Chapter Three

San-Clemente, California, Holy Empire of Britannia, July 2004 ATB

Soran couldn't believe what he was seeing.

This wasn't the room he had gone to sleep in. That room had been smaller, as had the bed. It had also been back in Krugis, or at least he was fairly sure it had been.

This was somewhere else. The window was ajar, just enough to let some air in, but he couldn't hear the sounds of the city. The air smelt different too, like nothing he had smelt before.

The room around him was enormous, like something he imagined royalty would sleep in. The walls were lined with wood panels, and hung with portraits, most of them of children in fancy-looking outfits. There was a desk, with a great big chair, just in front of the window.

There was an enormous wardrobe, all shiny and finely-carved. At the opposite end from him there were more chairs, and a table. There was even a mirror, or rather three mirrors arranged together, tall enough for a grown man.

What was this place? Who had brought him there? And why?

It was him, Soran was certain. It was that man, that scary man with the eyepatch, the one who had rescued him from Switchblade. The man who had fed him, given him medicine, washed him, and just sat for a long time watching him.

So then where was he? Had the man taken him somewhere? And why?

A voice in his head, just a whisper now but still there, was hissing at him to run, to go, to get out of that place. It had been much louder when he had first woken up, but he had been too weak to obey it. There had been nothing to do but lie there, and let the man take care of him.

He could smell something. He sniffed the air. It smelt like food. He was about to go looking for it, when he caught sight of movement in the corner of his eye. He looked, and saw that it was a reflection in a mirror.

He wandered closer, fascinated by the image. He blinked. It blinked. He waved. It waved.

Was it really him? His hair had been cut off, and even his face looked…different.

The smell of food was getting stronger, and his stomach was getting insistent. Steeling himself, Soran walked carefully towards the door, trying not to make a noise as he opened it.

There was no one in the corridor. There was only the smell of food, coming from his right.

He walked down the corridor. The walls were covered in wood panels, not unlike those in his room, and hung with paintings; though these were mostly of big, important-looking men in what looked like fancy army uniforms.

There was a big room beyond, bright with morning sunlight. There were big windows, and lots of chairs and sofas. There was a small table in the middle, with two chairs. A big man sat in one of them, reading a newspaper.

There was food on the table. Soran could smell it, making his stomach growl.

"Good morning, Soran."

The man lowered the newspaper. Soran tensed as he recognised that chiselled face, marred by a long scar and a black eyepatch.

"You must be hungry," the man said, gesturing at the empty chair. "Come and have some breakfast."

A voice inside Soran's head screamed at him to run, to get away from this place and back to the streets, to the places he knew how to hide in. But it was only a voice now, not the screaming cacophony that had tormented him before; the endless, unanswerable urge to run, to hide.

Besides, he was hungry. That alone was enough to silence his fear as he padded over to the chair and pulled himself into it. In the middle of the table was a basket full of bread rolls, giving off a rich, fresh smell. There were small bowls of butter too, and of brightly-coloured spreads that smelt like fruit. Soran watched, mouth watering, as the man spread some of it on his own bread and took a small bite.

"Feel free to eat," the man said, noticing the way Soran was watching him. Soran wanted to grab one of the rolls, to bite into it and stuff it down as fast as he could. But something in that one good eye stayed his hand. Would the man be angry if he ate like that? Shouldn't he do it like at the orphanage, all those years ago?

He took a roll from the basket, and used the small knife next to his plate to cut it open. He decided on the butter, since there was plenty of it and the man was unlikely to be offended. One quick spread, and he bit into his roll.

Rarely, if ever, had he tasted anything that good on the streets. Only the food he found near the palace had been better.

"You're probably wondering where you are," the man went on. "And why I brought you here."

Soran realised that he understood the man perfectly. His voice sounded a little strange, but it was the same language he knew. Except the man didn't look like an Iranian, or many of the other types he had seen in Tehran. He looked like a Britannian, and you didn't often see one of them.

"Are you able to speak?" the man asked.

"Yes…sir…" Soran replied nervously. A man like that was definitely a sir. He hadn't survived on the street that long by annoying people like that.

"Good. To start, my name is Bismark Waldstein. You are in the hacienda La Casa Pacifica, in the State of California, in the Holy Empire of Britannia. This is, incidentally, my home."

Soran was dumbstruck. He knew next to nothing about Britannia. He couldn't even remember where it was on a map. But the man had taken him all the way there!

What was he going to do? How was he to get back?

"I brought you here," the man named Bismark went on, "because I want to make you an offer."

An offer? Couldn't he have done it back in Tehran?

"You may remember how you fought those other boys in the street." The man took a bite of his roll. "I saw you fight, and I was most impressed. You have a strong heart, the kind of heart I would be proud to see in my son."

Soran felt very strange, his heart full of something he had not felt in a long time, and could not name. He had last felt it at the orphanage, on those rare days when people came to visit. Sometimes they would talk to the children, sometimes even play with them, always with one of the staff hovering nearby. Then, every so often, someone would be chosen.

He remembered the looks in the eyes of the other children, and his own feelings inside as he had watched those people. He couldn't put it into words, but he had known what they were thinking, what they yearned for.

To be taken away from there, to belong to someone, to become someone's child once again.

"That is the offer I am making," the man continued. There was something in that one good eye, something almost…kind.

"If you wish, I will adopt you and make you my son. If not, I will arrange for someone else to adopt you. This choice is yours, and yours alone."

Soran didn't know what to think. The voice was still whispering, telling him to get away from there. But where could he go? How could he possibly get back to Tehran, and the life he knew?

And besides, he realised that he didn't want to. He didn't want to leave this man, this man who had nursed him, cleaned him, fed him, watched over him. He didn't want to leave this man, who actually wanted to be his father. He didn't want to go back to the streets, to the danger, and the loneliness. Whatever happened here, surely it was better than that.

"I…"

"Yes?"

"I…I want to be…your son."

"That makes me very happy, Soran." He didn't smile, but something about him had changed, something Soran couldn't quite place.

"As my son, there are many things you need to know, for your happiness in this life." Bismark fixed him with his one eye. "For now you will live with me here, and I will teach you what I can. But there are other things you will need to learn, things that others can teach you better than I. At some point, you will need to go to school."

To school? Soran couldn't have imagined actually going to school, at least not after the orphanage had burned down.

"There is one thing you must understand, above all else." Bismark's gaze hardened. "You must not tell anyone who you were before this day. No one must be allowed to know that you came from Krugis, or that you lived on the streets. Everyone must believe that you are my son and nothing else."

"I…don't understand." And he didn't. Bismark sighed, and the look in his eye softened a little.

"By law, you are as much my son as if I had a wife, and she gave birth to you. But there are people in this country who do not like foreigners, or boys who live on the street. Children do not live on the street in this country, so they will not understand. They will think it wrong of me to adopt you, and they will not treat you the same."

He leaned forward in his seat, just a little.

"I think you know what that means," he said. "When you lived on the street, there were those who shunned you, hurt you, drove you away. Is that not so?"

Soran shivered as the memories returned. He remembered the nasty looks, the shouted curses, the rocks thrown at him, the dogs barking. He remembered the cops, sniggering as they pulled their guns.

He was frightened. He didn't know what to say, or what to do. He didn't want to live like that, with people hating and hurting him. But he didn't want to leave Bismark either, not now that he was his father.

Bismark stood up, and strode around the table. Soran let out a gasp as the big man dropped to one knee and wrapped his big arms around him.

He could not remember the last time he had been hugged.

"Don't be afraid," Bismark whispered. "I won't let anyone harm you. They don't have to know who you were before. They don't have to know about any of this. And we won't tell them."

Soran forced himself not to cry. He could not cry, not in front of his new father. Bismark pulled back, and looked him in the eyes.

"Only one person in the whole world knows apart from us." Bismark pointed towards the wall. Soran followed his finger, and saw an enormous portrait of a very big, very tall man. He had white hair, arranged in long rolls around his head, and wore a big blue coat that hung down to his knees at the back. There was something about him, something in his countenance that entranced Soran, even if he couldn't explain it.

"That is Charles zi Britannia, the Emperor," his father explained. "I have served him for many years. He has agreed to help me, by making the arrangements that will make you my son. With his help, no one will ever know."

Soran looked back at his new father, amazed. Who was he, that he should know someone like the Emperor? Was he really important? Did that mean he was important?

"While you are here with me, I will teach you how to behave like a Britannian," Bismark said, returning to his seat. "Of course, I will teach you to speak, read, and write in English." He held up the newspaper as if to explain. Soran looked at it, and understood what he meant. The letters there were all funny little stick figures, not the curling script he was used to.

"You will also learn how to behave like a noble, which you are," Bismark went on. "When people learn that I have a son, they will want to see you, and you must be fit to be seen. But firstly, you will need a new name."

"But…I'm Soran."

"Not any more." Bismark's eye was kind, but his tone was firm. "You must leave behind the person that you were, and become a new person. Your first name shall be Alexander, a warrior's name, and a fine name even if you do not become a warrior. Your middle name shall be Bismark, for me. Therefore, you shall be Alexander Bismark Waldstein."

"Al…ex…ander." Soran tried out the name. "Alexander."

"Very good." Bismark glanced at the table. "Let us finish this bread, and we can begin."

"Yes…father."

Soran…no, Alexander…felt very warm inside. He wanted to go and clamber on his father's lap, but wasn't sure he would like that. He took a bite of his bread, and he was sure it was even tastier than before.

The voice had fallen silent.

La Casa Pacifica, California, Holy Empire of Britannia, January 2006 ATB

The blade flashed forward. Alexander parried, sending it sliding to his left, his arm jarred by the force. He leapt backwards as Bismarck spun on his heel, bringing his sword around against his right. The blade slid through empty air.

Alexander raised his weapon, an elegant dress sword, to en garde position. Bismarck did likewise, though his weapon was an enormous Zwei-hander. The blade was blunt, but Alexander respected the weight and force of the blade. It had given him broken bones more than once.

"Who are you?" Bismarck asked levelly.

"Alexander Bismarck Waldstein!"

Bismarck attacked again, jabbing the enormous sword forward. Alexander dodged to the right, pirouetted to avoid a sideways slash, and brought his sword up to parry an overhead strike. His father attacked in one movement, moving the zwei-hander in a figure-of eight, the weight of the sword carrying it along. The zwei-hander suited Bismarck, in terms of his size and strength. Few who had not seen him fight would guess the speed he was capable of on top of all that.

"When were you born?"

"April seventh, nineteen-ninety-eight, Ascension Throne Britannia!"

Bismarck lunged again, Alexander dodged. The dance went on. Slash, parry, swing, spin.

"Where were you born?"

"La Casa Pacifica, California!"

Alexander stood where he was, sword raised, breathing heavily, his eyes never wavering. Bismarck did likewise, seeming as fresh as when they had begun. Alexander stared into his father's one eye, trying to discern his intent. He did not bother with the rest of him, for he knew there would be no warning. He had himself struggled to eliminate the subtle muscle movements that betrayed intent to a keen eye.

Bismarck turned sideways on and lunged shoulder-first at Alexander. It was all the boy could do to get out of the way. As he passed, Bismarck planted his foot and swung the zwei-hander as though to fell a tree. Alexander had only a split section to choose his next move. He knew his father would not kill or seriously harm him, such was his skill, but wrong choice would leave him with a broken pelvis.

As the blade swung, Alexander launched himself into the air, pulling up his legs as best he could. Time seemed to slow down as he felt his upward force diminishing, as the blade came closer and closer. He reached his apogee.

The blade flashed through empty air beneath him. For an instant Alexander saw his father's face as they drew level. He almost seemed surprised.

Alexander dropped to the ground, raising his sword to high guard. Bismarck stared back at him, his emotionless mask back in place.

The sound of applause drew their attention. They looked to see a girl of about fifteen, with long purple hair, clad in a white tunic and pants with a purple sash. Behind her were a man and a woman in civilian dress, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Next to her was a man as tall as his father, but with honey-coloured hair slicked back, and a broad grin above his lantern jaw. He wore the gleaming white uniform of the Imperial Guard.

"Bravo, bravo!" the girl proclaimed. "The son is as good as the father!"

"Your Imperial Highness," Bismarck sheathed the zwei-hander over his shoulder and bowed. Alexander sheathed his own sword and did likewise. "Please excuse my poor welcome."

"Not your fault, Lord Bismarck," the girl seemed in good spirits. "I thought I would surprise you. Besides, I wanted to see if the rumours are true."

"I daresay, your Imperial Highness," Bismarck straightened and gestured to a bewildered Alexander. "May I present my son, Alexander Bismarck Waldstein."

Alexander remembered himself just in time and bowed again. He hadn't seen a woman, at least not this close, since he had left Krugis. Her purple eyes sparkled as she regarded him.

"Alexander, I present…"

"Cornelia li Britannia," the girl thrust out one hand. Alexander paused a moment, flustered, before taking it. "And this is Captain Andreas Darlton, commander of my mother's guard contingent."

"Good morning, your Imperial Highness, Captain Darlton." It was all Alexander could do not to stammer, or gulp. What was the Second Princess doing here?

"And good morning to you, young lord." Darlton's voice was deep and husky, but not unpleasant. "You're starting him early, Lord Bismark."

"It is necessary for him to reach his full potential,"replied Bismark, just a little defensively. "I think you will find he has responded well to the training."

"He's not bad, for a boy his age," admitted the grinning Darlton, looking Alexander up and down. "But not a patch on the Princess."

"Flattery does not become you, Darlton," interjected Cornelia, eliciting a chuckle from the man.

"I fear I have little to entertain you with, your Imperial Highness," said Bismark grimly. "Also, I have no refreshments to offer."

"My fault entirely, for turning up unannounced," retorted Cornelia. "Besides, I'm aware that you don't employ servants here, and I don't intend to keep you for long. If we may sit down, at least?"

Bismark nodded, and led the way into the mansion's interior, to the same room in which he had first breakfasted with Alexander almost two years ago. Cornelia sat in one of the great armchairs as if it were a throne, while Darlton took up position at her right hand and the two others behind. Bismark sat on a sofa nearby, with Alexander beside him.

"I have news from my father, the Emperor," Cornelia began. "He has decreed that your son may use his mother's title as a courtesy. Upon his arrival at Court, he shall be known as the Viscount San Clemente."

"At Court?"

Alexander looked to his father, confused.

"I think it's time to tell you," Bismarck replied, after a brief pause.

"Your training has gone well, and will be complete in two months. But you have much more to learn, including many things I cannot teach you here. As such, her Imperial Majesty the Empress Marianne desires that you should live with her and her children in the Aries Villa at Pendragon."

"At…Pendragon?" Alexander felt as bewildered as he had two years earlier, when his life had changed forever. To live on St Darwin Boulevard, in the Empress' household. Was such a thing possible? Was he ready?

"No need to worry," Cornelia smiled, amused by Alexander's obvious nervousness. "The Empress keeps an informal household, and she's positively bouncing off the walls at the thought of having her dear mentor's son live with her. You've nothing to fear from her."

Alexander looked up at his father. He had heard nothing of this. His father was the Empress' mentor?

"No doubt she'll want to tell you that story herself," Cornelia went on. "And a thousand and one other things. Mostly it'll be court etiquette and the finer points of sociability. My sister Euphemia and her little friends will like having a new dance partner."

Alexander felt his face heat up. Dance partner? With girls?

"I…I have never danced before, your Highness."

"Then you'll be no worse than some of them, the way they dance," quipped Cornelia, eliciting a grunting chuckle from Darlton. "I wouldn't worry about it too much. If the Empress isn't supervising, it'll be my mother, the Queen-Consort Victoria. Nobody will cause you any trouble with either of them looking on."

Alexander answered by bowing his head. He didn't know what else to say or do. He was more than a little intimidated by this older girl, this Princess Cornelia. She really wasn't what he had expected. He had always thought noble girls, princesses especially, would be soft and flighty, always giggling. But there was something different about this one, something solid, a strong presence that seemed to fill up the room.

A part of him wished he could be living with her, and not an Empress he had never met.

"In any case, Lord Bismark," Cornelia went on. "Empress Marianne hopes that your son will be able to join her at Aries Villa within a week or so, if that is convenient."

"If I may beg her Majesty's indulgence," Bismark replied, just a little cautiously, "my son will be ready to join her in one week. I have consented, after wearisome petition, to let him accompany me to the tournament at San Diego."

Alexander almost jumped for joy. For a moment he had feared he would have to miss out. But then his relief turned to worry. Would the Empress be offended?

"Ah yes!" Cornelia brightened, like the sun emerging from a dark cloud. "Do you prefer the jousting, or the knightmares?"

"I…I like both, your Highness." It took Alexander a moment to realise he was being spoken to. "Though…I like the knightmares best."

"Funny you should say so. My little sister Euphemia prefers the jousting, but I do enjoy the knightmares."

There was that sparkle again. Alexander thought he might lose himself in it.

And here's this chapter. It's a little shorter than it might have been due to the format change, but I think it works well enough. The only issue I have with it structurally is the timeskip in the middle, which in the original version was hidden behind a brief scene elsewhere. But Zaru recommended that I keep the chapters short and stick to a single character viewpoint, so I decided to go with that. The big advantage is that it won't take me quite so long to get the next chapter out.

This, incidentally, also reveals why I had to remove the old chapters in the end. When I mentioned a tournament on Sufficient Velocity, the concept went down so well that I had to devote the next couple of chapters to it. I hope you all like it.