This was not a normal war.
The death was just as bloody, the screams as terrified, and the weapons as busy as in any war. But most wars were extended campaigns, made up of strategy and flanks and elaborately designed plans of attack.
This war was destined to have only one battlefield. And though they were separated by distance and hordes of screaming soldiers, the two men who really owned the war could feel one another. Father and son, they fought like machines, knowing that every man they cut down was a single step closer to the one person they were finally ready to destroy. One of them would win, and one of them would die, because coexistence in the same world was simply no longer an option.
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Angel ducked his opponent's mace with all the dexterity he could manage in his armor, and feinted towards the man's face, forcing him to pull round his shield. With a speed he would never have dreamed possible in a human body, Angel swung his sword around, plunging it into the man's side.
Before the body had even dropped from the saddle, Angel was parrying the downswing of a pike headed for his face. The man wielding it pulled back to strike again, but found the prince's sword in his neck before he could even aim, and the pike dropped uselessly to the ground.
Angel looked around anxiously, trying to find evidence that they were winning. He saw Padraic fighting with about six of his lords in a circle around him, and if the grim smile on the king's face was any indication, he was as good a fighter as he was a monarch.
His foot soldiers were all well trained fighters, and it was evident that discipline was somewhat atrophied in Aylmar's troops. Still, Angel reflected, as he blocked a sword swing with his shield, it would never do for him to count on any weakness in the enemy lines.
The part of the war that discouraged him the most, was that the men he was fighting against, the men he was killing, should never have been the enemy lines to begin with. He was their prince, and he had probably been protected by them in his childhood. They should be swearing fealty to him, not screaming hoarsely as he cut them down.
All the death was a direct consequence of his father's inhumanity, but these men were not the monsters Aylmar had become. They were brothers and farmers, and each man that died at Angel's hand was one more son who would never return home...
Angel swung Bishop around to face another knight, and mentally reproved himself. He couldn't afford to let his overdeveloped guilt complex affect his actions, or he, and his troops, would be quickly killed. Moral ambiguities had no place in war, and he would have plenty of time to reflect upon the damage he had done...after he had won.
Ignoring the gurgling scream of a man being trampled down by Bishop's slashing hooves, Angel finally caught sight of Garwin. He saw Thayne near him, unaccustomed to fighting on a horse, but managing with a dexterity born of necessity.
Angel's mouth tightened. Necessity? This war, as deadly as it was, was completely frivolous. It was founded in the prejudice of a bitter man who had forgotten how to love anything but cruelty, but that prejudice was strong enough to cover a battlefield with blood and dead men.
His sword flew through complex passes, confounding his foes as it ended their lives, and he prayed for the war to end.
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Marie paced through the library, the painful decision she was attempting to make causing her head to throb.
Where did her responsibility lie? Which did she owe more to her king- full truth about his daughter's condition, or a silence that would preserve whatever peace of mind he had left?
And which would the prince prefer? If she sent the messenger, he would want to rush back to the palace. It could make him fight more fiercely, or it could make him hasty and rash, which would surely get him killed.
Who was she to decide, anyway?
But she knew. She was Willow's protectress and mentor and friend. She was someone trusted implicitly by the entire royal family, and if they couldn't count on her in this situation, then all her years building up that trust had been essentially false.
She had been tormenting herself for hours. Neile had left the responsibility with her, as Marie had known the queen would, but her mind was so crowded with worry for the sick princess and concern for the men off at war, that she had no assurance that she was even capable of logical thought.
There was a knock at the door.
She looked up as the palace healer came in.
"We are ready to begin. Do you want to be with her while we-"
"Bleed her?" Marie finished. "Yes, I will be with you in a moment."
He bowed out of the room.
Straightening her back, Marie closed her eyes. She found whatever resolve she was searching for in her mind, because her back straightened and she walked swiftly to the door.
Going into the hallway, she signaled for a page.
"I need someone to take a message to the king."
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Angel would never be able to describe how, exactly, it happened. One moment, he was watching the battle unroll before him, fending off a large knight with some amount of difficulty. He could see men losing limbs, he could see Garwin hacking at the soldiers who were coming at him from both sides.
He knocked the weary knight off his horse and headed towards his brother, determined to help him. For a moment, he felt completely detached from everything, as he felt Bishop moving beneath him. He evaluated the skills of the men fighting around him, and remembered the battle techniques he had picked up over hundreds of years. He noticed the places in his armor that pinched his skin, he felt his halberd shift with the movement of his horse. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck, its movement completely clear and distinct.
The sky was a clear blue, and his attention was suddenly drawn by some jarring movement in the periphery of his vision.
And that was when he saw the king die.
Not the king he despised, not the man who had tried to rule him with spite. To see Aylmar dying would have given him some measure of peace and justice.
But Padraic-
He wanted to scream out, to roar against the sword embedded in his father-in-law's collarbone, but the only sound that would come from his dry throat was a small, whispered, 'no'.
The man whose sword had killed a king was swiftly cut down by furious soldiers, but he had served his purpose.
And Angel could hear his father laughing.
The ugly, exultant laugh of a tyrant echoed in his ears, and they stung from the sound. He was preparing to find that voice and end it forever, when Aylmar and his army did the one thing Angel did not expect.
They began to retreat.
The clash of metal on metal died away as his troops fell back, the field emptying as quickly as was possible, and Angel could only stare in shock as all the fighting ceased. He began to understand, however, when he saw that Aylmar was among the last to leave. His eyes, though far away, were glittering with power, and Angel hated him even more than before when he heard him shout across the field.
"Check and mate, my boy. Or perhaps I should say, Your Majesty?"
Aylmar turned his charger and galloped away, his laugh only fading as he disappeared behind the swell of a hill.
Angel was numb as he urged Bishop forward, heading for Padraic. He dismounted and looked down at the man whose body had been placed on the ground. The sword that had killed him was broken in two pieces, but too late.
He was regal even in death, his snowy hair being all the crown he needed. His face looked resigned, somehow, like he had known this battle, this campaign, would be his last. The strong planes of his face looked sharper, and Angel knew the body was growing colder every minute.
A numb sort of horror ran through his mind like a shockwave. All of his anger and adrenaline crumbled away, and his eyes fell shut with pained weariness.
He sheathed his sword and knelt, bowing his head. The nobles around him followed suit, and for a span of minutes, the battlefield, so recently a scene of pure chaos, was completely silent.
Angel felt dead himself. He felt cold and empty and blamable, though he knew it was illogical. And though his mind was working sluggishly, it managed to latch onto, but not really comprehend, one unbelievable thought-
Angel was king.
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Years of fleeing from vampires had taught Willow one extremely important thing- her blood was her life. To lose it was to lose herself. Creatures of the night may have regarded it as a meal or a prize, but to her it was precious.
It was perhaps for that reason that she struggled so violently when the healers tried to relieve her of her supposedly poisoned blood. She thrashed and screamed, calling out her husband's name in a desperation borne of fevered fear.
He couldn't help, however, and she could do nothing as short slits were made in her forearms. Basins nestled in the bedcovers caught the viscous rivulets winding around her elbows, and she stopped fighting the people trying to help her.
Her fever didn't lessen, though her energy did, and her delirious rantings faded away as her blood dripped and pooled in old crockery...
****
Garwin hissed as Dalenna wrapped a bandage around his wrist.
"You don't really need to do this, you know. I know how to tend to wounds."
She gave him a superior look. "Yes, I have seen the sort of field dressings soldiers are capable of, and if you can forgive me, I think I can do a bit better. And since I cannot fight, the least I can do is be some use to this army as a nurse."
"We have nurses."
"And now you have one more."
He examined her face carefully, then flexed his wrist slowly. "Thank you."
"You don't need to thank me. After all, I owe you-"
"Sir Garwin?" a voice came from the entrance of the tent.
"Come in," he called out.
A foot soldier entered with a respectful salute. "Begging your pardon, my lord, but your presence is needed."
Garwin looked at him in confusion.
"At the coronation," the soldier explained.
Garwin and Dalenna shared a look, and then he stood, offering his arm to her.
She looked at him in shock. "My lord, I cannot!"
"Come with me, Dalenna."
She hesitated, but he didn't waver, and they left the tent together.
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The Duke of Glenlea stood to begin the ceremony, his lined face dusky in the firelight.
"We lost many men today. We saw lives snuffed out before us, but since that is one of the wages of war, we were not shocked by it. Friends and fathers died all around us, and we, for our part, killed some of the same.
'I say these things because I do not want to make it seem that these deaths are unimportant in the face of what has occurred. I think that His Majesty," here the duke's voice faltered, but he made his mouth a firm line and continued.
"His Majesty would have said that his life was no more important than the life of the lowest foot soldier. He would have been right, in a sense, because hearts are broken by every death that occurs. And yet, he would have been wrong too.
'King Padraic was born to be a leader. He commanded attention and respect by merely existing, which is a quality possessed by all the best kings that have ever ruled any land. He was more than kind- he was just, which is more important. He ruled our country with duty and care, and every citizen has felt the effects of that.
'I wish we had the time to eulogize him here. But, it will wait, because remembering our late king is not why we have gathered in this camp.
'We are here to coronate a new king.
'There are those who are blinded by misguided loyalty to Padraic, who are deceived by unfair opinions that our late king would never have condoned. They say that the man who will become our next king is not one of us, that he doesn't care about the welfare of our people.
'Fortunately, such people are not many, and more fortunately, they are wrong. Because the man who is here with me now is the only person I have ever met whom I consider a worthy successor of our departed king. His every action since he first arrived in our land has been honourable, his every impulse correct. He fought among you all today, and I do not think any of you can say that his conduct was anything less than royal.
'He has been loved as a Prince. I am here, on the edge of this battlefield, promising you that he will be revered as a king."
The duke lifted the crown, the crown that had been worn by Padraic only a few hours earlier. It was not the crown of beaten gold that had been left back at the palace, the sort of crown one would associate with kings and luxury. It was a crown of war, simple and unornamented, and it fairly reeked of power.
Angel stepped forward, his face frozen and sad, and he knelt as Glenlea placed the crown on his head. "I give you your monarch- King Alaric."
The crowd cheered as enthusiastically as they were able, following the events of the day. Angel put up a hand, and they silenced respectfully.
"I have prayed this day would not come so soon, because I loved King Padraic, and I would have preferred to always remain a prince if it meant that he would remain King. I am more saddened than I can say by his passing." He stared into the flames for a moment, and those who could see his eyes found that they could not help but believe him.
"Aylmar is a mockery of kingship. His one talent is hatred, and I plan on making him an expert on one other thing."
He looked around, and his eyes were cold. "Losing."
The cheers were louder the second time, because they were righteous and wounded, and he retreated with the knowledge that they all hated his father almost as much as he did.
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Angel lay in his bedroll, his eyes wide open, staring into the darkness.
What was he going to tell Willow?
She had learned to love her new father, and Angel was coming home a king. The king. Her king.
He knew that even as he tried to sleep, messengers were being sent back to her, to tell her that he had failed to stop it from happening. And he knew that she wouldn't blame him, that she would tell herself what Garwin kept telling him- that it wasn't his fault, there was nothing he could have done.
But he also knew that she would be hurting, and that she would be alone.
Which is why the war had to end.
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Dawn was just breaking when Garwin found Angel outside, staring at the sunrise with the same sort of bewildered wonder he always did.
"What's your plan of attack?" he asked.
"Kill our father."
Rays of sunshine were bouncing off Angel's new crown as the camp buzzed with preparations for the day ahead.
"Do you ever get the feeling," Garwin mused softly, "that the world you grew up knowing, the world you understood, just up and disappeared? And it's like you've been transported to some other reality entirely?"
Angel replied with a tired chuckle. "You have no idea how much I know what you are talking about."
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The armies had rushed at each other in the early morning hours, and there was no end in sight as the sun looked on from its zenith. Angel could hardly feel his sword arm, and he was bleeding from a gash in his side. The whole day, he had been trying to get closer to Aylmar, to get within killing distance, but the armies seemed to plot against him.
He no longer cared about the inhumanity of war, about guilt or sorrow or regret. He knew victory and loss, and when his regiments advanced, he felt a grim satisfaction. When they lost ground, he felt bitter disappointment.
When he saw Garwin turn to find Aylmar's sword at his throat, he froze.
"Well," their father's voice oozed with triumph, "Look who fancies himself a lord."
Aylmar carefully dismounted, then had two of his knights unhorse his helpless opponent.
"Fighting for your king and brother? Convincing all your new friends that you're something more than a useless, illegitimate piece of trash? Quite a trick. But it's the sort of thing I'd expect from the pathetic country you've settled in. A country that makes a weak snob like Padraic king, a country that allows whores like your mother to raise princesses, a country that deserves to be erased for its insipidity and weak blood."
He circled Garwin slowly, tracing lazy patterns with the tip of his sword. "I had always hoped that my _real_ son would be able to help me absorb it into my own kingdom, but since he betrayed me, I find I'll have to take it the old fashioned way. I'll just kill everyone who refuses to call me their monarch."
He grabbed Garwin by the hair then, and pulled his head toward him as he whispered in his ear. "You think I hate you, don't you? That's the saddest part. You think I care about you. It may be difficult for you to understand this, but please do try- you...are...nothing. If you had died in childbirth, I would have shrugged and gone hunting. You are negligible in my world. You are a visual reminder of a pretty slut I once ravished and then threw away. And when I kill you, I will regret your passing as much as I would that of a worm."
He threw Garwin's head away from him and smiled. "Are you afraid of my sword, boy?"
Garwin's eyes were cold.
Aylmar nodded. "Well, you don't need to be. Death by the sword holds some sort of glory, some sort of honor in the eyes of the world. And you don't even deserve the patch of grass that your body will soon occupy."
His face was inflamed with all the emotion his words had denied as he buried his dagger in Garwin's abdomen, and twisted.
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There was a scream as Garwin fell, and Aylmar turned to parry a wildly swinging sword.
Thayne's grey eyes were like liquid anguish as he attacked, and the man he wished dead simply laughed. "Who are you, stripling?"
Thayne tried not to sob. "Protector to Sir Garwin." He thrust again, but the king blocked him without batting an eye.
"Well done, then. A good effort. Were you supposed to keep him alive?"
Thayne gripped his sword with both hands, chopping with all his strength, but all his strength was not enough, and he was disarmed in the matter of minutes. Aylmar cut him down almost as an afterthought, his sword flashing from the boy's shoulder downward. He was uninterested in Thayne's death, because his attention was focused on someone else entirely.
King Alaric had arrived.
Angel would mourn his friends later, but for the moment, he was conscious of only two things- the length of bright steel in his hand, and the man he hoped to soon run through with it.
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Willow stirred in her bed, her arms bandaged, her mind hazy.
"Please."
Marie woke suddenly, unsure as to whether or not she had heard something. "Willow?"
Willow's eyes opened. "Please."
"Please what, darling?"
Her eyes were foggy and dark with exhaustion, but she begged with them. "Please? He can't."
"Can't what? What's the matter? Can you hear me?"
Willow whimpered. "He has to come back."
"Do you mean Alaric?" Marie took her hand, praying that the princess could become coherent for even a moment.
"His soul is..."
Her eyes fell shut, and Marie began to cry.
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Aylmar still wore his infuriating smile as he circled his son, but there was a wildness in his eyes that Angel noted with grim satisfaction.
"I heard that my little present for your pretty bride didn't work as I had planned. A shame, really. Still, once you're dead, and I rule your country, I'll find some way to make it up to her." He feinted half-heartedly, waiting for Angel to attack.
Angel's own smile came over him slowly, but he knew the effect it would create was well worth the waiting. The smile had been invented by a demon he no longer dealt with, but his face curved in the old familiar way. "You really don't realize how...obsolete you are, do you?" He parried another of Aylmar's thrusts, but he felt the force behind it, and knew that the look on his face was working.
"Your age of tyranny is over. You keep holding on, but it's gone, and I think you know it."
"Tell that to your brother," Aylmar snarled, his sword snapping out as violently as his words.
"He knew it. He's known it all his life, because if you were as powerful as you pretend to be, he would have been dead a long time ago." Angel began a complicated crescent maneuver with his sword, but his concentration still seemed to be focused on the deadly conversation. "He's always known how weak you really are."
Aylmar managed to block Angel's swift sword, but Angel disengaged quickly and thrust at the older man's exposed side, nicking his shoulder through his armor. He pulled free and danced backward, avoiding the wild swing of his father's weapon.
"Padraic taught you false confidence well, boy, but it won't be much use to you when you die." He jabbed furiously, but Angel spun away to the side.
Angel was ready to end it. He had drawn first blood, but he was tired of exchanging meaningful insults with an embittered opponent. His control was not slipping, but his fury over Garwin and Thayne made him feel like his heart was being constricted somehow.
He had lived for hundreds of years in the old world, watching people around him die. He had moved through time silently, knowing death while never achieving it. He had become reconciled to it, because it was one of the wages of immortality.
But it was supposed to be different in this world. Why was he forced to watch the people around him die no matter where he was? They were excised from his life, as he moved on, ever increasingly alone. His friends were taken from him, but he survived to be attacked by his enemy.
Depressed but determined, he studied Aylmar's technique, looking for any flaw, any opening. It was frustrating, because the man was justifiably proud of his prowess in battle. He moved like a machine, preprogrammed and inexorable-
Angel paused, parrying absentmindedly. Machines were efficient and powerful, but there was one thing they were not- inventive.
Angel gathered himself, wiping away all his emotion to save for later, and focused on the movement of his body. He allowed himself to give in to his natural grace, remembering his acquired stealthiness, remembering his predatory instincts.
Remembering...Angelus.
Aylmar felt a twinge of shock when he looked into his son's eyes. That sort of vicious bloodlust could not be counterfeited, and the sword in Angel's hands was practically blurring with silvery speed. It seemed liquid in his hands, a steely snake no one could avoid forever.
This, in the end, was the entire war. Everything that had gone before, every gruesome and lamentable death, had been essentially preliminary. This familial conflict had begun every antagonism, and it would end it as well. A disparity in one man's mind about the difference between love and ownership had caused the irreparable rift, and Aylmar was about to learn the consequences for misunderstanding the rights of a father.
His sword was twisted out of his hand before he could blink, and he was staring down the length of his son's victorious sword in shock. He had called his son weak and pathetic, but one look into those bored, cold eyes told him that he could expect no mercy.
"Sorry, Your Majesty." Angel's velvety voice sent chills down the supposedly infallible warrior's spine. "You lose."
He thrust the sword home, and turned away with disgust. He looked at Aylmar's dukes, and he wore the haughty eyes of a king. "You can continue to fight me, if you are that interested in losing. Your other option is to abide by the conditions of a treaty Aylmar refused to heed. That treaty, which acknowledged me to be your prince, stipulated that I would someday be your king. I leave the choice to you."
Of course, after they saw his glare, there was never really a choice.
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Dalenna had appeared a few moments later, her face going white when she saw Garwin's body sprawled in the bloody turf. Thayne lay a few feet away, and she sank down to the ground, her skirts billowing around her.
Angel watched her weep over his brother, and he was about to join her when he heard an urgent voice behind him.
"Message for the king!"
He turned and saw a travel weary man wearing his royal colors. Soldiers pointed in Angel's direction. The messenger was confused, still thinking him a prince, but saw the crown and came forward.
"Your Majesty," he began, bowing deeply, "I bring you news from the palace."
Angel frowned. "What sort of news?"
The man's eyes fell. "It's the princess- rather, the Queen, Your Majesty."
Angel felt dizzy. "What about her?"
"She is...ill."
"How ill?"
The messenger's jaw tightened.
The king fell to his knees in despair, and overhead, the sky was still blue.