I did as well. We've been exchanging letters, and she wants to visit soon—"

"So you need to brush up on your skills," Hans finished. He couldn't help his hollow chuckle. "A relationship founded on lies. Now that's the Westergaard way!"

"It was just that one lie," Damian muttered, offended.

Hans raised an eyebrow. "She readily agreed to engage in this amorous congress?"

Damian's expression flickered from confusion to understanding. "Priscilla's parents withdrew her from our engagement last year," he stated matter-of-factly. "They didn't want her marrying into our family after you... uh... well, you know."

"Oh." Hans' response was flat. He had no idea how to react to that information.

"It worked out for the best," Damian mused. "Rosalie's a much nicer woman. If everything goes well, I'll ask her to marry me."

"I'm so glad my misdeeds have enhanced your matrimony prospects." His words dripping with sarcasm, he recovered the rake from its resting place and strode out of the stall.

Between his quest to contain his inner demons and his fury at his obtuse brother, Hans finished his work in record time. A trip to the Hole was (thankfully) not necessary today, so he had the rest of the afternoon to himself. After a quick change into one of his new ensembles (and a snack from his food stash), he slipped away from the palace grounds.

Simply being amongst the populace helped get him outside of his own head. Before yesterday, he could never relax anywhere. He'd always had a target on his back, courtesy of his out-of-place attire. Even alone in his cell, there was always the potential for someone — a guard, a servant, one of his brothers — to show up unannounced and carry out whatever torment they wished.

But here, with his plain clothes and slightly disheveled hair, he blended in. No one cared about him, yet it was different from the familial neglect he'd experienced. Instead of demoralizing, it was freeing. He could do whatever he wanted, so long as he didn't draw attention to himself. His gloves securely stashed in a pocket, he gave a friendly dog a quick scratch behind the ears before continuing on his way. Each step further calmed him, until he reached La Stella Luminosa fully confident that there wouldn't be a repeat of his little episode in the barn.

Bed linens were strung up to dry, swaying in the breeze. No one was on deck, but the main cabin door was open. Hans approached the entryway. "Hello?"

"Lars, is that you?" Mirella's head popped into view, and her lips broke into a grin when her theory was confirmed. "Come in, come in!"

Hans heeded the invitation, only to be assaulted by a measuring tape.

"Ah—!"

"Hm, alright," Mirella muttered to herself, unconcerned with Hans' protest. She shifted the tape from his chest to his waist, and clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"Excuse me—"

"Yes, dear?" Mirella responded without looking up, taking note of his thigh and ankle circumferences.

The knee-jerk reaction would have been to ask what she was doing, but she was clearly measuring him for tailoring purposes. Hans pressed his lips together as Mirella tapped his ankles.

"Stand straight, please."

Hans' royal reflexes complied without hesitation, and the woman quickly obtained his leg length before moving on to his arm.

Hans finally sputtered his complaint. "Don't you think—"

After a few different measurements, Mirella had gone back to his chest, apparently having forgotten to get the length the first time around.

"—you could have—"

She flipped the tape behind his head and adjusted it around his neck.

"—asked me first?"

Satisfied with her number, she finally met Hans' eyes. His cheeks were starting to burn in a mix of bewilderment, discomfort, and embarrassment.

"Sorry, sometimes I get so caught up in what I'm doing that I forget everything else!" the matriarch twittered as she draped the tape over her shoulders. She glided to the table, scribbled something on a scrap of paper, then began chalking measurements on the piece of cloth already spread over the surface. "I was just thinking that I should properly make something for you, and there you were! It was a sign from above."

Hans eyed the plain fabric as Mirella continued marking it. "You've already done more than enough for me. In fact, I came here to thank you for the extra clothes you snuck into my bag."

Mirella waved her hand dismissively with no disruption to her workflow. "Oh, those were nothing. Just some old things of my husband's that I took in a bit for you. It'd be much better to have something tailored to your form."

Why is this family so obsessed with clothing me? Even the most benevolent philanthropist would be satisfied by giving a few spare articles to a beggar. Conversely, Mirella apparently intended to sew him a whole new wardrobe.

"It wasn't 'nothing,'" Hans insisted as he approached the table. "It's the most anyone has ever helped me..." He trailed off before he inadvertently incriminated himself, running his fingers through his hair as he briefly contemplated how to complete the thought. "I'm extremely grateful, but it's not necessary to keep giving me things."

Mirella straightened and put her hands on her hips. "Serving others is what I do. You need clothes, you get clothes. You're hungry, you get food. Et cetera."

"But—"

"That's how it works in this family. Take it or leave it." Mirella hunched over her project once more. "End of discussion."

Hans plucked the gold coin from his pocket and slid it onto the table in front of Mirella. "Clothes and food are one thing; money is something else."

The woman glanced up, then returned to her work-in-progress. "Money buys clothes and food, as well as other needs."

Hans shook his head. "I refuse to accept this."

Mirella heaved a sigh as she picked up the metal piece. Without warning, she grabbed Hans' wrist, stuffed the coin into his palm, and closed his fingers around the object. She grasped his fist with both hands as she looked him in the eye.

"We're not going to be here forever."

Hans knew this, of course, but the way she said it soured his stomach.

Mirella gave his hand a soft squeeze. "Save it for a rainy day."

Hans could only nod. Mirella smiled and went back to her endeavor.

He watched her for a moment before lowering his focus to his still-closed hand.

'I need them here.'

The abrupt completion of his earlier thought startled him. He shoved the coin into his pocket as his brain frantically searched for a distraction.

"Where's everyone else?" he queried nonchalantly.

"Vincenzo and Leone are still at Brogan's," Mirella replied, carefully slicing the fabric with her scissors. "Natalia's taking a nap." She finished her cut and began another. "Poor dear," she murmured. "She wasn't built for this sort of life."

This piqued Hans' curiosity. "What do you mean?"

The mother appeared to be weighing the pros and cons of explaining her words before opening her mouth. "She looks like a healthy girl, but she has no stamina. Unfortunately, it's her nature to feel guilty if she perceives that others are carrying a greater workload, so she pushes herself until she can't even stand upright." Mirella pinned some edges together, then continued. "She does this constantly, too. I don't even know what she did yesterday, but she was asleep before noon. And then she got up and fetched almost an entire barrel of water on her own! I only realized that when you two returned from the well and didn't leave the ship again." The woman rapidly pushed her needle through the fabric. "She seemed tired this morning, so I told her to rest while I cleaned up from breakfast. I go outside a while later, and find she's washed all the sheets!" Mirella sighed and shook her head. "I'm at my wits' end. It's bad enough that she's like that with us, her family who recognizes her habits and curbs them as much as possible. What happens when she has a husband and children to care for? I'm worried she's going to work herself to an early grave."

The mother snapped her head up, seemingly having just remembered that she was speaking to an audience. "I'm sorry, Lars. I didn't mean to bore you with all that."

Hans gave the woman his most forgiving smile. "It's quite alright. After all you've done, the least I can do is be a listening ear."

The sound of a door opening caught both their attentions.

"Go distract her!" Mirella hissed, her hand paused mid-stitch. "She'll want to help if she sees this!"

Hans gave a nod and hastily departed the room. Blinking in the sunshine, he scanned the deck. Natalia was standing by her open door, blankly staring out at the city beyond the pier.

"Good afternoon," Hans greeted as he approached.

The young woman started, unaware of his presence until he spoke. She turned to Hans with a small smile. "Good afternoon," she responded. "Are you staying for supper tonight?"

Hans nodded and returned her smile. "I could never turn down your mother's cooking."

Natalia grinned in agreement. "I should go see if she needs me for anything."

She took a step toward the main cabin, but Hans caught her arm and lightly guided her back into the smaller room.

"Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow one of your books?"

"Oh, of course!" Natalia trotted ahead and opened her chest. "Which one do you want?"

"Hamlet, if you would be so kind." Hans joined Natalia in kneeling by the open box.

She shuffled a few novels aside. Hans spied the blank brown binding he'd previously seen and picked up the volume.

"Oh!" Natalia cried as she attempted to take the book from Hans' hand. "That's not it!"

"I'm aware," Hans replied, grasping the item with his other hand as well. "It's your sketchbook."

Natalia went rigid as her face paled. "You saw that?"

"Yes, last night." He pried the book from her hand and flipped to the first page. Natalia drew a sharp breath. Hans furrowed his brow at her. "What's wrong?"

"I don't let anybody see my sketches."

Hans frowned. "Why not? They're quite good."

"No, they're not." Natalia tried to grab the book from Hans, but he snatched it out of her reach.

"I don't think you're allowed to tell me whether or not I think they're good," he reprimanded as he turned another page. "Art is subjective, after all."

"But there's undeniably — ngh — a difference — erk — between amateur — ugh — and professional!" Three more failed attempts at retrieving her book were peppered throughout her sentence. She stood up to try and gain an advantage, but Hans was faster, standing with his arm raised straight above his head. Even on her tip-toes, Natalia wasn't quite tall enough.

"Ooo, so close," Hans teased as he dangled the book just beyond her fingertips. He grinned at her determination, and how she was trying her hardest to grab the item without touching him. "Almost! Just a little more!"

Her face suddenly contorted as tears welled up in her eyes. Hans felt a pinch in his chest and mentally kicked himself for taking things too far. "No, no, don't cry," he cooed as he held out the sketchbook to her. "Here, I'm sorry."

Natalia sniffled as she clutched the treasured object to her chest, a few escaped droplets making trails down her cheeks. "It's not your fault," she whispered. "I was picked on a lot when I was younger, and... the memory of that... just... I'm sorry." She pulled a handkerchief from her apron and dabbed her face. "I know you weren't being malicious."

Hans shook his head. "Still, it was uncouth and inappropriate behavior on my part." He gently tilted Natalia's chin up and looked into her eyes. "My sincerest apologies. It won't happen again."

Her smile indicated that all was forgiven. He smiled as well, letting his hand and gaze linger longer than he should have. Natalia twitched and pulled away, returning to the open trunk. Hans silently cursed himself as he sat upon the bunk opposite hers. That was too much. Be more careful.

"I understand how you feel, being picked on." He watched her resume her search, though he suspected she was taking her time in order to recover from their awkward moment.

Natalia paused her rearranging efforts. "You do?"

"I'm the youngest child, and my brothers... well, calling it 'bullying' is far too generous. 'Made my life Hell' is more accurate." At Natalia's shocked gasp, he put his fingers to his lips and added, "Pardon my language."

Natalia pulled the Shakespearean volume from the chest, her eyes glued to Hans. "That's horrible."

Hans gave a dismissive shrug as he absentmindedly stared out the open door. "It's what brothers do." Leone's grinning face flashed through his mind. "Well, my brothers, at least." He heard the ruffle of fabric and turned back to see Natalia sitting on the floor near the head of the bed.

"They never stopped their cruelty, did they? The awful things they did growing up, and then they leave you with nothing." Her eyes were moist again.

"At least they don't bother me anymore," he snickered. This only deepened the crease in her forehead.

Sympathy. He averted his line of sight to avoid increasing her anxiety. Knowing that I've suffered upsets her. They'd bonded over books and troubled childhoods. Things were going well.

"Are you injured?"

The inquiry surprised him. "Pardon?"

Natalia's arms tensed around the two books in her grip. "You keep rubbing your side."

He hadn't even noticed the repetitive motion of his right hand against his abdomen. He folded his hands in his lap. "I'm fine." That was one memory, above all others, he never wanted to relive. "Just nerves."

"I'm sorry. I diverted us to an unpleasant subject. Here, read." She offered him a book, her smiling eyes fixed on his in the hopes that this small gesture might bring him some comfort.

Hans didn't break eye contact as he removed the book from her possession. "Thank you." He glanced down, and his smile morphed to a smirk. "So you've acquiesced to my judgment on your talent?"

"What?" Natalia looked down to find Hamlet still in her grasp. "Ah, sorry!" She held out both hands expectantly. "Trade?"

Hans opened his wordless volume. "When I'm done," he retorted coolly. Natalia's angry pout nearly caused him to burst out laughing, but he held it to a snigger as he flipped to another drawing. Natalia lunged for her sketchbook, but Hans merely turned his back to her.

"Hey!" she demanded, her sharp tone astounding him. "You just said this wouldn't happen again!"

Hans pivoted back, his lips curled in a grin. "You're right, Miss Natalia." He snapped the binding shut. "I wouldn't want to gain a reputation as a liar."

The young woman triumphantly exchanged the sketchbook for the play, then scooted farther away as though Hans might go back on his word. He feigned offense at the action.

"You wound me, mademoiselle," he moaned with his hand over his heart. This elicited giggles from his companion. Hans chuckled before taking on a more serious air. "I meant what I said about your artwork. You're even better than most of the vendors at the festival!"

Natalia tilted her head in confusion. "Festival?"

"There's an annual festival that celebrates the country's founding," Hans explained. "It's in a couple of weeks, actually." He recalled the few adolescent years he'd snuck away from the royal ball to mingle with the commoners. "There's always a plethora of booths at the marketplace — games, food, books, crafts, art, you name it. Some of those things are of... questionable quality, however. You're leagues above those talentless hacks."

"I'm certain they're not talentless," Natalia objected, suppressing a smile. "But, thank you. You're too kind." Her red cheeks only enhanced the glow she was hiding.

The ex-prince internally congratulated himself as he replied, "You're too modest." Admittedly, she wasn't even modest; she was self-deprecating. One tiny little compliment and she was beaming as though she'd just been handed the world on a silver platter. Why is this so foreign to her? Surely her family would lavish praise on her if she presented them with the results of her skill.

Hans slid gracefully from the bed to the floor. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course, anything!" Natalia answered.

"Why don't you show your work to your parents, or Leone?" He recognized that she was too shy to share her drawings with strangers, but her relatives should be a different story.

Natalia's face fell and she thumbed the edge of her sketchbook. "They're my family. They say everything I draw is great, even if it's not."

"Hm." Hans rested his head against the mattress and gazed at the ceiling. "I can see how that would appear insincere." He closed his eyes. "Still, it's better than being told everything you do is a pointless waste of time... that you're a worthless waste of space."

The touch on his right shoulder was so light that he thought he'd imagined it. He rolled his neck to see Natalia, who caught his eye with a pointed stare.

"You are not worthless." Her voice was soft but clear. "Every person has value as an image-bearer of God. Each individual is a unique creation that He loves very much. Even if you don't believe that, just know that you're important to us."

Hans gently grasped her hand with his left, but only for a second before he released it. He held his breath as she immediately stood and retreated to the other side of the cabin. Switching her sketchbook for Oliver Twist, she returned to her spot on the floor. She'd left a gap between the two, but Hans could easily reach out and touch her. He observed her peripherally as she began to read, then refocused his vision on his own tome. He buried his nose between the pages to hide the smug grin creeping across his face.

Excellent.