Hans was well into his morning routine as the sun started to peek over the horizon. He had already finished cleaning the unoccupied stalls, and was almost done scraping the horses' hooves. Only one horse remained, and then he would be out of the barn before the other stable hands arrived.
"Good morning," Hans greeted the inhabitant of the last stall.
The stallion eyed Hans hopefully.
"Sorry, Vanddråbe, Frederich isn't home yet."
The equine gave an annoyed snort.
"Yes, yes, I know," Hans murmured soothingly as he knelt down. The animal had been grumpy ever since his master had gone out to sea. Prince number six of thirteen, Frederich was a commodore in the Royal Navy. The title was gifted rather than earned, and the only time Frederich set foot on a ship was when a fleet was headed somewhere interesting.
Although anywhere would be better than here.
Hans released a slight sigh. None of his relatives inspired pleasant thoughts, but Frederich had cemented his place as one of the worst when he orchestrated Hans' release from the navy.
The thirteenth prince had quickly risen in rank, achieving the distinction of captain. A few months before his fourth anniversary, he'd received another excellent review from his superior. Commodore Thulin admitted he wouldn't be surprised if the young man was promoted to rear admiral "very soon."
If that had happened, the baby of the family would have "beaten" one of his elder brothers. Though it had long been permissible for a younger brother to out-rank an older one, Frederich's ego would never allow such a thing.
Hans' fifth year had just begun when he was summoned home at the king's bidding. The prince was suspicious of the abrupt request, but couldn't refuse.
His father's words still echoed in his ears. "With the recent passing of Arendelle's monarchs, the Southern Isles will be hosting many of our royal brethren as they travel to and from our neighbor to pay their respects. This is an excellent opportunity for us to impress our allies, and for my unmarried sons to foster new relationships that will benefit our kingdom."
He hadn't been home more than a week when he received the letter.
"To His Royal Highness, Prince Hans Westergaard,
Due to the imperative nature of your absence, you have been granted an indefinite leave. You may return to your post as Captain whenever Prince Frederich receives word from His Majesty. I know you will continue to serve your family and country through this new endeavor. May Providence watch over you.
I have the honor to remain, Sir, Your Highness's most humble and obedient subject,
Commodore Aleksander Thulin"
The ex-prince knew his family well enough to deduce what happened. Frederich had asked about Hans' assessment, hoping for it to be negative. Instead, it was stellar with a recommendation for advancement, so Frederich looked for an opportunity to sabotage Hans' career. He found it with the news of King Agnarr's and Queen Iduna's demise, and planted in their father's head the idea of the younger princes "entertaining" the influx of guests. Hans couldn't return to active duty without his father's consent, which of course was never given — Frederich made certain of that.
Hans stood and noticed a burr clinging to Vanddråbe's coat. He carefully removed it, then saw another... and another... Hans laughed as he realized the sticky balls were everywhere.
"I see you got into some trouble yesterday." His observation rang with amusement as he began to extract another barb. It was a mindless task, and his thoughts drifted back to his recollections.
He'd returned shortly before his twentieth birthday, and had just turned twenty-two when the Westergaards received the invitation to Elsa's coronation. Despite the date being more than a year in the future, each of Hans' twelve older brothers declined to attend, so King Lauris ordered his youngest son to be the Southern Isles' representative at the event. There was no choice. Of course, Hans would have decided to go even if he had the option to abstain. Becoming a king had been his original goal, and he knew he might never have another opportunity to make something of himself. As a thirteenth prince with no further military prospects, the probability of marrying a princess, let alone a queen, was once-in-a-lifetime.
Hans paused with a single burr left. It had been so long since he'd thought about the past that he only now made the connection. A dark chuckle escaped his lips.
Is all my misfortune somehow tied to Arendelle?
The rap of knuckles on wood startled him, and he shot a glare in the direction of the sound. Damian stood outside the stall door.
Hans turned his attention to the burr once again. "Are these interruptions going to be a daily habit?"
"You're the only one here," Damian explained, "and I wanted to make sure I got a different horse today."
Hans tucked the last burr into his left palm. "Why?"
"I found yesterday's mount to be... uncooperative."
"Which horse did you ride?" Hans queried.
"This one," Damian answered with a nod toward the stallion.
The indicted equine gave a low neigh. Hans snickered. "Vanddråbe doesn't like anyone except Frederich riding him."
"So I gathered," Damian replied, "hence my desire for another steed."
"Every animal is available right now, so go take your pick." Hans pocketed his tools and stepped toward the door.
Damian blocked the latch. "Actually, I was hoping I could ride your horse."
Hans froze. "Sitron?" The name caught in his throat and came out as a whisper.
Damian nodded, oblivious to the inflection. "I presume he's well-trained, and you'd be able to tell what's wrong with my form—"
"Sitron's not here," Hans interrupted bitterly. "I don't know where he is or what's happened to him."
"I-I see."
"And even if Sitron was here," Hans added, anger rising in his voice, "I'd never let you ride him."
"Oh," Damian mumbled. "I thought, um, maybe we could, you know, work together." Hans' skeptical brows caused the elder brother to shift his weight nervously. "You help me with my riding, I get you things..."
So that was the reason.
"I neither require your services nor desire to assist you," Hans sneered, pushing the other man back in order to access the lock.
Damian grabbed his younger brother's sleeve. "Please, Hans, I'm desperate—"
"You don't know the meaning of that word." Hans ripped his arm away and unlatched the door.
Damian inhaled sharply but didn't budge. "You're right."
Hans narrowed his eyes. The left side of his torso began to throb, though he knew it was due to ire rather than physical pain. "I don't know what game you're playing, but you're damn lucky I'm even tolerating your presence after what you and Derrick did to me." If his brothers were to be ranked on how atrociously they'd treated the thirteenth prince, Derrick and Damian outstripped Frederich by hundreds of nautical miles. "Don't try my patience," the former royal finished with a snarl.
Damian visibly deflated and moved aside. Hans stalked past him and headed for the exit.
"I'm sorry."
The ex-prince stopped dead in his tracks, looking over his shoulder with bewilderment. "What did you just say?"
"I'm sorry," Damian repeated, looking at the floor.
Hans doubled back, halting a few paces in front of Damian. "Do you truly believe mere words can make up for your heinous acts?" the younger Westergaard hissed.
"N-no," Damian conceded. He took a deep breath and finally raised his eyes. "You have every right to hate me. But I'm not the same man, and I... I suppose I'm hoping you can see that."
What?
Hans stood there for a moment, studying his youngest older brother. This whole stunt was due to Damian wanting to impress the lady he fancied. Otherwise, he would have never come down to the stable, much less apologized for the past.
Still, he had done it. Perhaps I can use this after all.
"Let me make this clear," Hans began. "I don't trust you. If I take the role of instructor, it's because I expect you to uphold your end of this bargain, not due to 'brotherly love' or any such nonsense."
"Right."
"And should I discover that this is a plot to further incriminate, denigrate, or humiliate me, my past will be nothing compared to the suffering I will inflict upon you."
Damian gulped at the threat, but nodded decisively. "Understood." He extended his right hand. "We have a deal, then? Riding lessons for clothes and other basic items."
Hans crossed his arms. "Clothing won't do me any good after I've been wearing the same thing for a year. Someone will start asking questions."
"O-oh." Damian's shoulder dropped. "I didn't think of that."
Hans scoffed. "Obviously." Damian had never been particularly sharp. The cunning forethought of their ancestors had skipped him (along with several of their older brothers).
"You can use the undergarments, though, right?" Damian ventured. "And surely no one will notice if you wear a different shirt and vest under your coat. Everything else you could wear in your cell when no one's around. I can get you some night clothes as well."
Now that Hans knew the "gifts" weren't a trap, he could think of a few occasions they might come in handy. He wasn't about to affirm the twelfth prince's probing guesses, though. "I suppose that might work," he wavered, "but there's only so many clothes one can keep in a tiny cell."
"What about books?" Damian suggested. "I could get you a few from the library, then switch them out when you're done reading them."
"I hardly have a spare moment," Hans lied. "My life consists of work and sleep."
Damian fidgeted frantically at his dwindling alternatives. "Alright, but you must need the ointment—"
Hans flinched as he cut his brother off. "What makes you think so?"
Damian's eyes widened, and he focused on twisting his shirt cuff. "The doctor said you'd have to use it for the rest of your life, right?" he muttered.
"How did you know that?" Hans growled.
Damian shrank back. "I... overheard... one of your follow-up examinations..."
The burrs would have punctured Hans' skin by now if it weren't for his leather gloves. "You had a lot of gall leaving that in my cell, considering you're part of the reason I depend upon it in the first place."
"I just... I just tried to grab anything I thought you'd find useful," his brother whispered.
Damian's meek susurration gave Hans pause. The second-to-youngest Westergaard was one of the few of their kin who tended to be more transparent than deceptive. Years ago, that merely meant his maliciousness was more conspicuous than their other brothers. But now...
"Fine," Hans acquiesced.
"Fine?" Damian repeated, his tone a mix of confusion and optimism. "So we have an agreement?"
Hans gave a curt nod. "Yes," he confirmed.
Damian's countenance brightened. "Excellent! So when's my first lesson?"
"Right now." With that, Hans vigorously ruffled Damian's hair with his left hand, leaving the mass of burrs thoroughly entangled.
"Hey! Ow! Hans!" Damian's squeaking protests fell on deaf ears.
Hans stepped back, admiring his handiwork with a smirk. "Lesson one: Don't expect me to go easy on you."
Damian winced as he gingerly tugged on a spiky pod. "Dare I ask what lesson two entails?"
"You'll just have to wait and see." The ex-royal strode toward the stable door, smug satisfaction evident in his demeanor.
This could be fun after all.
"Lars!"
Hans turned at the voice he instantly recognized as Leone's. The brunette grinned and waved as he trotted over to the redhead.
"Were you headed for the ship?" Leone asked as he fell in step alongside Hans.
Hans answered with a single nod. "You?"
"Yeah, but I have to stop somewhere first. Pappa sent me home for the day, but I need to pick up paper and ink so we can bring them to Brogan's tomorrow."
Hans scanned the storefronts. "The stationary shop should be somewhere nearby, right?"
Leone's unruly hair bounced up and down as he nodded exuberantly. "Yep! Follow me!" Without waiting for affirmation, he took off, darting between clusters of people.
"Leone!" Hans called as he pursued the boisterous foreigner. He barely kept sight of the man's brown curls as he weaved through the human maze.
The pair arrived at the boutique in minutes.
"I win!" Leone announced as Hans approached the entryway.
Hans rolled his eyes. "We weren't racing. You told me to follow you."
Leone's grin only widened. "Oh, right!" he acknowledged before ducking inside.
Hans couldn't help but chuckle as he trailed after his companion.
The clerk at the counter looked up with a friendly smile as the two entered, then addressed Leone. "How may I assist you, Mister...?" He trailed off expectantly.
"Just 'Leone' is fine, my good sir!" Leone snatched the man's hand in a firm shake. "I need to charge some paper and ink to Brogan Connolloy's account."
"Let me check my books." The shopkeeper nimbly withdrew his limb, then opened a ledger produced from a drawer. "Ah, yes, your name is listed. I'll get the supplies from the storeroom." He disappeared through a curtained doorway.
Leone glanced over his shoulder as though he expected "Lars" to be right behind him. Instead, only the top of his auburn-haired head was visible, the rest of the man hidden behind a rack of merchandise.
Despite Hans always changing into plain clothes before setting foot in public, he was constantly concerned he might be recognized. Consequently, he took precautions against drawing attention to himself. He had stayed back as Leone engaged the clerk, pretending to be looking over the products on a (conveniently face-obscuring) shelf.
"Find anything interesting?" Leone inquired as he popped around the corner.
"Not particularly," Hans replied with a shrug.
Leone's focus zipped over the commodities before raising his eyebrows at Hans. "Are you planning on buying a specific gift for a certain young lady?"
Hans' brow knit in puzzlement before his brain comprehended the insinuation. He hadn't actually studied the objects in front of him, and now realized the items were various sketchbooks and journals.
Damn it. If he said "No," it might seem that he had no interest in Natalia, which worked against the "get her to fall in love" plan (especially if Leone blabbed about this incident to her). If he said "Yes," he ran the risk of appearing as though he had already fallen in love with Natalia, which would cause concern and hinder his strategy. However, Natalia had given him a gift, so he could say he simply intended to return the favor. But the only money he had to his name was what this family had given him, and he shuddered to imagine Mirella's reaction should she ever discover he had used that money on her daughter.
He sensed a physical presence at his side, and shifted his gaze to see Leone's face creeping ever closer.
"Stop that," Hans scolded.
"You haven't answered me," Leone chimed in a sing-song voice.
"I was deliberating the merits of such an act." Technically true.
Leone pouted, but didn't have time to retort, as the shopkeeper finally returned.
"My apologies," the man huffed as he set a parcel on the counter. "My wife has been 'organizing' the storeroom again."
Leone giggled. "Not a problem," he assured the clerk as he retrieved the package. "Thank you, and have a good day!"
The two young men left the building and resumed their journey to the harbor.
"Are you one-hundred-percent positive you didn't need to deliver that tonight?" Hans felt compelled to check his easily-distracted friend's memory.
"Absolutely. Brogan doesn't need them right away," Leone verified. "You know, you should come with Pappa and I to meet him sometime. I know he'd hire you."
Hans internally debated the idea. "His last name was Connolloy, right? Is he Irish?"
"Yes, but his wife was born in the Southern Isles," Leone explained. "Don't ask me where," he added as Hans opened his mouth.
Hans laughed. "I was merely curious as to how long they've lived here."
Leone shrugged. "Not sure. A few years, maybe?"
"Interesting," Hans mused, "and what line of business is he in, exactly?"
"Imports and exports — mostly food, but he's looking into other goods with the expansion he and Pappa are planning..."
Leone continued to expound on the subject, but Hans was now only half-listening. With the Connolloys being so new to the Isles, the probability of them recognizing "Lars" as the disgraced thirteenth prince was small. If Brogan would employ him for afternoon work, the ex-royal could actually keep the fruits of his labor.
Speaking of fruit... Somehow, Leone's discussion topic had become exotic produce. Hans shook his head in response to a question he didn't quite catch, and his conversation partner began to detail the best process for eating a pomegranate.
I wonder if he talks this much when he's with his father at the Connolloys' house. Hans bit back a snicker.
At that moment, a realization struck him. I don't know Leone's last name.
Hans almost posed the query to the foreigner, but stopped himself. If I ask, the question will naturally be returned to me. I could give another fake name, but that might make things worse. Instead of strengthening my cover, it may unravel my falsehood should they investigate the legitimacy of my claims.
Plus, Vincenzo and Mirella had introduced themselves with their first names, so they clearly expected to be addressed that way instead of "Mister" and "Missis." All things considered, it was best to leave the name situation as it currently stood.
The pair reached La Stella Luminosa and climbed the gangplank, only to descend through the hatchway.
"You're not putting that in the master cabin?" Hans questioned as he followed Leone down the staircase.
"There's not much storage room up there. I don't want anything to get damaged." The foreigner stopped in front of some chests secured near the bow. He unlatched one and placed the package inside.
Hans couldn't help but peek over Leone's shoulder at the contents of the trunk. Most items were wrapped or boxed — for protection and tidiness, he surmised — but a glint of gold in the back-left corner caught his eye.
"Is that a hilt?" he asked, craning his neck for a better view.
"Hm?" Leone glanced at Hans, then swiveled forward again as he traced his friend's line of sight. "Oh, yeah. Help yourself."
Hans withdrew the item and found it was a sheathed dagger. The blade was fingertip-to-wrist in length, and the handle matched the measure of his palm. The crossguard was just large enough to protect a closed fist. The weapon had a simple but sharp design, with the shaft of the hilt wrapped in black leather that contrasted the gold metal.
The former prince's eyes snapped up at the THUMP of the closing lid. "I still have the dagger," he reminded Leone.
The young man flashed a smile. "I said 'help yourself.'"
"I can't keep this," Hans protested, holding the object out horizontally in both hands.
Leone's smile strained slightly as he gently pushed the weapon back to Hans. "Yes, you can. It was mine, and I obviously don't use it, so now it's yours."
Hans hesitated, looking down at the item and up at his friend.
"You need it," Leone insisted. "I may not be with you the next time you run into that gang, or anyone else who wants to hurt you."
Hans clenched the dagger as he acquiesced to Leone's urging. He pulled the gift parallel to his chest. "Alright. Thank you."
Author's Notes:
1) "Vanddråbe" is Danish for "water drop." I know it's kind of a silly name, but Hans has Sitron (Norwegian for "lemon"), so I decided simple yet strange horse names are a family quirk.
2) Based on some limited historical research and some author's literary license, here are the ranks I am using for the Southern Isles' Royal Navy (from highest to lowest, excluding specialty ranks/roles [i.e.: carpenter, purser, etc.]):
Grand Admiral
Fleet Admiral (usually shortened to just "Admiral")
Vice-Admiral
Rear Admiral
Commodore
Captain
Commander
Lieutenant Commander
Lieutenant
Acting Lieutenant
Midshipman
Standing Officer
Petty Officer
Quartermaster
Corporal
Able Seaman
Ordinary Seaman
Landsman
Back in Chapter 3, we learned that "[Hans] had taken every opportunity to leave the wretched islands, including a four-year tour with the naval forces that began shortly before he turned sixteen." With this information plus the new info from this chapter, you can get a sense of Hans' naval career. However, for trivia purposes and for my own reference, here is a more specific timeline:
- Age 15 (early May): Entered the Royal Navy as a Midshipman [Sons of aristocratic families enter the navy at this higher rank, rather than work their way up from the very bottom.]
- Birthday (June 15th): Turned 16
- Age 16 (December): Made Acting Lieutenant
- Age 16 (late April): Annual review
- Age 16 (early May): One year anniversary, second year begins
- Birthday (June 15th): Turned 17
- Age 17 (late June): Passed an exam to become a Lieutenant [The average age for taking and passing this exam is 19.]
- Age 17 (early April): Annual review, promoted to Lieutenant Commander
- Age 17 (early May): Two year anniversary, third year begins
- Birthday (June 15th): Turned 18
- Age 18 (early March): Annual review, promoted to Commander
- Age 18 (early May): Three year anniversary, fourth year begins
- Birthday (June 15th): Turned 19
- Age 19 (September): Promoted to Captain
- Age 19 (early February): Annual review from Commodore Thulin, recommended for promotion to Commodore with training to become a Rear Admiral
- Age 19 (early May): Four year anniversary, fifth year begins
- Age 19 (mid May): Received summons home
- Age 19 (late May): Returned home
- Age 19 (early June): Received letter from Commodore Thulin
- Birthday (June 15th): Turned 20
3) In 1840, "boutique" was just another word for "small shop" [from the Online Etymology Dictionary: "boutique (n.): 'fashion shop,' 1953, earlier 'small shop of any sort' (1767)"].