CHAPTER CONTENT WARNINGS
- death [referenced past event]
- attempted murder
- violence
- implied nudity [changing]
- trauma [vaguely referenced past event]

Hans sat at his rickety table, thumbing a corner of Leone's Bible (or, rather, his Bible). He hadn't touched it since bringing it home, though he was considering reading it tonight. Mostly due to boredom, but also because others' assumptions that he studied Scripture would be a positive asset.

Not that I frequently entertain company. As far as Hans knew, Damian hadn't visited the dungeon since the night he left his "gifts." The only human the ex-prince ever saw was Lieutenant Gunst, who was unusually tardy this evening.

The former royal flipped the pages until he reached the first chapter of Genesis. Might as well start from the beginning. Still, he delayed, staring absent-mindedly at the small print.

His stomach rumbled. One of the downsides to keeping his distance from Natalia was missing Mirella's food. He had some provisions stashed in a basket, but it wasn't the same as a hot meal. The food delivered from the kitchen was neither hot nor a meal, and usually left in his cell while he was out performing his labor. Every so often, the castle staff forgot about him entirely, and he'd get nothing. Today was one of those days, as he'd returned to an empty table. Thanks to his benefactors, though, he hadn't gone hungry in weeks. As soon as Jesper leaves, I'll eat something from my stockpile.

His ears prickled at the sound of boots on the staircase. Hans furrowed his brow as the person continued their descent. The footsteps sounded heavier than Lieutenant Gunst's tread. This is someone else. He sprang to his feet and closed his cell door. It wouldn't lock without a key, but at least it appeared secure. He'd barely seated himself on his bed when the castle-side dungeon entrance opened.

Hans couldn't mask his surprise. "Captain Sorensen."

"Good evening, Prince Hans," the burly man replied pleasantly. He craned his neck, observing the hall. "Where's Lieutenant Gunst? This is his night in the rotation."

"He suddenly became ill and dashed outside," Hans lied.

Captain Sorensen frowned. "That's the fourth one this week," he muttered to himself before returning his eyes to Hans. "I'll send a replacement when I go back upstairs."

Hans nodded. The captain was clearly oblivious to the fact that the ex-prince hadn't been guarded in months. If this is Gunst's weekly night shift, that explains why only he delivers my assignments. Still, that didn't explain why he hadn't shown up tonight. Perhaps he truly is ill.

A light clang! caught Hans' attention. He turned his head to see a tray sticking partway through the grated metal that comprised the hallway-facing wall of his cell. "What's this?"

"Your supper," Captain Sorensen answered.

Hans took the tray, examining the contents as he set it on the table. A tin cup of water was nestled in the corner. The centered plate held a gravy-covered meat, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Two slices of bread, a napkin, and silverware completed the ensemble.

Hans gave the captain a puzzled glance. "Are you certain this is mine?"

"Yes," the captain responded with a nod.

Hans cast a suspicious eye on the table. "Is it poisoned?"

"I'd hope not, since the kitchen staff thought it was for me!" Captain Sorensen exclaimed.

This only deepened Hans' confusion. The captain smiled.

"I went up to the kitchen to ask for dinner," he explained, "and while I was waiting, I saw a tray on a side table. It had bread, carrots, and an apple on it. None of it seemed edible, so I asked one of the cooks if he wanted me to throw it out. He said, 'No, that's for your prisoner. The maids and servants have been too busy to deliver it.' I took my tray and told them I'd take yours as well."

"So this is your dinner?!" Hans motioned to the tray, disbelief evident in his tone.

"It's yours now," the captain declared.

"Why?" Hans demanded.

"Well, I'm pretty sure that apple had a worm in it—"

"No, why?" Hans repeated. "Why are you being... nice?"

Captain Sorensen smiled. "I ran into an old acquaintance recently. He saved my career back when I was a private. Meeting him again reminded me that the reason I'd worked so hard to become captain was so I could help others the way he helped me. That's why I'm here tonight. I realized I needed to reconnect with my men, so I'm going to start working some later shifts, both here and at the city office." He pointed to the tray. "Your food was a happy accident. Although, if what I threw out is what they always give you, I'm highly concerned."

Hans shrugged. "Someone was simply lazy today." Not wise to have Captain Sorensen draw attention to me by making a fuss over my food. He sat at the table and picked up the fork and knife. Better change the subject. "May I ask, though, exactly how this acquaintance saved your career?"

"Of course," the captain replied. "It was after Queen Adela had been laid to rest..."

Hans flinched.

"I'm sorry," Captain Sorensen apologized.

Hans waved him off. "It's fine. Continue."

"Well, all sorts of nobility were staying at the castle. The staff was rather overwhelmed, between the guests and your family and the funeral details. Many of us privates were assigned tasks outside the scope of our normal duties. I was to oversee luggage transportation." The captain tapped his chin as he recalled the events. "Unfortunately, I got some things mixed up, and a load was sent to the wrong ship. No one realized it until the vessel had already departed. Needless to say, the owner of those possessions was not pleased." Captain Sorensen cringed at the memory. "From the way he lit into me, I presumed he was royalty, though to this day I'm not certain. Either way, he went up one side of me and down the other. Called me every name in the book, went on and on about how the contents of those chests were worth more than what I'd make in a lifetime, said he'd make sure I never worked in the Southern Isles again, et cetera."

"A few names come to mind," Hans mused as he prepared another forkful of food.

Captain Sorensen chuckled. "Well, after what seemed like an eternity, a young man burst into the room with a roar of, 'That's enough!' He pulled some items from his pocket as he walked to a desk, and asked the enraged fellow, 'What was the total value of the lost cargo?' The owner gave a ridiculous number in an unfamiliar foreign currency, but the young man didn't hesitate. He scribbled something on a paper, then stamped a seal on it and handed it to the angry man. I realized it was some sort of promissory note. The owner grumbled, 'You're lucky,' before storming out of the room."

"Wow," Hans murmured.

"'Wow' indeed," the captain agreed. "I thanked the kind stranger profusely, but he only gave a simple, 'You're welcome,' before hurrying away. I later discovered he was a king himself! I hadn't seen him since, until a few days ago. I suppose Providence thought I needed a humbling reminder of my past."

Hans didn't have the opportunity to inquire further. A rapid scrambling noise on the stone steps alerted both men to a second visitor.

"Captain Sorensen!" the man shouted breathlessly as he threw open the wooden door. "I can't believe you've been down here this whole time! I've been searching everywhere for you!"

"You make everything sound so dire, Ryberg," the captain scolded.

Hans suppressed a chuckle. First Lieutenant Ryberg was second-in-command of the Royal Guard. Hans hadn't interacted much with him as a royal (and not at all as a convict), but the man gave the impression of an overzealous, apprehensive boot-licker.

"I'm unable to fill all the gaps in the schedule, sir," the lieutenant complained.

"I'll take a look," Captain Sorensen sighed. He turned to the cell. "Have a good night, Prince Hans."

"You as well," Hans responded, "and thank you."

With no known schedule for the week, the only thing Hans could do was finish his daily chores at the palace stables. His chest ached as it had yesterday, but now he felt lightheaded and fatigued as well. He recalled Captain Sorensen's comment about the sick guards, and noticed there were fewer stable hands around than usual.

Wonderful. That's exactly what I need to add to this mess. With any luck, he'd make it back from the Hole with enough time to get some extra sleep.

He hitched one of the royal work horses to the full cart, then tied the reins to a post. After returning to his cell for a swift change of wardrobe, he retraced the roundabout route that kept him as hidden as possible. Retrieving the equine, he headed for the nearby side gate. It was unguarded, as it often was, due to the budget cuts he'd overheard the sentries discussing several months ago. Wilhelm, as the second-oldest prince, was in charge of managing expenses, and one of his cost-saving measures was to leave some of the lesser-used side gates understaffed. This particular gate was of lowest priority to the Royal Guards, since it was impossible to breech from the outside. The framed iron bars opened to a cliff-side path that snaked down the steep hillside and ended at a high-walled, one-way gate inside the fertilizer station.

With the full cart switched for the empty one, Hans tethered the horse to a post near the locked gate and began to make his way home. Besides the one-way road from the castle, the only exit (and entrance) to the fertilizer depot was the Hole, and the only passage to and from the city was on the opposite side of the slum due to the area's encirclement by steep bluffs. Heavy rain guaranteed flooding, the worst of it in the parts that dipped below sea level. The unfavorable terrain made the section undesirable from the first settlers, thus only the poorest or most reprehensible denizens lived between the cliffs.

Given that, it was a wonder none of the crown's property had ever been stolen. Then again, I wouldn't know. While he himself had never been robbed of steed or wagon, it could have happened before. In such a case, punishment would have been swift and harsh to serve as a warning to others. That's the Westergaard way, after all. Of course, the station wasn't exactly a prime target, and a work horse and manure-coated cart were hardly valuable prizes. Still, he usually made the effort to retrieve the transport unit as soon as possible. While he was still under guard, his sentry would wait inside the lower gate to re-open it for the return trip (for their own convenience, not his). However, once he was no longer escorted, he'd been left to manage the journey alone. He'd considered propping the door ajar, but he couldn't chance an intruder sneaking in while he was preoccupied (since he would be the first one suspected if something were to be amiss on the castle grounds). Scaling the protective barriers had been but a fleeting deliberation, as everything was spiked for that precise reason. He knew from experience that maneuvering the putrid caravan through the city made him an even more obvious target, hence his determination for a safer alternative. He'd finally opted to leave both horse and cart in the station, at a spot within an arm's reach from the heavy door. While that had its own drawbacks, he mitigated them by rotating horses, using unmarked tack, and ensuring his visits were during shift changes. His recent wardrobe additions had cemented his ability to slip in and out unnoticed, which was certainly a boon.

Hans massaged his temples. His head was starting to throb and the rutted road blurred before him. Now this too? Every new symptom increased the likelihood that he had the same illness as the absent sentries and stable hands. That's just how my life goes. He debated returning to the dungeon or stopping at La Stella Luminosa. The ship was docked in the section closest to the Hole (the sub-optimal location resulted in the lowest rent, though frequent and unpredictable police and guard patrols kept the harbor safe). He would be well cared for should he pay his benefactors a visit. However, if he worsened and became bedridden, someone might notice he wasn't at the royal stables tomorrow. Then they would check his cell, and if he wasn't there, it would be assumed he'd escaped. I'd best go back.

"Why, if it isn't Prince Hans."

The voice behind him sounded vaguely familiar, but the ex-royal kept walking.

"Ignoring me, are you?"

Two men appeared from the shadows to block his path.

Oh no.

He glanced over his shoulder to see four figures. The one standing at the forefront of the group spoke again.

"Looks like your friend's not here today." He cracked his knuckles.

Hans rolled his eyes. "Have you nothing better to do than assault citizens for no reason?" He returned his focus to the pair before him. He had his dagger, but against such odds it would have to be a last resort. Running to the harbor was a much safer and surer bet; he just had to wait for the right opening.

"A man's gotta make a living," the gang leader answered with shrug.

"I'm not sorry to say you've picked the wrong target," Hans informed them. "Not only am I no longer a prince, but I have nothing of value."

"But you're valuable," one of the members piped up.

"The more you break, the more we make!" another added.

"Shut it," the leader growled.

You've got to be kidding me. Who on Earth would be paying them to hurt—

The third one laughed at Hans' confusion. "Your brothers must really hate you!"

Derrick.

Hans darted forward, aiming for the gap between the duo. As predicted, they closed it and attempted to surround him. He swerved right, skirting past his enemies.

"Get 'im!" the Boss shouted, though they'd already begun their pursuit.

In the afternoon light, Hans wouldn't blunder as he had during their previous encounter. If I can make it to the wharf, I'll be safe. The gang wouldn't pick a fight where there were honorable citizens to witness it.

His legs started to falter. His head was pounding.

Just a bit farther.

The dirt beneath his feet transitioned to stone.

Three more steps...

He stumbled as he lost consciousness.

Natalia tapped the side of her pencil against the blank page. She had needed a new sketchbook, and she was grateful to have received two (along with everything else from Pierre). Yet she couldn't bring herself to make a single mark in either one.

She sighed and set her utensils next to her. Her mother had said it would be rude to refuse the gifts, despite the exorbitant quantity and assortment. However, if she turned Pierre down, she wouldn't feel right keeping the items specifically designated to her.

It's odd that he knew, though. She had specifically refrained from mentioning her artistic interests, yet she had received art supplies. Perhaps he asked someone? Leone definitely wouldn't have offered up any information; their mother, on the other hand, would have gleefully divulged the perfect present for her daughter. But she was just as surprised at the delivery as the rest of us. Of course, pencils and bound plain paper were suitable for a myriad of other things: memoirs, bookkeeping, informal letters, and so on. Plus, she had mentioned reading as one of her pastimes, so perhaps Pierre had assumed she enjoyed writing as well. That's a bit of leap, though, especially for him. She felt guilty at the thought, but Pierre simply didn't seem particularly adept at making those sorts of connections. Lars, on the other hand... She flipped her pencil back-and-forth between her fingers. He's been so supportive of me seeing Pierre. Maybe he was worried about how unenthusiastic I've been and suggested a sketchbook as a present.

The young woman leaned back, resting against the exterior wall of the master cabin as she pictured Pierre's proposal (if one could even call it that) for the hundredth time. She hadn't breathed a word about it to a single soul. Her family would be able to tell she was hesitant, and would be against it solely because she was unsure. If they discovered the reason behind the proposal, they would absolutely forbid the marriage. They would never let me marry someone I didn't love.

They'd be right, of course — she should marry for love, not money. But they wouldn't worry about my health if they knew I was taken care of. Besides, I'm not in love with anyone...

A face appeared in her mind's eye.

... I think...

She groaned. I need to discuss everything with with Lars.

"Would ya quit dragging and get a move on?" a gruff voice barked from the pier.

"Shut up," another man hissed.

Natalia peeked over the staircase. Four men were carrying something while two others stood off to the side. The duo appeared to be watching for something, though one was being far less subtle about it. A few of the men seemed very apprehensive.

What's going on?

The quartet grew closer to the dock. Natalia strained for a better view. One of the pair walking backwards misstepped and dropped his corner of the load.

"Watch it!" one of the men growled.

"Yeah, yeah," the responsible party grumbled as he pulled on a limp arm.

It's a body!

"Can't we just dump him here?" a different man whispered.

"The Boss said to put 'im under the end of the dock," another replied.

"Damn. Why'd he have to be such a wuss? I wanted to have a little fun before we were done with him."

They're dumping a dead body! She clasped her hands over her mouth and ducked out of sight. What do I do? Lord, what do I do?

Her breath was hot inside her shaking hands. Calm down. Think this through. Confronting them directly was out of the question, as she was the sole person on board. Mamma had run to the market for a missing ingredient, and Pappa and Leone were still at Mr. Connolloy's. Even if she could figure out how to signal for help, there wasn't anyone else docked near this end of the harbor.

There must be something I can do. Her eyes fell on her sketchbook. I can memorize their faces and draw them for the police. She poked her head above the stairs again.

A moan rose from amongst the group.

"Hurry," someone ordered. "We don't get the bonus if he lives."

He's still alive! This changed the situation. It wasn't enough to identify the culprits. If she waited for them to leave, their victim could drown. I have to stop them.

She scanned the opposite side of the wharf. No one was in the immediate vicinity, but there were figures in the distance. Her gaze flashed back to the criminals. They were out of sight, which meant they were almost to their goal. She backed herself into the corner. Please let someone hear this. With that, she drew in as much air as her lungs could hold.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

There was instant confusion from the dock. Her heart sank as a SPLASH! reached her ears. Thudding footsteps indicated a retreat.

I can't wait. She dove for the railing before remembering the gangplank was up on deck. No time for that. She slid off the ship and landed hard on the dock. Scrambling to the edge, she saw a head bobbing in the water.

"Damn wench!"

She ignored the angry shout from the pier as she grabbed the drowning man's shirt. Only then did she see his face.

Lars!

Her head snapped left to check if any of the culprits remained. There was only one, bolting toward "the Hole" (as the locals called it). Natalia grimaced as she struggled to keep Lars afloat. He was completely limp. Am I too late?

A blur went flying into her field of vision, tackling the lone criminal to the ground.

Leone!

"Let me go!" the scoundrel screamed, fighting to break free. "I didn't do anything!"

Leone drove the thug's face into the cobblestones. "Don't move," he snarled, "unless you want to die."

Leone...

Her grip on the wet fabric slipped and she strained to re-affix her grasp.

Lord, give me strength. Please give me—

The weight in her arms lightened. "Pappa!" she squeaked. She hadn't even noticed her father come up the dock despite his panicked panting.

"Are you hurt?" he grunted, lifting Lars from the sea.

"No. Is he alive?"

"Everything will be fine," he reassured her as he laid Lars on the wooden planks.

Natalia nodded, yet still worried. Lars' lips were purple, and he didn't appear to be breathing. Her father began attempts to resuscitate him.

Please don't take him yet, Lord.

She glimpsed her brother peripherally and shuddered. His expression was frightening. It's been years since he's acted this way. She shook off the unsettling memories when Lars coughed.

Her father straightened to give the younger man some space. He sputtered and heaved before his breaths settled into a shallow rhythm.

"Stay with him, Natalia," Vincenzo commanded, propelling himself onto the ship.

Natalia sat next to the nearly-drowned man. His lips had returned to their normal color, but he still looked pale. She placed the back of her hand against his forehead. He feels feverish.

A THUD indicated the gangplank had been dropped. Vincenzo descended, holding coiled rope. He proceeded to bind the criminal's arms and legs, then he and Leone lifted the thug to his feet.

"I'll take care of this," the older man asserted. "You help your sister."

Leone joined Natalia on the dock while their father towed his captive out of view.

"How is he?" Leone inquired.

Natalia rested her palm on Lars' cheek. "Not good."

Lars' eyes cracked open. Glazed and unfocused, they closed again after a few seconds. Still, he remained breathing.

Leone picked him up.

"Set him on the deck," Natalia directed.

"Why?"

"Because he's soaking wet. This way, we can dry him off first, then change him in our room."

Leone frowned as he climbed the gangplank. "But then I have to move him twice. Why don't I just put him in there to start with?"

Natalia scowled, tailing her brother. "Because the floor will get wet and it'll be harder to get him into dry clothes without getting those wet too."

Leone forcefully expelled a puff of air. "Then why don't I set him next to your bed, we get him undressed, dry him, I move him toward my bed, and we put sleepwear on him?"

"That's still moving him twice," Natalia snipped, retrieving a large bucket.

"But it's a shorter distance," Leone countered.

Natalia threw up her hands. "Fine."

"Fine."

The siblings entered their cabin. Natalia kneeled at Lars' head as Leone set him down. The young woman clutched her apron, her eyes watering. She felt her brother's hand on her shoulder.

"It'll be okay. Be strong for him."

Natalia wiped her face on her arm. "Right." She pushed up her sleeves and began unbuttoning Lars' shirt. Leone set to work on removing Lars' boots.

Despite her trembling fingers, she had no trouble with the buttons. After extracting Lars' arms, she tugged the cloth out from underneath him. She placed the article in the bucket, which she then held out to her brother for a boot and sock deposit.

Natalia turned her attention to Lars' undershirt. The soaked cotton clung to his torso like a second skin. She peeled it up and over his head, freeing it with a sharp yank. Dropping the dripping lump in the bucket, she grabbed a towel before turning back to Lars.

Her breath caught in her throat, the gasping wheeze sounding like something had knocked the wind out of her. Leone's head snapped up in fear, then dropped again as he followed his sister's line of sight.

Their friend's torso was a mottled mess of red, pink, and pale splotches. Some areas were shriveled, while others looked as though they were pulled too tight. The disfiguration covered most of his chest and abdomen, starting just below the underarms and tapering off below his hips, with some patches along his left arm as well. The right edge of his upper body had been spared, with the worst of it concentrated to the middle of the left side.

Natalia dazedly reached out with the towel. Is it a disease? An injury? What should we do?

"It's a burn scar."

She snatched her hand back as she stared at her brother. "It is?"

Leone nodded solemnly. "An old one. You can see where the scar tissue stretched and cracked as he grew." He finally pried off the other boot. "Maybe he got trapped in a burning building?"

"His brothers." Natalia clutched the towel to her bosom. "He once said his brothers made his life Hell."

Leone set his jaw. "Apparently, that was literal."

Natalia draped the towel over Lars' chest, then picked up a second one and began to dry his hair. "He has no one but us. What's going to happen if he stays here when we leave?"

Leone exhaled audibly. "I don't know."

Author's Note:

Based on some limited historical research and some author's literary license, here are the ranks I am using for the Southern Isles' Royal Guard (from highest to lowest):

Captain
First Lieutenant
Second Lieutenant
Lieutenant
Quartermaster Sergeant
Quartermaster Corporal
Quartermaster
Sergeant
Corporal
Private