I promised myself that I'd update all my multichapters for New Year's. Hiatus is still in place, unfortunately :( I can't believe I haven't touched this for five months. It might amuse you to know that for those five months, the only words in this document were "shit goes down".

Last year I was at chapter 22. I'd like to think I've grown since then.

Thanks to everyone who left those nice reviews~

Review! :D

Armed with only Peter's sword and the remains of what he'd worn to gaol, he plunged into the fray, slashing left and right with the sword. Immediately he felt off; it was a boy's sword, meant for a man much smaller than he, and as well as that, his time spent in the prison had turned him soft. He'd spent most of his time wishing and less of it trying to stay in shape; he hand't felt a reason to.

It comes back to bite me in the butt, doesn't it.

He wouldn't dare to approach Elizaveta after she'd come to see him in jail. He'd said too much, craved her hatred, and she'd acted like a completely different person then, with her hair all dolled up and her courtly manners frosted in place.

And despite all that, it was still good to see her as she used to be, a tomboyish youth with a sword challenging the duelists and giving them a run for their money before being honorably defeated. When it was up to the two of them, they'd fight to a draw - Gilbert's stronger blows were offset by his cocky attitude; he taunted her, and she'd make good use of the openings. He wanted to smile, remembering it. (but don't smile)

The too-small sword bit at the man in front of him, but his aim was off and he managed to lose it, pinched between plates of armor, and was left defenseless. He barely had time to react before Elizaveta was in front of him, her own sword darting quickly in and out, and his enemy toppled with blood spurting from the neck. And then she was off again, and Gilbert remembered to breathe.

I could've died, but she saved me. And then the frustration: why does she still suffer me to live?

But no, now was not the time. He was back on his feet in seconds, scanning the battlefield with a keen eye. His opponent had wielded a much larger sword than Peter's, and though it was too large for him, it was better than nothing. He hefted it, felt the strain in his arms, and gave it a few haphazard test swings. A small circle opened up around him as he did so, and he swung the sword again. It's more of a log of wood than a sword for all the good it would do me, he thought ruefully, and had to marvel at the length of the sword; the man Eliza had killed was a giant of a man, and this was a fitting sword for him. It looked about as long as his arm and a half, and seemed to weigh twice as much.

I might as well find some armor for myself, somehow. If there's a moment to breathe...

(luddy is the same size as you, he's just more muscular)

(it's all a dream)

And the next enemy was upon him, and all thoughts were driven out of his head as he clumsily brought the long sword up to parry. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the captain of the imperial guard, a tall, strong man with cornflower eyes and blond hair, beheading an enemy, and beyond him, a word that brought him hope: armory.

The battle surged like the tide, with weapons ringing on metal no matter where he looked. Sooner or later, he made it over to the captain, who looked back at him. Some of the other imperial guards kept them a little bit of breathing space so they could talk. After a moment, a spark of recognition flared behind his glasses. "You're the murderer. Why are you out?"

Gilbert cringed and looked away. "Peter freed me. He's dead."

An eyebrow raised. "You killed him?"

"No!" said Gilbert emphatically. "He was bleeding when he unlocked the gates for me, and he fell." (a dream a dream a dream) "I'd be more than happy to go back in jail, but it looks like my kingdom needs me." He said this last bit with an ironic twist of his lips, and Alfred (for that was the captain's name) looked him over, taking in the tattered and dirty remnants of the navy-colored shirt he'd worn. "Right, well, whatever, man," he said in a much more cheerful tone. "We need all hands anyway, and there's probably something left in there that's not too clunky or too old, we about scraped it bare. We put some of the wounded in there, though, so don't step on them. Cheers." And he was shoved towards the armory after that bit of preamble.

It more spacious than he'd remembered. Then again, it wasn't all the time he saw it stripped of all its trimmings. Alfred hadn't lied when he'd said that it'd been emptied; throughout the entire room emptied racks abounded. And the ground was patterned with injured people and splats of blood, and those tending to them. One of the people who had chosen not to fight (he didn't begrudge them that, fighting wasn't for everyone) turned and looked at him; it was the youngest of Peter's tutors, not much older than the prince himself. If memory served correctly, the name was something like Erik, Eddie, Eli...

"Eli?" he tried, and the pale-haired boy raised an eyebrow. "It's Emil," he snarked before making a face that said I should be polite but I don't have the energy.

Sorry, Emil, but is there any stuff left?"

Emil put his head on one side. "Yeah, there's a bit of stuff in that bin there. The Imperial guard about near cleared us out, though a few people keep bringing in extra from the...from the incapacitated." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and turned to go. As if on cue, a small, scared looking boy scurried through the door and dropped a sword into the bin Emil had mentioned. Gilbert felt a tinge of recognition, and for a moment, he saw the boy in his mind, a year younger, cowering behind a wedding invitation. Small world.

"One more thing?" He jerked his attention back to the boy servicing the wounded

Emil glared. "I'm a little busy, make it quick." Everything in his body language screamed impatience.

"You were one of Peter's tutors?"

"More like his partner in crime...why?"

Gilbert hesitated a long moment, not wanting to take the light of his features, but something in his face tipped Emil off. The youth's face seemed to collapse in on itself and grew older and sadder. "...I see. At least, thanks for letting me know..." Tears welled up, and the boy scrubbed brusquely at his face. Revealed again, it was twice as hard. War is not a time for softness.

The albino didn't stay behind to watch much after that, already regretting his thoughtless words. It's better that he knows now instead of raising false hopes, right?

Right?

(it's only a)

The armor was where Emil said it would be. There weren't any full sets - the most complete one was upper-body only, but he'd manage. (dream it's) He squeezed around the plates, felt like an idiot, and gave a few swords experimental swooshes through the air. There were no injured around this location, so he had no fear of accidentally trampling someone to death. People were moaning, crying out - no point, really, in hurting them more. Right? Right.

His carefree smile dropped for a moment. It sounds like hell.

(only a)

None of the swords seemed to be balanced right, and without much hope for a good one, he reached for the last one in the bin.

It fit his hand perfectly. Perfectly balanced, perfectly weighted, perfectly sharpened, in perfect shape, and the only one who took care of his sword that way was his brother.

(a dream)

I saw him, he was dead. His sword was with him...Did that boy bring in his sword? He must have, otherwise how...

(it's)

He wanted to cry over the sword, the last legacy left to him from his brother.

(only a)

Instead, he hefted it in his hand, took a shaking breath, and rejoined the masses as they surged like the tide.

(dream)