The Balance (First Draft | Discontinued)

Chapter 2 (Aleksander)

Aleksander sat on the train with his legs dangling out of the box car. He was staring straight ahead, watching the world blur into a single point, barely hearing the hiss of the steam or the clack of the wheels against the rails. The boy's bracelet was digging into his ribs and he closed his eyes. He could have simply shifted, let the bracelet slide deeper into his coat pocket, but he did not.

He had been on the train for several hours, but he hadn't moved once. One of the soldiers had tried to start a conversation, to congratulate him on defeating one of the enemy's blessed warriors, but the man had quickly left after Aleksander completely ignored him.

He couldn't get the sounds out of his head. The splintering of bone. The last dying gasp. The muffled thud as the body of the boy— the boy he had once known— hit the ground. They played in his mind like an orchestra and they wouldn't leave him alone.

He'd given the boy the chance to run. Why didn't he run? But he knew why. Coward, his comrades would have called him. Weak. Useless. Their pride was worth more than their lives, and he'd been that way once too. Now there was only one thing worth more than his life, but it certainly wasn't pride. He didn't have any left.

He was lost in his thoughts until someone jostled his shoulder.

"Sir," said the young soldier in his native language, "we've arrived."

Aleksander curled his lip. He'd never gotten used to the way these people talked, how ugly it was compared to his language. It grated at his ears and oftentimes, he wanted nothing more than to strangle the person talking so that they'd stop. Even the choking noises would be more melodious.

He rose to his feet, shoved past the soldier, and stepped off the train. The wind was howling and it nipped at any bit of skin exposed, but he didn't care. He would stand out here all day and all night if it meant avoiding what was to come.

It was with great reluctance that he made his way into the city, and even greater reluctance that he lifted his eyes to look up past the smokestacks and steeples to see his destination-- the queen's castle.

Had he been an ordinary person, he would have been in awe of Castle Avmakt. The white marble was smooth and shining, almost luminescent in the moonlight, the towers seemed to stretch into the mist, and the trim of the roof was real gold, bright and gleaming. It extended as wide as the hill it rested upon, almost as wide as the city below. Peace had been made there and wars had been declared. Murders had been committed in many of the bedchambers and executions near the lowest tower. It was a place of history and a place where history would continue to be made.

He hated Castle Avmakt.

He wanted to shatter the hundred windows, topple the high-rising towers, and tear it all apart, walls and columns and even the ground it rested on. He wanted it to be nothing but rubble, and then he wanted the rubble ground into dust, to be scattered into the wind and carried far, far away from him.

As if you'd have the strength for that, he thought, and turned his head away.

Every step he took toward the castle felt heavier and heavier, as if he still had chains around his ankles. The old Aleksander would have taken one look at this castle and laughed, walked right up to it and fought his way to the throne room. The man he was now was barely keeping himself from running until he couldn't even see the border of this country any longer.

He passed through the gilded iron gate, soldiers following close behind. Their rifles were at the ready; they may have called him 'sir', but they were willing and able to shoot him at a moment's notice. He could hear the scuff of their boots against the cobblestone, the low murmurs between two of the soldiers at the back of the group. Maybe if he strained his ears, he could tell what they were saying, but what did it matter? Life, love, the war— what was it to him?