The Balance (Revised)

Chapter 2 (Aleksander): Part II

His heart began to beat a little faster as they passed over the threshold, but he kept his features neutral. The snarling animal that often sprang free on the battlefield had to be tightly leashed here. This was an entirely different kind of war in which he was already on the edge of defeat. Still, he had to fight the urge to lunge at the woman in front of him, the one person whose carcass would be a more pleasing sight than Marek's.

The queen was lounging on her throne, long legs stretched out in front of her. The tinted light coming from the stained glass rose window shone off of the gold of the throne and of her hair. Her chin was propped on one pale, delicate hand, and her eyes were bright and full of mirth as she looked down at him. But his eyes were fixed firmly on the silver bands around her forearms, and he had to take several deep breaths to keep the tremor out of his hands.

The herald beside her called out, "You stand in the presence of Her Majesty Runa Eiriksdottir, Queen Regent of Riken and its Territories, Keeper of the Faith, and Defender of the People."

Defender of the People. Who are they trying to fool? Nevertheless, he bowed low, hating the movement almost as much as the woman for whom he did it. "My queen," he said, his accent clearly showing through his words even after years.

"So you've managed to drive the enemy back into Moravsko," she said, voice carrying through the near-empty room. "Well done."

He nodded once in acknowledgment.

The queen glanced skyward. "Yet... there is something missing."

Aleksander pulled the bracelet from his pocket, turned, and handed it to Marek, who gave it to the queen in return. As she slipped it onto her wrist alongside the others, he felt some small, petty satisfaction knowing that it had been next to his socks.

Observing how the light glinted off it, she said, "Very nice, but also not what I asked for."

He said nothing.

She finally deigned to look at him, a small smile playing on her face. "Kneel."

He did so without question, hiding a wince as his knee hit the floor hard. The queen had stepped down from her throne, but Aleksander wasn't watching her. The corner of Marek's mouth was tilted up in amusement, but Aleksander had the feeling that it wasn't directed toward him.

The sharp sound of her shoes against marble brought his attention back to the queen. Stopping in front of him, she said, "Look at me."

He did. He still longed to strangle her, to silence that commanding voice once and for all, but that desire was accompanied by the slightest twinge of something. Had he looked at the boy like this? Chin raised, corner of the mouth slightly lifted... and those eyes. Those same eyes he had killed the boy for having, now focused on him. Pointless. It was pointless.

"Maybe next time," she said, "you won't fail."

The two walked away and left Aleksander kneeling.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The light through the window was warmer but dimmer, casting a glow directly into his eyes. He bowed his head, ignoring the pain that flared in his neck from having been bent for so long. His whole body ached: his muscles were trembling, his spine felt as if it were made of slowly-melting iron, and his knee screamed from being pressed against the cold, hard marble for so long. But he didn't dare rise— he knew that the queen would find out, and he knew from experience that whatever pain he felt now would be nothing compared to then.

He took in short, sharp breaths; anything deeper caused his ribs to flare up like a branding iron was being pushed into them. He wondered vaguely what the others of the court thought, if they had come back multiple times to still see him here, kneeling. Did they pity him? Did they laugh? Did they think he deserved it?

You do deserve it, he told himself. Whether you followed her orders or not.

He knew it. He hated it. But just because he hated the truth didn't mean it was going to change.

At the sound of footsteps behind him, he tensed up further, sending a ripple of dull pain out from the center of his spine. But upon hearing the voice, the tautness drained from his muscles. Low, measured: "Aleksander. Can you stand?"

He closed his eyes. The sound of his own language, regardless of who spoke it... between the harsh, ugly Rikensk that had filled the room in the hours he'd been here and the pain he felt now, the smallest bit of home was a comfort.

"Aleksander, can you hear me?" Marek came in front of him and crouched so that they were at eye level. With the light blocked, Aleksander raised his head to meet his eyes.

"Yes," he said, the word coming out as a rasp. He cleared his throat. "Yes."

"You can stand now."

He gave Marek a look, searching for any hint of amusement or deception. It wouldn't be the first time he'd lied, but Aleksander saw nothing and decided to stand. It was worth it to unbend his spine, even if he was beaten for it. But when he tried to, a lightning bolt of pain lanced up his back and he slumped forward, chest hitting the ground. He had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from letting out a cry.

"Aleš," said Marek, reaching out in concern.

At the nickname, he growled and shoved Marek's hands away. "I don't need your help."

"You do." Marek helped him up and looped his arm around Aleksander's shoulder.

They made their way slowly toward the doors behind the throne, and one of the guardsmen held it open for them, revealing the narrow spiral staircase that stretched up to the top of the tower.

"I know," Marek said. "I know it hurts, but—"

"How could you possibly know?"

Marek was silent for a while, simply guiding him up the stairs one at a time. When they reached the landing for the second floor, he said, "I don't enjoy seeing you like that."

"Do you think any small kindness is recompense for what you've done?"

"No," said Marek. "I doubt you've forgotten anything."

And he hadn't. He could still hear them, could still see the blood—

"Good night, Aleksander." They'd reached his chambers and Marek had opened the door for him.

Not bothering to thank him, Aleksander stepped into his chambers and closed the door, keeping his strides short and careful until he reached his bed. He managed to peel off his uniform jacket and his shirt before collapsing onto the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, his last thoughts were that fate had brought him here, fate had taken its shot, and he was bleeding. Bleeding, he told himself, bleeding but not broken. His eyes fluttered shut, and he fell asleep instantly as he hadn't done in years. But his dreams were plagued with screams and shrieks, joined this time by the final gasp of a blue-eyed boy.

Aleš (AH-lesh): diminutive for Aleksander.

Not much language stuff this time, but culture: so in Iceland (a country I've borrowed elements from), they don't really have last names-- if two people got married, no name change. It's a patronymic system, so you have your first name and then one based on the name of your father. There's a football player named Ragnar Sigurðsson, so his name is (of course) Ragnar, and his father's is Sigurð.

So our good friend the queen has her first name and her patronymic. Personally, I think it'd make more sense to use matronymics, since you might not be able to determine the father but you can know who gave birth to the child, but no one really asked me back when Nordic culture was developing, so.