You believe me like a God (I'll destroy you like I am)

by T0asty_bug

Summary:

A simple task, an easy task. Infiltrate the castle of Old Scotland, get close to the King. Kill him. One simple job Ghost had performed dozens of times before on plenty of innocent nobles. Dangerous given the rank, but a worthy risk for the reward of freedom. Instead, he became the personal guard of the man he was supposed to kill. It put more eyes on him than before, and made his job infinitely more difficult. As if trying not to fall for the man he was being hired to kill wasn't enough to deal with.

Soap knew ruling Old Scotland in his parent's stead was going to be difficult, but he was not prepared for the looming threat of a neighbouring Kingdom proposing war. Discovering the truth of his parent's deaths, and the real identity of his new personal guard was going to become far more difficult.

Notes:

I don't know when I'll be able to update since I have a busy and unpredictable life, and I'm also swamped with schoolwork atm. I hope to get a chapter out every two weeks.
I won't be setting any hard deadlines or schedules for the sake of my own sanity. If I go with the flow this will be way easier to write and get posted.

Chapter 1: Preparation

Summary:

Ghost is tasked with what might be the most dangerous mission he's ever gone on.
Soap tries to ignore the fact he needs to hide from his duties.

Ghost

No one dies how they expect to, nor how they want to. They pray for something swift, and the fates drag it out to make you suffer. You hope for time to enjoy what you have left while you’ve still got the ability to enjoy it, and you’re swept off your feet by skeletal hands clothed in the blood of your father, and his father, and every father before him. Rejoining your father is what every man sought after, for revenge or honor is his choice. Not all men are blessed with pleasant fathers. Not all men are meant to be fathers. But all men must die, and meet him again, or wait for him. No father wishes to bury his son. Death is not kind to those who he makes wait. It is agonizing, slow, deliberate in its emptiness. When death takes a son, he makes sure it’s in a way the father never expects. He takes him in a way a father never wants to see.

Simon Riley used to hope, before he knew Death, that it would take his father. Violent men make violent sons. The Riley family, and every generation before them, proved that lesson with every known babe they brought into their messy world. One lesson no one ever thought to learn, but could not stop proving, was the easy misdirection of desire. Wish for rain, it will flood, wish for sickness upon one man, his family will fall. Wishing for the death of your father, he will drag your mother down with him, kicking and screaming in the flames of your fathers burning touch.

The death of a father haunts a man, the death of a mother haunts the little boy inside him. Simon Riley has been haunted since he was a boy. The Ghost he became will haunt others. As he has lost his father men will lose their sons. Tragedy is entwined with the blood that thrums through his veins. He pulls the lifeforce from others with brandished steel, sharpened wood, and his own filthy hands. Ghost is the whispered promise of loss. A father without a son, a wife without a husband, a child without a dad. Ghost is the guarantee your heart will be cleaved open, pulsing and empty, for your brothers and comrades to see. Ghost promises tragedy. Ghost promises a visit from Death.

His sword carves its way through flesh, grinding its edge against bone to protrude on the other side. Flailing hands grasp aimlessly at the steel already sliding free. One more body joins the littered corpses scattered across the forest floor. What was meant to be a stealth mission to investigate a nearby encampment turned to an unwanted bloodbath. Ghost hadn’t expected to need the moon’s light guiding him through tents and crumpled bodies. Not that he needed the light, as it only helped the man that was charging at him swing his sword with better aim.

Ghost blocked the blow with his sword, clenching his teeth at the sound of scraping metal grating on his eardrums. The man before him was aged by the dirt on his cheeks and overgrown beard on his jaw. The cry that bellowed from his chest melded into the background of clangs and cries around them. He swung again with a heavy hand, aimless but powerful. Every blow that clashed against Ghost’s sword left his arm shaken momentarily as it absorbed the shock.

He managed a parry that gave him an opening to swing and land his own blow. His assailant’s gurgles were lost to the cries around him as he clutched uselessly at his bleeding throat. Ghost was moving on to his next target before the man’s knees could meet the earth.

There was an all too familiar cry, and a voice raw with misuse that called out a panicked, “Ghost!” He found himself running towards the sound almost immediately, dodging whatever blade was haphazardly swung in his direction as a last ditch effort to get at least one hit in before the men that had encroached on their camp cut them down like foxes in a hen house. One hen was putting up a good fight it seemed, because he had one of Ghost’s foxes pinned.

Roach was holding a man's arm from driving a blade into his chest. The man above him was large, and judging by the size of the blade, was a large fan of compensation. Its tip was just beginning to pierce the thick leather of Roach’s gambeson. One heavy kick to his attacker’s stomach forced him to tumble off the man. To his credit, he recovered quick enough to begin regaining his footing. It wasn’t enough, and Ghost drove his blade through the man's chest. He stretched out an empty hand to help Roach, who looked more disgruntled than truly scared, to his feet so he could rejoin the fray.

While the men were formidable soldiers, they still fell by the hands of their midnight stalkers. One poor soul remained. A younger looking man, still fresh faced and naive to the horrors of the world. The leader of Ghost’s little group, Konig, forces the pathetic lad to his knees in front of the group of mercenaries. He was shaking like a leaf under the scrutiny of these unfamiliar killers. He knew this was his end. Definitely not the death someone his age would wish for.

Konig was circling him, a tactic Ghost had become all too familiar with. He used it to make his victims feel trapped, hunted. Get them scared and desperate before he starts asking questions. Konig had used it on him when they first met, and many times after. He would never forget the feeling it gave him in his gut, seeing a man of that stature hunt him so casually.

“We will ask you questions, you will answer. Any failure to follow this simple rule will result in your death. Do you understand?” Konig asked. When the man did not answer, he stopped behind him to grip his hair and yank his head back. “Do you understand?” Konig hissed in his ear. The man made a small yelping sound. Truly pathetic.

“Yes, sir!” Ghost could practically see the wicked grin beneath Konig’s mask. He’d never admit it, but the Northerner was as sadistic as the devil himself. He would draw this out if he wanted to. If he had the time, and they weren’t all actively on the run, he would draw this out past dawn of the next day. The men would tolerate it at first, but lingering in one place too long always made them anxious. The screams would draw too much suspicion, and no one was prepared for another fight like this one so soon.

“Good on you. Now, tell me where you came from,” Konig questioned, “and why you’re out here.” By the scrunch of the man’s eyes, the hand gripping his hair had tightened. His throat was barred. Even with no blade pressed against his skin, the promise was there. It didn’t take a scholar to understand that one slip of tongue could mean he’d lose it.

“The King! He sent us out ‘ere to scout for any spies,” the man exclaimed. He hissed through his teeth in response to his head being pulled back farther. “I serve Ol’ Scotland. I’m a knight of the King, long may he reign.” It was a risk, spewing those words to a herd of strangers that were holding your life in their fingers. Ghost internally commended the devotion to his leader, but outwardly chastised it with a disapproving scoff. Roach shared the sentiment beside him with an irritated huff.

“The King, hm? Is that right?” Konig asks with a dangerous growl to his voice. A silent command directed towards his most trusted soldiers. There isn’t a sound, or a movement, nothing visible or tangible. But it’s felt, the shift in the air. Beside him, Roach shifts minutely, honing his focus onto the man spread open before him, vulnerable and ripe for digging. Roach nods when his deed is done, and Konig nods in return. The poor young soldier lets out a trembling sigh of relief when the hair at the back of his head is released.

“Please, don’t kill me. The King, he- he’ll know. He’ll know it was you!” The man cried. In Ghost’s eyes, he was really just a boy. He has not yet been made a victim to the world's vile desires and addictions. His trembling hands gripping the dirt have not had to claw at the soil that would seal beloved family members away forever. He is not familiar with the caves of souls who did not get the honor of a goodbye.

Konig circled him to his front. No matter how many times he repeated this motion with so many different people, it never got any less sickening. This boy did not have a wife to beg for, children to return to. He is a servant of his country to replace the family he has lost but never had to bury. Ghost turns his head away when Konig brings his sword down on the man's head. The men of the group learned long ago not to question why he averted his gaze.

The hike back to camp was weighed with the night's events. Roach tread beside him, mind oddly quiet. Or maybe he was just shutting Ghost out. It was to be expected. Roach usually shut him out after nights like these. Nights where Ghost had to turn his head away to avoid the sight of blood spraying into the air and a head splitting open. It was not for Ghost’s protection, he knew that. It was an unspoken desire that Roach had not to know whatever memories resurfaced after such instances. Both of them understood that Ghost’s memories belonged in his mind, nowhere else.

Still, the silence hung heavy on his chest. He dare not break it, for the sake of Roach’s peace. If the man was not speaking to him, he did not want to speak at all. Ghost took the opportunity to let his mind wander through the forest. It was still late into the night, with wolves howling to a neglectful moon, owls lurking in the trees as they waited for a meal to come along, and a herd of men clad in the night’s darkness tracking their way through the forest’s broad trunks. Konig was at the head of their little parade, as he always was.

It was where he belonged, in Ghost’s eyes. He was meant to lead, despite how much he spoke against it in private. The man was designed for something he never desired. But then again, they all were. Every member of their little band of heathens was there because their only other options were prison or death. When the world makes you a weapon, some men refuse to let themselves be used. The stories shared around campfires to scare children out of the woods and grown men out of the village are stories of unkind familiarity among those who align themselves with Kortac. To associate with such a renowned company would mean you’ve already fallen deep into the pit of immorality or desperation.

Ghost by no means enjoyed being a part of such a horrific group. He learned from a young age where his place was in the world, and what kind of man he didn’t want to become. A well known and greatly feared mercenary working with a band of trained monstrous killers was far from the life he dreamed for himself. Fate and agony drove him into a life he did not think to wish upon any of his enemies, or to joke about to his friends. Nights like these forced him to ponder the life he could’ve had, had he chosen his path differently.

If he voiced this belief to Konig, he knew the response he’d get. You belong here. The fates would not have brought you here if you didn’t. You can’t escape it now. He’s heard the argument plenty of times before. A familiar song and dance. Always a different string of words, but they carried the same meaning regardless. He could not escape this. He was at the whim of whatever master commanded him that day. He forfeited his freedom over a decade ago. He would not have it returned to him, even if he begged just as the boy had.

here were figures sitting around the low fire, murmuring their war stories to shadows who have heard them dozens of times before. “Konig! It’s good to see you’ve returned in one piece,” Horangi announces as he rises from his seat. “Looks like others have no such luck in that department. What happened?” Trust in Horangi to state the obvious in his version of jumbled eloquence. The man couldn’t watch ballet with any delicacy, no one should trust him to handle the topic of death with any of it either.

“King’s men. Wandered a little too low into the valley,” Konig supplies, looking mildly disinterested. He takes his seat by the fire, gaze hidden by the shadow of his hood. Bottomless pits where blue eyes usually peak from. It makes him look more haggard, more monstrous, more like his true self. Ghost knows that look, that bone tired exhaustion. It’s far from lacking energy. The Northerner could run circles around the mountains of Old Scotland and then some. No, Ghost knew that taking a life took its toll on the giant in a different way. Going against the nature of his mother, and giving in to the nature of his father. He knew the feeling all too well.

“They shouldn’t be coming down this far,” Horangi muttered to himself, but the grumble of his voice carried on the wind. The words everyone was thinking, the fear everyone was feeling. Even Ghost felt that cold hand readying itself to grip his spine. The King was getting nervous about them. Or something else was going on and they were caught in the middle of it. Either way, Konig had that worried set to his shoulders that put everyone on edge. Anything that wasn’t good was bad, and the King of Old Scotland extending his patrols this far west was the furthest thing from good they could get.

“This won’t end well, will it?” The whisper of Roach’s voice tingled at his nape. That voice had been whispering in his skull for over a decade, and it still managed to jolt him sometimes. He glanced over at Roach and gave a slight shake to his head. The shorter man nodded and took his seat beside Konig at the fire. There was a sad determination in his eyes, exhausted from fighting another night to survive. A gaze that knew what the lips would not voice. This wouldn’t be the last time they’d have to fight servants of the King to make it another day out here.

He takes his seat just slightly behind the log Roach and Konig are sat on. He’s stretched out on his bed roll, staring up at the sky. Smoke obscures whatever view is left between the tangled branches of a forest canopy. Every night different leaves sway above his head, and yet somehow the packed dirt beneath him always feels the same. He grew used to sleeping on hard earth a long time ago, before he could even familiarize himself with the feeling of a warm bed.

He gets to enjoy his rest for only a few moments. When Konig rises to his feet, the shadows of his eye-holes are cast down towards them, a message silently sent between them. Ghost sighs, but follows the unspoken order. When Konig wanders into the woods, away from prying ears of men too tired to care, Ghost follows. An “obedient mutt” Roach has referred to him plenty of times. For a good while, the group would refer to him as Hellhound. Before he truly earned his current moniker.

“I know, I’m worried too. We should be able to make it across the border to Old Britain in two weeks at least if we leave at dawn,” Ghost cuts in before Konig has the opportunity to say what they both already know. The group is in danger. Spending any more time around this country with danger lurking around every bend wasn’t going to last them long. They’d need to get a move on so they could hunker down and wait for things to cool off. Traversing through a country on the brink of war with its neighbour was always a dangerous game anyway.

“I’m not asking the boys to leave. On the contrary, we’re digging our heels in,” Konig corrects, a dangerous undertone to his voice that promises high risk. From the look in his shadowed eyes, there seems to be high reward. “I need to ask something of you. And you’re going to say no at first, so I’m going to tell you again until you listen.” Ghost was already tensing just from the set of Konig’s shoulders. This wasn’t the usual favour. This is why he’d pulled him away, into the darkness of the woods, where their group couldn’t see The Ghost get genuinely worried. Scared even.

“You know I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, mate,” Ghost said, his gaze turned up to the shadowed holes cut in the fabric of a well loved hood. “You know the limitations of that promise though, as does everyone else.” Roach. The one deciding factor in all of this. Everyone knew Ghost and Roach were close, practically inseparable. Any risk one faced, the other would join in without any regular man’s second-thought. Ghost made sure early on that Konig understood how important Roach was to him. He became important to them both. Ghost knew if this task put him at risk, it wouldn’t have even been a suggestion. But he had to ask the question anyway.

“He will be safe, that I promise you. It’s just you this time, Ghost. A solo mission. Dangerous, but-”

“But when are they not?” Ghost cut in.

“Exactly,” Konig sighed. “This may sound insane, but I need you to spy on the King.” Ghost’s brows furrowed in confusion. All of this hubbub, all this panic, over a simple reconnaissance mission? It was late, and Ghost was getting tired of these antics. Konig’s tendencies to be overdramatic out of concern were beginning to grind on his nerves after the night they’ve had and the build up to the request.

“I don’ see what the problem is, here? If I just need to send my shadows in then- no,” Ghost cut himself on. There it was, that look. He tilted his head into the light just so he could see it. That sorrowful look, mourning a life not yet lost. An apology in and of itself.

“If there were another way, I would’ve offered it. But we need to get inside, and working for him, in the castle, it’s our best way in.” When Ghost turned to leave, he gripped his arm to yank him back. A risk only he was prepared to suffer the consequences of. “You’ve done it before. You’re the best there is at it. I can’t send Roach in, not after last time. It needs to be you. You’re the only other one I can trust with this.”

Ghost stared up at him. It was rare to see that look in the taller man’s eyes. True sorrow, pity even. Spending so much time around the others made him harder, more closed off to protect the group and avoid any of them from getting hurt. The fact he allowed Roach and him to become so close, and to allow himself in as well, was a bloody miracle. The three of them forged their reputations from the blood of their enemies and the buried bones of their comrades. They did not show fear to anyone but each other, and even that was a rare sight. If Konig was this pained by the request, it must have been sitting in his mind for quite some time.

The relief that flooded his expression was tangible through the darkness and fabric separating them both.

Damn Konig and his ways of winning him over. “What time do you need me gone?”

“Thank you, Ghost,” he whispers. “It is time to ruin a King.”

~~~

Soap

“Your Majesty!” A voice behind him called out in outrage and panic. He let out a disgruntled huff. He had been enjoying his walk until Laswell spotted him on the lawn. Now he was expertly trying to dodge her questions and demands in the castle gardens. He was failing miserably, but the chase kept him from needing to answer them too soon. Soap did not feel like repeating himself for the fiftieth time because the courts wanted to have his word on paper yet again. Nor did he want to be bothered with concerns of his family or crown. Just one day of peace.

“It’s ‘your Highness’, not Majesty. I am no’ King yet, Laswell. We’ve been over this,” he corrects, adding an exhausted drawl to emphasize his annoyance. Laswell caught up to him finally, looking absolutely furious. Her brows were pulled into a scowl again. Some days Soap wondered if her face would just be stuck that way. Impossible to smile or laugh or cry. Only able to glare at him and make him feel like a scolded child. She’d probably give him that look on his deathbed, if she had her way.

The woman scoffed at his overused antics. “I know exactly what you are, Mactavish. You’re my responsibility, for one. And you’re also absent from a very important meeting.” The beginning of a lecture he didn’t want to hear was brewing, he could feel it in the air. Or maybe it was the set of her shoulders that gave her away. Open, meant to make her look more intimidating. While she wasn’t petite, Laswell was of no intimidating size either. Her wrath and power as head chairman of the King’s Court spoke enough of her intimidation tactics though.

Still, when you were to be King, the scolding of a woman he saw more as family than servant held far less weight in professional matters.

“Bloody hell, Laswell. Can I not enjoy a stroll through my own gardens? I cannae stand being cooped up in that damn castle,” Soap proclaimed, gesturing to the imposing structure of stone and steel that cast its shadow over his every thought. “I need a break, before I damn well lose ma’ mind!”

It was an exaggeration, they both knew it. They also both knew what he was really avoiding. Laswell could scold him over and over, slap upside the head and drag him by his ear. Or she could lock him up in the library to study his histories, maybe his Latin, and memorize some more clan names. The lessons she was trying to teach him couldn't be found in a classroom. As hard as she tried she could not teach this stubborn boy to unlearn the hatred of grief, and so he became an even more stubborn and scornful man.

“The new possible candidates for the castle guard are going to be here in a week. You need to be prepared to make selections by then,” she explains for what has to be the tenth, if not the twentieth, time in a row. “The people need to see you are safe, and you are ready to be their King. If you do not prove yourself as heir, you know the consequences.”

Soap let out an exasperated huff. “Aye, I know. Obligation doesn’t make it any more easy, though.” She didn’t have to say it for him to know. His obligation was keeping the country afloat, and outside of enemy hands. This carefully curated image he had was trembling at its foundation. He’d need to make repairs quickly, or everything would collapse.

He could not win this fight today, so he chose a truce instead. He allowed Laswell to guide him inside the castle. Cold stone never felt less suffocating. With the pressure of his nation on his shoulders, it was easy to lose himself in his own mind. Gaz would often joke that if John went mad, his ways of ruling might actually improve. Another mad King could do less harm than what they were going up against at this point.

The council room was empty except for one figure hovering near the window. He was carefully positioned out of the angled light, but even in the light shadow his uniquely shaped beard could be picked out. His presence in Soap’s life for over a decade also aided in him being spotted so quickly. Nineteen years living in the same castle and working side by side in one way or another made it far easier to spot someone in a quiet, darkened room where they were purposely trying to hide. A man who met him yesterday would assume it was to avoid responsibility. A man who met him in this same room almost twenty years ago knew he was there to take charge where responsibility was being abandoned.

“Your Majesty,” Price says as he steps free of the shadows. “I dismissed the council, I didn’t think you’d come.” He was in his regular attire, with his dark blue gambeson partly unbuttoned to reveal the white undershirt beneath it. The silver stitching of his cuffs and collar was still holding strong despite his egregious activities threatening to wear it down to nothing, a good sign that perhaps this gear might last him a little longer yet.

“Yes, well, Laswell was very persuasive,” Soap grumbles. He takes his seat at the head of the table, despite it being unnecessary since there was no council at the table stretched out before him to discuss with. He only had the Head of the Guard and the council’s Head Chairwoman. Helpful, but incomplete.

Price took to pacing the length of the table instead of joining him at his seat. “We discussed the upcoming trials for the new knights to join our ranks. I’m sure you’re aware how important this is?” It was a rhetorical question, meant to emphasize the significance of the event. He nodded regardless to prove he was listening.

“Since the trials for new knights to join our ranks is such a well known event, many of the people are sure to be watching and attentive,” Laswell began, every syllable spoken with careful calculation. Always the politician, even among allies. “We’re taking this opportunity to cover more pressing matters, and keep them under the limelight, to garner more trust from the people and make our citizens feel more safe.”

He could sense where this was going from a mile away. He already felt the indignation flaring in his gut. “No, I told you no. We have been over this more than a dozen times, the answer is still the same. It will not change,” he reminded rather fervently. The withering look Laswell cast in his direction did nothing to shake his stance on the matter.

There was a loud bang emanating from further down the table. Price had taken pause in his pacing to slam his hands onto the worn down wooden surface. The aged furniture had seen far more violence than the throw of fists or stab of daggers. Still, it trembled under the sudden pressure, and that tremble reverberated in Soap’s bones. It did well to cover up the shiver that ran down his spine from the deathly look Price had angled at him.

Infuriating Laswell was one thing, as she had her ways of ruining his day in small ways. Stricter guards around his room, supervised trips to the library. Locks on his room at night was a rather painful reminder of her power, since he was trapped in his quarters all night during time he could’ve spent raiding the kitchen’s or sneaking through the gardens making subtle changes to freak out the gardener during the morning.

To anger the Captain was an entirely different monster to deal with. That entailed extra hours running laps around the courtyard, hauling logs, working every muscle to exhaustion. If Price felt forgiving, he’d have to spar the strongest of his soldiers until he admitted defeat and, by proxy, admitted he was wrong. When Price wasn’t feeling forgiving, Soap would have to fight him instead. The old man didn’t know anything close to mercy. Even if Soap pleaded with him that he gave up, Price pushed him harder until he couldn’t force himself to lift his sword in retaliation.

Price did not look forgiving.

“The safety of the country and the safety of your people holds far more significance than your ego, your Majesty,” he practically spat, words sharp on his tongue. As angered as he looked, the dark circles under his eyes spoke volumes of his exhaustion. He was a strong man, but every human had their limits. And even he could admit the stubbornness was a little unwarranted.

He let out a sigh, and watched Price’s shoulders relax at the obvious sign of defeat. “I will let the two of you choose a knight to be my personal guard,” he finally relinquished. “But- I make no promises on being amicable or any less of myself. You two will have to choose someone who will be capable of handling being my guard, I will not reduce myself to something more digestible for the benefit of someone I hardly know.”

Even with his hard conditions, the tension was easing out of the room. Price’s disapproval worked as a motivator for him to follow orders, as it usually did. He was glad he wasn’t in a position as the Captain’s subordinate, or he might be getting scolded far more often than he already was. As appealing as being a soldier felt, he knew that was not his path in this life. He was forced to become a King, rule a country. He was the Prince of Scotland, not some pawn in another man’s war. He’d have his own wars to fight, eventually. As of now though, his rule was unchallenged and his throne was under no threat aside from his own shenanigans.

“I trust this meeting is adjourned,” he announced, more hopeful than presumptuous if he was being honest with himself. He did not wait to hear Laswell and Price’s protests, he was already exiting the room. Relief flooded his system. Another war won within his own court, even if he started it in the first place. It was days such as this he was grateful for the simplicity of his own little world’s problems. A scolding couldn’t ruin his country, and he had trusted advisors and allies that could help him keep the country afloat and keep himself in line.

He felt at ease knowing he was safe, protected. His biggest concern was making sure his people felt that way too. Even if he was not entirely pleased with the method.

Chapter 2: False Promises

Summary:

Ghost discusses his plans with an old friend, and finds a way into the castle.
Soap meets the new recruits for his army, and tries to ignore what his duties are becoming.

Ghost

The warmth of the tavern's hearth replaces that of its customer’s greetings. An array of bodies filled the already cramped space, armed but conscious of the Crown’s watchful eye stalking the muddy streets of the distant border town. It was places like these where men with blades longer than their deft fingers and paths darker than the deepest reaches of the lakes at the feet of leannan na beinne. A wistful traveller would know better than to wander near a place such as this, or else risk being strung from a limb and picked clean of anything valuable. Depending on the patron, sometimes the most valuable thing to be taken was a life.

Despite the unsavory patrons, the stench of men who have gone plenty too long without bathing, and the cheap liquor that never keeps you drunk long enough to truly keep horrid memories away, Ghost found himself striding into the establishment as though he owned it. In a way he did, if his connections and noteable reputation spoke enough of his ownership over whatever land he chose to tread. Any smart man knew to respect him, any brave man knew when to turn down a challenge, and any fool would learn the hardest lesson of their life by crossing him.

To his great relief there were no fools lingering among the tables at such an early hour, not yet ready to accept the next day has begun, or that it is not yet at its end. There were few patrons occupying the space, and even less new faces. Most faces he recognized, as they all told stories of their own personal suffering. Scarred and marred skin, milky unseeing eyes, chunks of flesh lost to whatever beast or man let their hunger overpower their desires for survival. To the men who lounge in the darker corners of this version of the world, saying you have suffered means nothing if you cannot prove you survived beyond it.

Eyes tracked Ghost’s movements as he pushed through the door and a crowd of drunkards stumbling into the early morning sun. He knew his presence would attract attention. He learned to ignore the small army of stares years ago, when he first earned his moniker. Even those who had not seen him with their own eyes would recognize his signature mask from the horror stories that people like him shared around campfires. Here he could not be Riley, like he sometimes was with Gary. Out in the world he was Ghost, Riley was hidden away. Simon was long dead.

When he took his seat at the bar he let his mind wander back to Gary. The man had been less than pleased when he heard of Ghost’s imminent departure that morning. His anger only fueled Ghost’s resolve that him going was the best course of action, to keep Gary out of that line of fire. He knew the man could protect himself quite well, but it still eased his concerns that he wouldn’t be forced into a position that would nearly guarantee his death. Then again, he did seem willing to make the sacrifice if it meant not being stuck idle at camp with König and the rest of the group.

He was carefully tucking his personal items away into his pack, mindful of the amount of noise he was making so he wouldn’t disturb the other members of the group. He and König had been awake late into the night to finalize plans and make sure everything was in order for Ghost to leave the next day. His sleep had been fitfull and fleeting during the night, and maybe that was why one of his blades slipped from his fingers to clatter on the stones beneath his knees.

He tried to play it off as him retrieving the item from his pack to clean it, as he often did in the mornings while everyone else took their time to wake up. But he had felt Roach’s gaze linger longer than the others. He knew he spotted the packed items and lack of sharpening block to hone his blades as he recovered from sleep.

The crunch and scuffle of his feet on the rocky terrain should’ve been expected, but Ghost still flinched inwardly at the sight of Roach glowering down at him with that knowing look in his eye. He was royally fucked and he knew it now.

“What are you doing?” He asked, his words whispering into his mind, probing for information without forcing himself through the mess of Ghost’s recent memories. It still felt strange to feel him feeling around in his mind, more invasive than many interrogations he’s gone through. The translation of tone given the form of communication was remarkable.

Except when it was being used to scold him like a child. Still, debated hiding his plans from him. Not out of spite, but rather to ease his worries. Though he’d never admit that was the reason. He’d falsify some justification, brush it off as a need-to-know debrief and Roach just never needed to know.

“I am doing my job,” he said instead. “König sent me out on a private mission. It’s for the betterment of the group.” It’s the most he can say without shouting from the rooftops he was leaving to walk straight towards his death. The invincibility of his namesake wouldn’t protect him from the real blades of the Crown. Nothing could keep Roach from digging through his mind himself and discovering the truth anyway. At least nothing without pain.

“Take me with you,” he urges. Ghost pulls the straps of his pack tight to seal in its contents. It’s answer enough, but Roach is still at his side when he rises to his feet. The look of determination in his eyes is comforting, but not enough to deter him from his duties. He levels Roach with a look that screams displeasure. If he causes a scene now it will make his departure all the more difficult and messy. From the challenging glare, he knows it too.

As the icing on the cake, König saunters over towards them both. He seems casual, but that’s just to put the other men at ease. He can see the burning rage swirling beneath the shadows of his hood. He should’ve been gone now, he knows, but obvious factors prevented him from departure. König stopped between them, shifting his gaze between the two men.

He turns his displeasure on Roach first. “Is there a problem, Roach?” He asks, his prickling thorns of rage smoothed over by a mask of polite concern. Gary rips through the facade almost immediately. There’s an inner conversation Ghost cannot be privy to. From the way König winces and glowers, Roach is voicing his own vehement displeasure. He never does like being left out of plans.

“It is for the good of us all,” König finally announces, though he is mindful of wandering stares and the sharpened hearing of fully awake ears. “I understand your concerns, but it is my decision and it is final. Ghost has consented, he has agreed to the terms. When this is over and he returns-”

The sound of Gary’s voice cuts through the air, “Bull-fucking-shit.” He’s seething, and the degree of anger takes them both by surprise. Ghost’s hands balled into fists to avoid reaching out for him. He knows in times like these Roach prefers that physical reassurance he is alive, that he is present. But Ghost has become the subject of his anger, he cannot offer comfort for a pain he is willingly causing. Roach would see it as a form of patronizing him anyway.

“You know he’s not coming back!” Roach continues, voice raising an octave. König shoves a hand over his mouth before Ghost as time to react himself. Gary looks so full of rage and pain, the hurt from betrayal burning in his eyes. When the questioning stares slide away Roach shoves him away with all the force he can muster. The giant allows himself to be pushed, giving the younger man the space of a few stumbling steps.

“I will, Gary. I will. You can trust my word. I have not failed you before, I will not fail you now,” Ghost soothes, a single stitch for a gaping gash.

Of course he didn’t believe him. He hardly believed himself, he would be surprised if Gary did. But it worked to ease some of the tension forming between the three of them. Things wouldn’t go well with the group if Roach was acting as second in command and had it out for the man he was supposed to be advising. The lie was necessary, an offer for peace they both knew would never be achieved.

In the end, what appeased him the most was being involved in the mission himself. While Ghost was gathering information from the castle and preparing for the assassination of the King, he would report his findings to Roach once a week. It kept them together, although distant, and worked to reassure him that he was alive, despite this new goal’s less than comfortable odds.

Before he could waltz in to the castle and slice the terrible King’s throat where he stands, as wonderful and impossibly easy as that sounds, he would need to gather intelligence he could only find in one place from one man who would only speak of such risky truths under very particular circumstances for a very high price. Unless you were a friend of the bartender of course.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” A deep voice rattles him from his thoughts, “What makes you think this place is welcoming to your kind, hm?” Slowly Ghost tilts his head up to look at the owner of the voice. A man stands across the bar from him, large hands braced against the worn wood. He leans to make his shoulders appear more broad, his slicked back hair glimmering under the candlelight. His facial hair has become a little untamed, adding to the look of gruff barkeep, prepared to throw drunken little shits out on their asses given the need.

Ghost meets his open disdain with a heated glare of his own. “Came here for a glass of whiskey, maybe even something actually edible,” he grumbles. Slowly, he rises from his seat. “But clearly I made a mistake coming to a shit hole like this. Should’ve known better than to come to some place owned by a bloody Northerner. And a Russian one at that, just my luck.”

“This Northerner doesn’t like ones like you, doesn’t matter where you are from,” he says, allowing his accent to grow thicker with each word. “Come to the back. Learn a lesson or two about walking into places you’re not welcome.” The barkeep releases his grip on the bartop, revealing indents in the wood. Subtle marks of the pressure created by his fingers.

Ghost follows him towards the back of the tavern, aware of all the eyes tracking his movements. He feels them burn into his back as he retreats to receive his punishment for trespassing into an establishment not meant for people like him. He’s prepared for a fight, but sincerely hopes it doesn’t escalate to such extremes. He still needs to make it to the castle of Old Scotland if he wants to kill the King.

The room the barkeep leads him into is small, largely occupied by a wooden desk full of scattered papers. There’s a small window providing an advantageous view of any patrons or passersby roaming behind the tavern. The room itself carries the stench of cigars and fish, as is the specialty meal here. He chuckles internally at the irony of it. He’s silent however, waiting for the barkeep to slowly close the door and turn to face him.

“That was rather risky, making an entrance like that. They almost recognized you, I’m sure of it,” he warns. The “they” in question would be the two poorly disguised royal guards holed up in the corner watching the rest of the patrons go about their day. It explained the emptiness of the place, even during the lull of the morning gracing sensitive eyes that had grown used to candlelight with the brightening sun rising in the east.

“If I snuck around, they’d get more suspicious,” Ghost corrects. “Besides, if they kicked up a fuss it wouldn’t have taken much to put them in their place. They should know better than to wander this far from the castle, or the capital for that matter.”

Old Scotland had been a frequented area for König’s group, which meant it was easy to remember trade routes, guard patterns, and typical areas that were good to set camp or conduct business in with minimal interruptions. For some reason the security had been increasing, which made deals and jobs harder to come by. Coin purses were emptying faster than they could be refilled, and communications were becoming more difficult between factions and dealers. He could tell the barkeep was feeling it just as much as he was.

“Then you’ve noticed it too? The increase in patrols?” He stalks over to the window, peeking outside towards the street. “That Child King is up to something, I know it.” A disadvantage of having his office on the main floor was not being able to see further distances from a height, but he saw well enough. He knew everything that happened in this town. Every deal, every transaction, every faction new and fallen. He kept records of every group that passed through, their affiliations, whether they could be trusted. It’s why Ghost came to him before departing on his way to the castle.

“That’s why I’m here, Nikolai,” he finally admits. “König has received an… opportunity. It’s a decent pay out, a ticket out of the country for a while. It’ll be good for business too.” This seems to pique Nik’s interest, for a split second, before his expression falls. His expression visibly hardens, without Ghost even having to explain himself or elaborate on his plans. Nikolai’s hands are already balling into fists at his sides.

“What has the Beast put you up to now, huh? Some impossible feat he dares not attempt himself?” Nikolai bites. He laughs bitterly at his own words, and Ghost tries not to grimace at the way the sound grates on his ears. He’s somewhat grateful for the lack of dangerous instruments within the older man’s reach. Then again, he’s sure to have a knife or two stashed away for emergency situations. Ghost would just rather not deal with one of his outbursts, or worse, his attempts at helping the situation.

“It’s not impossible.” He chooses his words carefully to avoid spiking more anger in Nikolai. “We have a plan. I’m going to infiltrate the castle, gather some information that can be sold to waiting buyers. Then, when we’ve reaped the benefits of my position, we have plans to kill the King.” Not the best delivery, and definitely not something he should be preaching from the rooftops. But when working with Nik and his business, it has always proven to be better when you are blunt and honest rather than delicately dancing around harsh truths of the job.

“And you want my help?” He asks incredulously. He should’ve expected pushback. Possible association with a plot to murder the King of Old Scotland was treason in and of itself, punishable by death depending on the level of involvement. Dragging Nikolai into this was putting his life at risk. Just breathing it into the air was tying the noose around his throat.

“Just need a way in, and a way out. Think you can manage that?” Ghost prompts. It was a far shot, he knew that from the beginning. But those poorly disguised guards sitting in the darkest corner of the bar were walking motivation to join on the job, lest he miss an opportunity to get business threats off his back. A break for Kortac was a break for Chimera. From the look dancing in his eyes, Nik knew it too.

“I can get you a way in. For now, the way out is in your hands,” he relents. Ghost hides the relieved slump in his shoulders by approaching the window when Nikolai moves away to his desk. He tugs open drawers, rifling through papers and grumbling curses under his breath. Some of them are ones in a language Ghost only faintly understands, but he turns when he hears them cease. Nikolai is holding out a paper to him. “This should be your ticket in,” he elaborates.

Ghost takes the page to read its contents. A request that all able-bodied men of appropriate age come to the castle of Old Scotland per the King’s request. An opportunity to train and become knights under His Majesty’s name. Fighting against New Britain, and fighting for the glory of his country. The poster reminded him of when he was younger. Similar sentiments, rulers beckoning you to join the fight against New Britain.

He had seen what war did to people. He had watched over and over how the scars left behind by never-ending conflict slowly tore minds and families apart. War was not beautiful, it was not glorious, men did not come home from war with smiles and pride plastered on their faces. There was no joy or celebration to be had from war. An end to a battle did not mean success. There was no true victory when those in power could not make peace with each other. There was only the overwhelming knowledge that as a soldier you were not a person. You were just a pawn in something greater than yourself.

Ghost shoved the paper back into Nikolai’s chest. “What else is there?”

“This is your only chance. The men guarding the castle are too well trained for you to sneak in. They have wards, if you use magic they’ll detect it and have you executed within minutes,” Nik warns, his lips curving into a deep frown. “This is the best option. They wouldn’t even take you as a stable hand or errand boy. You’d be drafted into their army one way or another.”

“I will not be a footsoldier in the army of some Child King who doesn’t know how to run a country!” Ghost hisses, just quiet enough it wouldn’t reach listening ears outside the confines of their make-shift planning room. “I am not anybody’s soldier.”

“That’s a lie and we both know it. It’s why you’re here, is it not?” He tries to formulate some rebuttal to Nikolai’s claims, but he’s right. Even without serving under a man with a title or riches, he is still a soldier in somebody else’s war. But he has the freedom to choose his battles. He has a say in what he fights for beyond a country that doesn’t know his name and a man who doesn’t care to learn it. This is a battle he has chosen, for the good of him, and for those he’s still able to protect.

Ghost lets the reality of his situation sink into his bones. It tightens his muscles, traps his breaths inside his lungs, forces his eyes shut. It’s the furthest thing from ideal or planned for, but it’s his only option that doesn’t immediately lead to his own demise. When he opens his eyes, Nikolai is holding the paper out again.
He snatches it out of his grip with a deep sigh. The contract of his death is tucked into his sleeve.

***

The journey to the capital took longer than he had hoped. Weather was not on his side, with consistent downpour forcing him towards shelter more often than he would have preferred. With more guards wandering through the trails, in search of some whispered threat, it became difficult to take familiar routes. Several detours were made to avoid detection of units of the King’s men. By the time he finally reached the capital and the last of his journey seemed within reach, over three weeks had passed. He’d need to settle in quickly so he could send word to Roach that he had made it to the castle.

Its mountainous walls soared up above him, drawing his eyes to the towers overlooking the village and stretch of lake and fields below. Certainly too large for a single man to own. The courtyard was bustling with activity. Men and women rushed around him, tending to the needs of a castle he’d only heard about in tall tales and distant whispers.

Reality hit him hard, like a horse’s stomp to the chest. He had reached the Edinburgh castle, home of the man he was hired to kill. A man who may not even be a man at all, but truly the child everyone depicts him to be. Rumors were not in his favour in terms of appearances.

A gathering of men, young and old alike, drew his attention. He made his way over, joining the huddled group of strangers to blend in within their ranks. From what he could ascertain, they were awaiting an opportunity to speak to a stern looking woman who was sitting outside a gate to an area of the courtyard blocked off from prying eyes. He waited patiently for his turn to approach the table.

“Name, age, and town of birth,” the woman says, her eyes still glued to the page that was filled with information. He catalogued some of the names, in hopes they could be useful later. Alias’ and bounties he could tip off to the necessary people if the need arose. When he didn’t immediately answer, the woman looked up.
She was easily a decade his senior, with creases in her brow and around her eyes already permanent in her taut face. “I said, name, age, and town o’ birth,” she repeats, and her Scottish accent leaks into her words. Ghost snaps out of whatever stupor he was trapped under, mind lost to concerns of being discovered.

“Riley, thirty-three… Manchester,” he answers reluctantly. All truths, at the root. He doesn’t need to provide any more than that. She eyes him for a moment, her gaze lingering on the dark mask concealing the lower half of his face and folded up over his brow. He gives her a warning look, daring her to question his choice in attire or challenge his appearance. Reluctantly, she gestures to him through the gate and beckons the next man forward.

He doesn’t let the relief take hold for too long. He’s still deep in enemy territory, and every action had damning consequences. He’d need to be more careful than that. Losing himself in his own mind meant losing his own life in situations like these.

The gate she directed him through led to a separate courtyard filled to the brim with men and training equipment. Dummies, courses, and targets were strategically placed to optimise as much of the space as possible. Long distance weapons furthest from the gates and doorways, spears and longswords in a corner away from those working with shortswords and knives. Training courses to test agility and endurance closer to buildings but still putting space between gates and pathways. Even sparring squares closer to the castle’s wall. Straw bales were stacked up against the brick to avoid the worst of any injury.

The mud was slick under his boots as he trudged over to stand with the other men who had signed up for this highway horror show of a career choice. They talked among themselves, so he busied himself adjusting his gear to better conceal the weapons he carried on his person. It was more than likely almost every man in the crowd was carrying some sort of blade, a futile defense against roadmen on their journey here. But he didn’t need to draw unnecessary attention to himself with the amount he had in excess.

Ghost spotted two men tucked away into a corner, observing the gathering of knightly candidates with a mixture of awe and humour. He shrugged away the discomfort of not being able to tell what they were saying, lips concealed behind hands and men passing by, and instead tried to discern who they were from appearance alone. Any edge to his awareness here would aid him in gathering information while staying alive.

They were both of similar height and age, so they could both possibly be knights. He hadn’t seen any formal uniforms of castle guards, but from the looks of it they were just slightly more decadent than the uniforms of those in the city or patroling the roads and towns.

The darker skinned man was dressed in the country's typical blue and silver. His curly hair was cropped short to his head, as was typical for men in the military of this country. Shorter hair meant less to maintain and less for your enemies to grab. He was clean shaven, probably a privilege of remaining in the castle for most of his service. From the silver arrows on his shoulder, he’s a sergeant. He looks a little young for such a rank, but with a country at war men get dragged up fast. Or lack of experience has allowed him to maintain his youth. His lean frame speaks of years of physical training and practiced movement.

The man beside him is hardly anything of a military officer. His hair is slightly shaggy and shaved on the sides into something of a mohawk, if only more grown out and loose. He wears the flag's colours, but not in the typical guard or soldier style. They looked like they were clean pressed, but he had discarded formalities to open his coat and unbutton his sleeves. The light scruff of his beard is visible, even from here. He looks a bit stockier than the other man, clearly not as physically honed for stealth and blending in, but still fit nonetheless. He’s definitely no larger than Ghost, nor is he any taller. He’s most likely some noble brat eyeing the fresh meat of his leader's new army.

Ghost casts him one more final glance, before dismissing him as a non-essential pawn in this deathly game of chess. He cannot waste his time on the crumbs of aristocracy when he has an opportunity to eliminate the King of Old Scotland and turn the reigning powers of this old country into ruin. He had a lifetime assured of wealth and safety ahead of him. Some duke or lord’s brat was none of his business.

He cast the boy another look. His eyes darted away again when the man’s head turned in his direction. He blamed the feeling of a burning gaze on the people around him spotting his mask and hulking size. When a man, higher rank officer by the looks of it, climbed up onto the stage he let out a small huff of relief through his nose. Finally, things were getting started and he could begin training. He could start this suicidal trip of a mission.

~~~

Soap

He took Price striding onto stage as a sign to quiet his musings about the new batch of recruits brought in to become the next platoon of soldiers in his fight against New Britain. They looked to be a sturdy group, mostly men in their mid-twenties driven by curiosity and a need for some greater purpose. Eager to please, to be part of something more than what they already pictured ahead of themselves.

Some of the men look to be in their later thirties too. Widowers or bachelors who feel they’re running out of time. Getting nowhere with their lives and in need of some great change that makes them feel their life has some purpose that wasn’t the preservation of memory. They knew what this path could lead to, what they were putting on the line. A risk the younger men among them had yet to realize they were taking.

After so many groups coming through, and hearing Price’s tired speech about justice, safety, and caution, he could pick out what type of man each individual standing in front of him was. It didn’t lessen the guilt of knowing he was the reason they were here. They were all fighting in his name when he couldn’t risk losing the sole male heir to the throne of Old Scotland. Not when the alternative put the lives of all his people into the hands of someone that could wipe them out in one fell swoop.

He watched the men who came in to fight his battles because he hoped to understand them beyond the simple categories they all seemed to fit into. He felt a responsibility to at least understand the people sacrificing their lives for him. He could never know these men as well as he knew Gaz, or Price, or Laswell. But that didn’t deter him from making an effort to know the men he brought into his war.

He was distantly listening to Price’s speech, even though he’s heard it a dozen times before. He could probably recite it himself if someone asked him to. As the world around us descends into chaos, we must hold strong. You men are here for a purpose. To protect your country, your people. In the name of our King you will save our country from ruin, he recites in his head. He’s further into the speech by now though, providing blunt warnings that they could meet their deaths, that they would see unimaginable horrors and they would not return to their families the same.

Some men nodded in acknowledgement, already as prepared as they can be for the darkness of this career. Some others are staring in awe and horror. Soap watches the shock dawn on their faces as to what exactly they’ve done to themselves. He wouldn’t blame them for walking away from this. He’s seen it before, and already ordered the guards not to stop them if it happens. They all have the freedom to leave, just as they have the freedom to live with the consequences.

One man in particular catches his eye. He’d skipped over him the first time he’d been doing his scan of the troops. Him and Gaz were huddled in a corner and had been pointing out noticeable facts about the new troops. The way they were built, obvious weaknesses, what specialties they could be directed towards to optimise their experience and take advantage of any available potential. He had been so lost in studying the troops that were throwing themselves into the throng, it took him too long to notice the man lingering at the group's edge.

He was noticeably larger than any of the other men there, both in width and height. A beast of a man, clad in all black. Soap was briefly reminded of the shadows lingering in the corners of the castle, deep abysmal spaces that had him scampering away from the threats his imagination had conjured up for him. He couldn’t tell if the man standing across the courtyard was a corporeal and solid person, or something otherworldly. When he blinked and the man was gone, he thought he’d gone mad.
Years of grief and isolation had truly made him go mad.

Is that all it takes? Does loss destroy you this easily?

He doesn’t want to ponder the inconsiderable for too long, mostly out of fear. He doesn’t want to become a mad King. He’s already on his way to being written down in history as a shut-in, he doesn’t need to add lunatic to the description. He wants a better start for whoever his successor becomes.

The man materializes again, having been previously hidden by a shift in the group of men. One of them stepped a little too close and flinched away slightly, casting him a quick look before averting his gaze. So Soap wasn’t dreaming then. This man wasn’t some hallucination his mind created to personify his fears, to remind him during his waking hours of all he’d lost.

The spectre of a man shifted in and out of sight as he was lost in the crowd of men preparing to retrieve their gear and equipment and start their new lives. When the man didn’t resurface again, Soap felt a twist of anxiety and fear in his gut.

He’d spent months studying the men that came through his gates. He’d spent years with the soldiers on base, learning alongside them and cataloging their movements and tips for his own personal training.

This man did not move like a humble farmer, or a snide businessman. Nor did he move like a veteran of war, or a soldier of a foreign country cast out of his squadron. With his mask, it was impossible to tell his age with much certainty. The straightness of his spine and sturdiness of his frame spoke volumes of his practice in careful movement and agility. He was trained to be unseen, and yet Soap had spotted him.

He was both intrigued and deeply unsettled to know such a man would be working for him.

“Everything alright, mate?” Gaz asked on his shoulder. Soap jolted out of his reverie and turned to acknowledge the other man. There was concern dancing with the mirth in his eyes, unhidden but startling just the same. He was always one to care too much, get too passionate. Careful, but driven by the need to prove himself and all that he believed.

“Aye, I’m alright. Just thought I saw something is all,” Soap responded in earnest. Something is definitely one way of putting it. He had to turn away from the training grounds to avoid getting lost in his own mind again. He ignored the burning feeling of being watched in his back.

“Can’t be going mad already, your Majesty. Still have a war to win,” Gaz teases, even as the uneasiness in his gaze reaches the tension in his shoulders. Even if he doesn’t say it, the humor is a coverup for underlying worries. Not just for Soap, but for his career. A lunatic on the throne would hardly make for a suitable leader in battle.

They never spoke of the underlying tension Soap’s jealousy sometimes caused. Where Gaz had the opportunity to see the throws of battle and feel the rush of adrenaline, Soap was trapped in his glorified prison of stone and politics.

“That we do,” he murmured half-heartedly in response. “What do you think of this new batch, then? Think they’re cut out for what you ‘n’ Price are gonna throw at ‘em?” In the quiet privacy of Gaz’s company, he felt comfortable letting his accent slip into less intelligible lilts. This wasn’t the meeting room, or a formal negotiation with other nations. This was him chatting with a friend. Damn Laswell for trapping him in the mindset of pristine formality.

Gaz snorted a little. “They’re certainly a group, that I’ll say. But it’s normal to be scared. Hell, I know I was. It’s the pressure. Got ‘em thinking too much about the purpose, not enough about the action. Get these lads into training, most of them will take off.”

Soap nodded slowly in agreement, his gaze trailing on the path ahead of him. Slick mud and pebbles gave away to stone steps and thick blue carpets leading down the chilling halls. He was too lost in anticipatory thoughts of training this new batch of recruits he didn’t pay any mind to how much mud he was tracking onto the worn fabric. The head made, a fond and familiar woman, would give him hell for it later. If she didn’t reach Laswell to complain about it first.

“That one lad looked near ready to pish himself when Price mentioned the fieldwork though,” Soap comments, a twinge of a smile curving his lips. The poor sod in question was a younger looking fellow, probably early twenties if not younger, who from appearances alone could be from a small farming town or forestry sector to the east. A boy who never had to lift a blade in his life if it wasn’t to an animal. Sheltered by default instead of choice.

Soap desired such luxuries more than he desired freedom.

“Reckon he did. Kept hiding his front after Price started talkin’ ‘bout the shit he’d seen in his time,” Gaz chortles, and Soap joins in on the quiet laughter. The fair wander through the halls of the castle, continuing their bantering and laughter. It’s much easier to forget the horrors waiting on the borders of their home when they’ve got jokes to tell and new recruits to tease.

They make their way to the gardens, weaving their way through the pots of flowers and trellises teaming with overgrown vines. It’s easy to get lost in the maze of life during the bountiful summer.

When he was younger, Soap would scurry around and hide among the bushes. He’d wait for his father to find him, a little game they played during the warmer months. The King would scoop him off the grass and toss him into the air. That rush of adrenaline and joy was something he constantly chased. OVer the years it shaped itself into something bitter and distant. A lover that abandoned you and scorned you.

During these summer months he lingers in the hedges, calling on memories of his father. He tries not to taint them with his most recent memories of him. It’s an effort to keep the dark images at bay. There are some days he can’t bring himself to push them away at all. He lurks in a corner and stews in his boundless guilt and pain.

With Gaz with him, it’s easier to ignore the surge of nausea tearing itself through his gut.

“Oi, what did you think of that hulking lad, though?” Gaz suddenly cuts in, and he has to snap his attention away from a flowerbed teeming with blooming primroses. His mind lurched back to the masked man who had towered among the other new initiates.

“He’s goin’ to be interestin’ to train, that’s for sure,” Soap responds when he regains his footing in the conversation. “Can’t begin to fathom where he’s from. Haven’t seen a lad built like that before. Dinnae ken why he’s even here.”

Gaz nods along to his words. “Definitely not just some farmer’s boy or butcher like the rest of ‘em,” he concedes. “Need me to keep an eye on him, your Majesty?” Soap should’ve expected the offer to come up, but it still felt like a slap on the face. Even with Gaz, he couldn’t escape his title or his lineage. He could only get a small reprieve.

“No, I’ll have none of that. Dinnae need ya spying on the new recruits,” he quickly interjects, before Gaz can start going in on how he’ll be of help. “And none of that ‘your majesty’ shite either, Garrick. Bad enough I’ve got Laswell breathing down my neck about titles and propriety. Last thing I need is you waving the crown in my face too.”

Instant regret hits him when he sees the guilt on Gaz’s face. He can see the apology being formed in his mind, ready to find its way out his lips. He knows he was harsh, maybe even a little too snappy. But in some ways he couldn’t help himself when it felt as though everyone was trying to force him into a role he wasn’t ready to take on.

Still, denial was never decent justification for cruelty. He can’t bring himself to apologize, but he nudges Gaz’s shoulder with his own. When the other man finally looks at him, brown eyes swirling with his own guilt, Soap offers him a soft smile. It seems to reassure him, if only slightly.

They’ll be okay, he tells himself.

Liar, whispers another voice at the back of his mind.

Notes:

Sorry for such a slow updating schedule, school and life gets really busy but I'm aiming for a chapter every 1-2 weeks
Please be patient, I'm sorry

Chapter 3: Process of Elimination

Summary:

Training begins for the new recruits, and garden walks become too great a risk to take

Notes:

CW graphic depictions of violence and animal death near the end of the chapter

No gore, but still be mindful. Tags have also been updated

Ghost

It had taken him an uncomfortable amount of time to fall asleep amongst his new bunkmates. Their snores hadn’t bothered him, droning and loud as they may be. Nor had the possibility of their plots to kill him in his sleep. He had grown quite accustomed to those. He knew if any made an attempt on his life he’d be able to subdue them with ease. None of these men looked to be anywhere close to prepared for any sort of fight.

No, the men he shared open barracks with had hardly been a problem at all, in the grand scheme of things.

What kept him awake, staring at the creaking ceiling with loathing and anxiety swirling in his gut, was the proximity to the castle.

He knew it was foolish. With his cowl, and the years passed, he would not be recognized. Even if they ripped the face covering from his head and forced him into the sunlight, preparing for him to sizzle and burn no doubt, they would not recognize the man with marred skin and poorly healed battle scars. Even the captain himself would not be able to direct his sword to his throat, with utmost certainty he was befalling the right man. The ambiguity of his appearance added to any plausible deniability he had.

Still, the castle was right there. A testament to his sins, proof of what his crimes have led to. Inside was a young king, possibly— probably, if he was honest with himself— a child, peaceful in his bed of delicate swan feathers and rich furs. A puny soul unbothered by horrors he has yet to witness. A boy, just as he was once. Just as he will never be again.

The morning bells being rung at their door did little to startle him, as they were not waking him from sleep. Still, he was grateful for the break from his incessant wallowing over trivial matters.

He has a job to do. There’s no point lingering on the fine details.

The groans of displeasure and uptake in rustling sheets wasn’t anything new to him, even if the faces were. Ghost pretended to be just as disgruntled by the prospect of leaving his bed as the others. It wasn’t that difficult, with huffs and sighs, sluggish movements weighed down by sleep’s lingering chains. Waking up as the sun broke the horizon was nothing new to him.

“Up ya get! Let’s go, lads!” A man called out from the doorway to their barracks. He was a darker skinned man, with a scowl pulling his young features taut. The severity of his glare as he skims the crowd of bumbling men trying to regain their footing adds a few years to his age.

Ghost suspects him to be similar in age to the men he saw yesterday, lingering in the shadows and gossiping like two hags in a tavern.

He could also be older than him by some years and kept himself well. Regardless of age, he certainly doesn’t look to be the gossiping type.

“Let’s go, men! Get your lazy arse’s out of bed!” He bellows, and for a moment Ghost suspects even those sleeping in the furthest wings of the castle can hear his cries. It’s hardly a warm welcome into a new life serving in the King’s army, but you can’t expect the royal guard to have bannock and whiskey waiting by the fire so you’re ready to fight their wars.

Still, it’s the motivation plenty of these men seem to need in order to get their hinds in gear and actually prepare for the day. Some complain more than others, and he’s lucky those in his closest vicinity aren’t the overly loud whiners. Nothing an old knife to the throat wouldn’t fix, but he’s not looking to make enemies.

Making friends isn’t the goal either. This is army training, not a school house. But men are far more likely to share their secrets and knowledge over a good cup of ale with an ally rather than over a cold blade with a foe. Even if the rivalry is something rather petty and ridiculous.

He’s spent just enough time in Old Scotland to learn of its inhabitants' stubborn spitefulness.

He tugs on his boots and fastens his overcoat firmly in place. He forgoes any of the bulkier armor-like clothes he wore on his trek here, as it draws far too much attention and would only make training more difficult.

The men are herded out below the awning, where food has been haphazardly placed on long tables, where the people who set them already knew the setting wouldn’t matter much once the men got their grubby hands on the bowls and plates of morning grub.

Some individuals were already out and stuffing their faces in preparation for the long day ahead. Throughout the meal more bodies filtered in from the barracks hall, all in varying degrees of awake and prepared to face whatever struggles the day was going to present them with.

Ghost sat apart from the majority of the men. This early in the morning, he couldn’t stand to listen to their poorly framed jests and badgering.

Still, he kept a watchful eye among them. He searched for any tells, any weaknesses, any hints as to their purpose or intent in joining the King’s army. Most probably did it for honour, or to feel a sense of purpose. But there were sure to be some with darker intentions.

The man who had woken them that morning, with his deep scowl and hawk eyes, sat among guards who looked to be of higher rank, or maybe higher importance. Ghost couldn’t tell yet. All he could tell was that he was quite familiar with the man who had lectured them upon arrival, a Captain if he recalled correctly. There was another man at their table with his back to Ghost, but by the details of his uniform and his carefully shorn curls he could be one of the gossiping gawkers he had spotted yesterday lingering by the castle.

The Captain looked to be laughing at something by the way his shoulders shook, and the small begrudging smile mostly hidden beneath his thick mustache.
If he had the free time to ponder facial hair, most of it would be spent wondering why he made such a bold choice as that.

Still, the three strangers briefly reminded him of himself, König, and Gary. It was oftentimes Gary cracking jokes, though his delivery was often deadpan to keep you guessing on what was truth and what was his twisted humour. More than a few times he’d caught himself trying to hide a smile, so he’d take the opportunity to mock König for laughing at it instead.

Ghost internally shook the fond thoughts from his mind. Now wasn’t the time nor place for reminiscing on times passed. He’d worry about Gary’s shite humour—and König’s even worse methods of hiding how much he enjoyed it— when he wasn’t so deep in enemy territory he disguised himself as one. He had a job, a mission, and he intended to focus on that above all else.

The new recruits were gathered once their breakfast was done and herded towards the training areas, so they could familiarize themselves with the equipment and learn what they’d be training towards over the next few weeks, or even months. He tried not to let the hope glinting in their young eyes eat at him too much. They’d learn soon enough, it wasn’t his job to make sure they were coddled through it. The world needed soldiers, not simpering cowards.
He cursed himself for sounding so much akin to his father.

The man who had woken them from their beds was leading the unorthodox tour of the grounds. It was hard to feel like walking through a church or library when the displays were swords and violent eloquence. This was his museum. This was his hall of attractions. He did not belong among those who served the crown, but he understood these soldiers.

“I will be acting as your instructor while you are stationed here. If you work your way up the ranks quick enough you can start to structure your own training,” the man explained in a dry tone as he left the group, “please note while you are under my instruction you also have to report to me. This means when you leave the barracks, you tell me. You participate in extra training, you tell me. You bring a pretty lass back into your bed, you tell me.”

The last comment seemed incredibly targeted. There was no way one of the men had managed such a feat yet, but it wouldn’t surprise him if it had happened before. If your mind isn’t totally broken by the sights you see, and you’re not too exhausted or drunk to get it up, sometimes a warm body is the best distraction there is.
But the lads, boys really, that surrounded Ghost now were nowhere near that point. They were still looking to swing their sword and drop their pants without much care. He didn’t want to be around long enough to see that change.

“My name is Rollin, but you will refer to me as Lieutenant or Sir unless told otherwise. Your gear for heavier training will not be provided until you’ve proven you can handle the responsibility of such.” He gives a pointed look at a younger man at the front, whose cheeks redden with embarrassment under the scrutiny. Ghost distantly remembers him boasting about a run-in he’d had with a roadman on his way here. His tale held far too much grandeur to be real, and it seems he wasn’t the only one who picked up on it.

Whoever this Rollin lad was, he seemed to have a good head on his shoulders and a sound mind within. Ghost decided when the time came, he’d make things quick and painless.

There was no point in making a decent man suffer for his forced associations.

He followed the group through the grounds, mindful of entries, exits, where guards were posted. Each scan of the vast courtyard was spent lingering on each detail. A desperate search for anything he could use to his advantage. A door to the servants pathways, a gate to gardens behind the castle. The sentries posted atop each wall.

He understood better now why Nikolai had been so against him coming here. The place was a bloody death trap. One wrong step and he’d have arrows raining down on his head, swords swinging at him from every angle.

Succeeding in not only gathering information about the court to relay to Roach, but actually getting close enough to the King himself to actually kill him, seemed infinitely times more difficult now than before. König sent him to his own grave. He should’ve known this was the reason he approached him instead of anybody else. His doom was scribed onto every brick and blade of his new gilded prison.

“To start, we need to see what skills we’re already working with,” Rollin begins instructing once all the new recruits are gathered around a harder packed dirty area partially walled off from the rest of the grounds. Something he hadn’t been able to catalogue earlier, but noted as a more private space for his own personal training and endeavours.

Rollin was pacing in front of the huddled group, eyeing his prey with calculated malice. “You-” he points to the man who had been boasting earlier- “join me in the ring. Let’s see your skills first.” He doesn’t wait for the cocky young man to follow. He’s already striding towards the lowered section of the square space, where the ground is padded with hay and covered thoroughly in a layer of packed sand. A makeshift sparring area, but definitely better than anything he’s used before.
Rollin takes his stance on the far end, feet squared with his arms raised but fingers open and curled into loose fists. His entire body is coiled with careful tension, enough to spring or fall away. Dancing in a limbo of control. Risky, but admirable.

The cocky wanker doesn’t seem to have enough humility knocked into him yet, because his steps are wide and his stance is loose when he readies himself. The likelihood of his roadman story actually being true dwindles with every poorly made adjustment in his stance. Ghost nearly grimaces beneath his mask.
He’d be more concerned if he wasn’t so eager to see the egotistical brat get knocked down a few pegs. Knocked down on his ass a few times too. Would serve him right.

“Guard rules are as follows; No weapons in the ring, no dirty moves, no one steps in to help. This ends when one of us forfeits or can no longer fight. Understood?” Rollin asks, loud enough for the entire group to hear. It’s more of a warning than a clarification. Any violation of these rules could result in being cast out onto the street, or depending on the severity, serious interference by the crown itself.

With no timekeeper, the two of them were left to circle each other until one or the other made a move.

The younger man, who at this point Ghost has taken to internally calling him Roads for his ridiculous story, is the first to attempt to strike. He’d put emphasis on attempt, since the wide swing was easily duped and ducked. Ghost has seen drunkards and teens take better swings than that.

Roads moves his feet like a duckling learning to walk, wide and wobbly. It would be far too easy to swipe a leg underneath, or hook his ankle and send him crashing down. His throws are wide and feral. He’s flailing his arms to get a hit in rather than making targeted hits to focus his attacks. He can’t land a single blow with how easily his movements are deflected.

The Rollin fellow doesn’t look to be making much of an effort. He’s mostly working on the defensive, letting Roads tire himself out.

It doesn’t take long for Roads’ movements to become sluggish and slow, with sweat building on his brow and staining his collar. Ghost can almost see the cogs turning in Rollin’s mind as he goes in for the kill. A quick jab to the stomach, another to his ribs. One, two to his face, with a tad bit of extra force to ensure he goes down.

And fall he does. Crumbling to a heap on the tightly packed sand, one hand curled around his no-doubt aching stomach, the other clutching his nose that's begun slowly oozing and dribbling blood.

“Can anyone tell me why that was such a miserable attempt at subduing a threat?” Rollin asked, his eyes gliding over the crowd. They pointedly lingered on Ghost, who held his stare in challenge. The moment passed just as soon as it began.

“Well ‘is swings were pretty wild. Flippin’ abou’ like a drunkard wit’ no real rhyme or reason,” one man from the group finally says. Rollin nods, and reaches down to help Roads to his feet. The man allows himself to be pulled to his feet, though his scowl gives away his distaste for the assistance. Pride would be his downfall if he let it continue its path of consumption through his heart and mind.

“Anything else?” Rollin continues, his eyes scanning the crowd. He could be searching for a target for questioning, or maybe another victim to his next display of power. Ghost could tell he was using Roads, someone who already gained a handful of popularity on his first day, as an example of the repercussions of wandering a little too ahead of the herd.

He’d seen König do it dozens of times. When a new member of the crew thought himself high and mighty, willing to test the skills of the band’s “King.” The battle for dominance never lasted long. The only options the giant allowed were submission or obliteration.

Things would be different here. Failure didn’t mean death in its literal sense. You had an opportunity for rebirth, to resurrect the broken corpse of your past self and reshape it into something easier for the crown and kingdom to manipulate. Contorting yourself into a pawn in the world’s petty disputes.

Ghost tuned out the bustle of explanations on technique and corrections on Roads' less than pathetic attempt at subduing his target. He was already mentally cataloguing the man’s weaknesses. He didn’t know how long he’d be here, so it was best to gather baseline intel on his unwitting bunkmates.

He watched Rollin guide the recruits through different training exercises, beginning on the most barebone techniques of defense. Nothing Ghost hadn’t practiced and used effectively hundreds of times before, but any opportunity to practice was useful.

He pretended to ignore Rollin’s watchful eye until dinner came.

Dusk made its arrival when Rollin finally called the training to a close. Every one of the men had worked up a sweat, some more than others. Ghost was grateful for the mask covering the worst of his reddened cheeks, even if it interrupted his heaving breaths.

Dinner was hosted inside a great hall near the barracks, with tables consuming the space in rows and bursting at the brim with men of all ages and backgrounds tossing back brews, tearing into the provided spread, and chortling over the embellished tales of their companions.

Rollin departed from the group of fresh faces to join a group of men at a longer table lined with men directly facing the crowd creating such a hubbub it could be heard outside with the doors firmly shut. At the table's center was none other than the King’s own Captain John Price.

His facial hair made him easily recognizable, despite the years passed. He looked older than he possibly was, heavily aged by the decades of conflict consuming the continent. The lines creased into his brow gave him an everpresent scowl. Even his dirty blond hair looked like it was fighting off being pocked with sprinkles of gray.
Ghost silently observed the line of leaders from his newly claimed seat at the end of a far table. Farthest from the door, so he had time to prepare should someone burst through, and angled towards the far end of the room to eliminate the suspicions of him turning to glance at the Captain and his colleagues.

Ghost was surprised to see the man he had caught gossiping before, with the man who had a ludicrous haircut, to be at the table as well. Albeit tucked at the end and looking slightly disingenuous with how he was smiling at the man beside him, who seemed to be passionately ranting about a new weapon. That was if his wild hand gestures were anything to go by.

From the arrangement of seats at the table he could infer that the center chair, which beheld Captain Price of the King’s regimen, was of highest rank among their current numbers. The younger man, whose amusement was revealing itself to be a farce as his energy depleted him, was of lower rank. Most likely a Sergeant, similar to Rollin. There was a woman dressed in trousers and a blazer instead of a usual gown, who approached Price from behind to whisper something in his ear.
She had the parchments in her hands carefully flip up to block her lips, and he didn’t offer much of a response beyond a slow mindful nod.

Definitely nothing he could discern from the conversation, but with all the eyes on fresh meat he couldn’t risk taking a cheeky gander for some more direct digging. Shadows be damned.

Ghost choked down his dinner as the men around him burst into boisterous laughter at something one of Road’s closer minions said. He took the opportunity to unabashedly stare at the high table, eyeing the figures positioned there as he formed detailed descriptions in his mind. Anything he could feed Roach when he got the chance.

Price rose from his chair, the woman straightening behind him with a grim expression. If Ghost didn’t know better, he’d think the old man’s eyes flashed with recognition when they flitted over him in the crowd.

He knew better than to fuel his mind with such nonsense.

The woman and Price made their exit out of a back door closer to the kitchen corridor. He repressed the urge to follow to avoid suspicion. The last thing he could need here was to give himself away too early and risk getting captured.

He wouldn’t break no matter what they threw at him, that much he knew. But it would put a slight damper in his plans if he was tucked in a cell or bowing for the block. Haunting the castle as his moniker insinuates would hardly give him any advantage over its patrons.

He sits through the meal regardless of his desires to follow, chewing through the ash in his mouth. His stomach aches for more, endlessly more. He’s spent years quelling his hunger pangs, choking down his bottomless thirst. His body ripples in prickling agony, craving what the potato mash and sluggish haggis.
His bones buzz with his insatiable, deep seated ravaging need for flesh and what thrums beneath. He should’ve taken rations when he left, more than for the journey here. He has some left over, as he was able to hunt on the roads and gorge himself during their final attack on the squadron of King’s soldiers, but it’ll never be enough. Whatever he has left, tucked away just outside the castle walls, will only bring him to the end of the month.
He sincerely hopes Roach has something to offer him in return for whatever intel he can gather.

After dinner ends he lingers around the table in the hall, eyeing the bright eyed men around him. There’s at least a hundred packed into the rows of tables and benches, all clambering to be heard over the calls of those around them. The estimation is greater than any made before by König or Roach when the three had been strategizing their routes before.

The increase in King’s soldiers further to the South was making more sense, as they became more expendable. A flood of recruits to replace all those lost to the war. More were probably cooped in their barracks, resting after an early meal. Officers in their rooms, guards eyeing the castle inside and out. A front to avoid weakness in the eyes of the common folk.

Ghost would enjoy picking it apart.

***

His futureless bunkmates settle into their cots around him, grumbling to themselves or chuckling still about conversations lost to their last meal. The dregs of sleep pull each one down into its depths, capturing their consciousness. Ghost waits until the last breath evens out to a soft rhythm. The energy of each man settles in the air, a cloak for his own crackling force concealed beneath his skin.

It’s easier than it should be to creep into the hall, even with the thick wooden door giving a protesting creak with his emergence. All guards on watch are far too fatigued from their long shifts, or dragging themselves through the minutes until their shift ends and someone else’s begins.

Yawns and grunts echo in the near-silent air of the sky’s twilight. He can spot each guard's position along the wall and in each turret, as their breath clouds in front of their mouths with every huff and sigh. Ghost’s eyes are well adapted to the night’s darkness, which makes navigating the grounds a jaunt in the gardens so to speak. Until he finds the cistern he spotted early tucked away in its inconspicuous corner.

The grate pops off with ease, his muscles barely straining with the effort. The resulting clang of stone on metal rings heavy in his ears. It has Ghost waiting for the thump of approaching footsteps, but he finds momentary relief in the continuing intermittent sighs and yawns.
Roach would smack him up the head for making such a ruckus regardless.

He creeps into the series of tunnels with practiced ease, the grate sliding shut above his head. Sealing him in unless he wanted to get immediately caught throwing it off to escape. He knew setting foot on the grounds was his point of no return, every step beyond that has been to ensure he can walk out on his own legs when he’s done.

Ghost slinks through the tunnels running beneath the castle’s floors and grounds as he navigates through the dark, his eyes that nearly match the spaces surrounding pitch somehow manage to catch even the slightest refraction of light in the water, barely enough to guide him around each turn. For once he’s glad the mask pressed to his face conceals most smells.

He wouldn’t want to know what rancid stench is wafting up from the lapping waves at his feet.

He busies the parts of his mind not focused on slipping into sludge with running over what minimal intel he’ll be able to provide. For now all he has to offer is a warning of more troops, numbers estimated to be beyond any of their prior calculations. The message would give König enough leverage he could weasel his way into a few more details for protection.

He had yet to come in contact with the King, but his Captain of the Guard was sure to pique König’s interest if he was no fool. John Price was notorious for his efforts in battles against New Britain, but had seemingly fallen off the face of the earth nearly twenty years ago. Now it was becoming clear why.

If John Price was commanding the training and battalions of the King of Scotland, that meant collaboration between Old Britain and Scotland in their feud with New Britain. This unification didn’t seem to do much in discouraging New Britain troops, but it certainly put a damper on their plans for fleeing the country. It was beginning to look like the crew would have to make an attempt for the mainland instead, if routes haven’t been completely cut off because of trade risks.

Ghost grumbled to himself in frustration about the intricacies of politics somehow making an appearance every time he needed it the least to make his life marginally more difficult. These miniscule inconveniences were beginning to stockpile into something he couldn’t control. He was grappling to not get trapped under their weight, lest he be crushed under the burdens of life’s unpredictability.

The end of the cistern appeared, and with it so did his opportunity to ruminate on his constantly impending demise. Roach had always scolded him for being a pessimist. He corrected it to be realism. That did nothing to stop his badgering, although it did well to annoy him when he was being frustratingly intrusive.

The night sky opened before him like a great gaping field of darkness, the eyes of heaven tracking him with their judging glare. He felt the weight of tipping scales every time the heat of innocent blood scorched his skin and a fallen comrades hand gripped him in desperation. Haunting stares of condescension chased him into his fitful sleep. He never knew freedom from the opinions of Gods.

The sloped rock that led down where a majority of the castle’s waste was pooled and flowing, was edged by a thick forest, nearly pitch black with the sun’s absence. Climbing down the rock face was not an issue for Ghost, not after spending years hauling himself up and over fences, roofs, and castle walls similar to those he’s leaving behind him.

The forest is shrouded in darkness, but his eyes are well adjusted to the absence of light. He does well not to trip or stumble in the thick underbrush coating the forest floor. Each step is pillowed by moss and leaves wet with recent rain. The huffs of air and rustling of leaves from creatures of the night create a soft backdrop to the steady breaths he’s searching for.

The knife is flying towards his head seconds after he had registered the pause in breaths. It gives him just enough time to duck his head and throw a knife of his own that he had nabbed from the table at dinner. He surges forward in the direction of the knife he’d just thrown, and follows the body he crashes into on a tumble to the forest floor.

In the darkness it would be hard for a third body to discern which body was that of his attacker, and that of Ghost himself. Their mutual struggle for dominance ends with panting breaths when Ghost lands a carefully aimed jab, and earns himself a groan of pain with it.

He straddles his assailant's hips, gripping worn leather between his gloved fingers. Even with the moonlight barely trickling through the thick foliage, he can make out the shape of a masked face, brown eyes narrowed in thinly veiled disdain. He’s familiar with the feeling.

“You almost killed me,” Ghost snaps through gritted teeth. When the man beneath him makes an attempt at wriggling free he pulls him a few inches off the ground by his shoulders, and shoves him back down. An unspoken “stop fighting” travels through the air between them. He feels the tendrils of foreign hands nudging the boundaries of his mind, and welcomes them like an old friend.

“I knew you’d duck,” Roach retorts. “Didn’t think you’d wanna have a cuddle after, though. Interesting choice for aftercare.” Ghost can feel the rumbling of laughter beneath him, barely contained as it flows to his ears. He’s sensible enough to give Roach one more rough shove before he lets out a humored huff of his own.

He rises from his place on the forest floor, reaching out a hand to pull Roach up with him. He has to resist the urge to yank him back down again for another tussle in the leaves just to prove a point about trying to get a jump on him.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Roach warns, and Ghost has to scold himself for not tucking that thought further into his mind where the little bastard wouldn’t be able to reach.
“Don’t test me, bug,” He whispers, low and threatening, “but that’s not what we’re here for. Things are worse than we thought.” He pulls all he’d witnessed in the past couple days to the forefront of his mind, easy to reach and collect to be relayed back to Konig.

He can feel the familiar burn permeate his skin, static dancing across his skull. He’d never fully adjusted to the feeling of having his thoughts sorted like berries in a basket, some ripe, some rotten, some poisonous. He never could be truly comfortable with the invasion of his privacy.

He pushed the images of the Captain at the table along the tether connecting their consciousness, with the woman muttering information he couldn’t hear. Roach gave him a questioning look, brows furrowed with hardened focus. Searching for something in the memory Ghost had yet to find. There was nothing either of them could discern, but it was a guideline in the direction they needed to go.

“There’s nothing about the King,” Roach mutters, his eyes narrowing again. Searching deeper, harder for any hint. It’s not like Ghost had anything to hide, but the situation required a more thorough search. Much to Ghost’s chagrin.

He sighs with exasperation, “I have not seen nor heard ‘im. Wherever he is, they’ve got him hidden well. My bet is they’re keeping their little King locked away somewhere, so the little twat can’t cause any international issues while they’re in the midst of a war.” Roach nods, his jaw working beneath the fabric of his mask. Grinding his teeth again. Ghost didn’t have the thought to scold him for it.

He looks deep in thought, a one-sided conversation going on in his head as he runs over the information handed to him. After over twenty years together, Ghost had learned not to question him or interrupt his internalized ramblings. He could probably predict his train of thought. Concerns of actually reaching the King, the sudden increase in guards and soldiers being trained, his escape most of all.

He doesn’t voice any of his thoughts, instead choosing to keep them safely hidden where he can pretend not to care as deeply as he does for the man he’s trusted with his life more often than his favourite blade. He does much the same, translating his concern and care into watchfulness on the battlefield and slipping the rations he’s offered into the younger man’s pack when he isn’t looking. If there’s more dried veal than he remembers, it must be a coincidence.

“Got something to pay you back for what you do have, at least,” He says, and reaches into the hollow of a nearby tree for his pack. There’s something shifting and thrashing in the worn down leather, fighting to break free. Roach reaches inside the drawstring sack, careful to not leave too much space at the top, and pulls out a bucking rabbit that lets out panicked cries.

Ghost takes the thrashing animal away from him, gripping its soft body tight in one large hand. The poor thing puts up a fight, but it’s all a futile attempt at freedom. He brings its furry head up to his mouth, pressed against the fabric of his mask, and breathes in its life. The energy contained within its small form, fueling its pumping heart and racing thoughts of panic, saps out of it slowly.

He feels it flow down his throat, pool in his chest and spread through his limbs. He feels revitalized, floating on a high he can’t get from anything else. The energy sends his entire body alight, a quiet buzz traveling up his spine, quaking through every bone and vessel on its smoldering path to fill him with life.
The rabbit goes limp in his hands, bled dry of its life force, a fury lump of meat and bone. He trades it off for another thrashing little creature. The meat of their corpses will most likely make a good stew, or even a decent roast over the fire would make a meal for two or three. He does with the second what he did with the first, revelling in the feeling of energy thrumming through his body.

The two rabbits return to their leathery prison, no longer fighting for their escape, or for anything at all. Roach still secures the strap to keep anything else from tumbling out. Only the Gods know how he made it here in time to collect his intel from Ghost. That’s a carefully kept secret between him and the bodies he leaves behind.

“That should hold you for a bit,” he says, light and teasing, “these should hold you a little longer. I’ll be back with more in two weeks, and you better have more intel. I’ll signal you when I’m back.” He pulls a small pouch from the inside of his coat, the contents rattling inside.
He doesn’t have to ask to know what he’ll find within when Roach hands the pouch over.

He nods in silent gratitude, focusing his efforts on sending the message over the bridge between their minds. From the glint in his eyes, he can tell his message got across well. Roach takes Ghost by the shoulder, pulling him close to press their foreheads together.

“Be safe,” he whispers out loud.

“I will.” He closes his eyes, just for a moment, so he can enjoy the vulnerability in this small moment. A short reprieve from life’s hellscape just long enough to enjoy each other’s company.

It’s the closest to a goodbye either of them will give, a silent promise to survive long enough to see each other again.

They depart with little more than a gentle squeeze on each other’s shoulders. It's always been easier to pretend their futures have something waiting for them. They don’t threaten themselves with pure hope, as that’s too dangerous a burden to carry. But they don’t let themselves give in to the more than plausible reality that every interaction, every brush of arms or murmured secret is the last chance they’ll have at being with each other.

Ghost tries not to linger on the thoughts racking his brain, the unending river of unknowns flowing through his mind as he grapples for answers. Just the faintest whisper of a sign that he isn’t completely lost on his path to surviving this grueling fate.

He’s not so lost in his thoughts that he misses the figure darting through the woods on his way back to the cistern. He pauses with his hand still outstretched for an outcropping of rock, abandoning the movement to tuck himself against the cliff’s side.

The figure managed to pull itself over the low stone wall that provided a perimeter and support for what Ghost suspected were the castle garden’s. On an odd route for someone on a leisurely stroll, especially this late into the night.

He didn’t delay himself with hesitation. His mind was made up on the split second decision between returning to the barracks to catch the slightest bit of sleep before the break of dawn, or chasing the mysterious cover entity. Rocks crackled under the slide of his feet and crunched lightly under each feathered step as he chased the fleeting spectre.

Anything of interest to them will be of interest to Ghost.

~~~

Soap

The gentle breeze carries the chill of the North through the winding paths of the gardens. The wildflowers left to spill from the boundaries of their stone prisons sway with each heavy gust, the petals closed to protect its sweet nectar from the night's unforgiving chill. They’ll begin to frost over soon in the coming weeks, encapsulated in autumn’s tender fingers before winter sweeps in to shrivel them in their stocks.

Soap still has enough time with them left to revel in their beauty. Even at night with their petals wound into tight protective buds he envies their beauty, their resilience. He internally scolds himself for not taking the time himself to carefully wrap himself in a coat, or at least a thicker tunic.

He had rushed into the gardens without much thought beyond get out. It serves him right; his poor planning earns him a few moments shivering out in the cold.

He’s yet to see his breath form in the air in front of his face, but he’s still backed by the castle's incandescent glow. A kingdom never sleeps, so its king must not either. Or at least that’s what his father said when young Soap found him rummaging around in his study at ungodly hours of the night.
Now Soap understands him, to a certain degree. He doesn’t have the same… fixations, but he regrets to see the image of his father in the mirror every time he returns to his room after a long day and night of scouring papers and discussing contingencies for food and protection in lieu of the upcoming winter. It’s fast approaching, and he still has an entire kingdom to defend from its allies greatest foes.

If his father was here now, he might have given him some grief about not bothering to warn him how monotonous and yet somehow chaotic every day seemed to be. Trapped in a constant cycle of the same qualms, with each complaint wrapped in a different bow.

Perhaps he would be driven to madness, if he was forced to keep up with the constant flow of requested solutions.

Those brought up by his people seem simple enough to solve, but it’s never truly enough. Without being able to face the individuals himself he’s unable to analyse, inquire, dig into its roots and gouge it out from the source. He’s left with only the filtered and translated words of court servants considered important enough to know his identity.

The issues of court are an entire other battlefield of issues to sort through. The intricacies of his Lairds and their connections to each other provides a web he’s tortured with constantly untangling himself from. Over a dozen different demands without any follow through on the promises.

He’s argued with Price and Laswell far too often about finally exposing himself to the public. Providing his people a face to the voice they hear whispered in their ears, muddled and devoid of all original meaning.

He’s been shut down more times than he can count. Each attempt at broaching the topic, even just hinting at the idea, is met with harsh enough glares the sun itself would cower under their weight. He is the king, a ruler who wants to serve his people, and yet he is a puppet in the games of his advisors.
Frustration doesn’t begin to describe the emotion constantly curling in his gut, surging to life with every dismissal and denial.

He lets it consume him for a moment as he crushes a flower bud between two fingers, denting the petals with the pressure. They unfurl slightly at the top, allowing their precious heat to escape and the vicious cold to invade their secret space. He curses himself under his breath for ruining the life of an innocent flower over the qualms he has with his own.

His attention is brought back into sharp focus on the world around him when he feels cold steel press against his throat. An unspoken promise, a threat.

“Scream, little king, and these pretty flowers will be watered with your blood,” a raspy voice grits against the shell of his ear. Hot breath wafts against his neck, yet he can’t see it as a comforting reprieve from the night’s harsh chill. Nor can he find the blade at his throat a welcome scapegoat from dealing with his responsibilities.

His breaths tremble in his chest as he manages to whisper through chattering teeth, “What do you want?” He’s lucky his voice didn’t waver. Didn’t betray the entirety of his fear, of his weakness. If he was to die here, he’d do so with the largest crumb of dignity he could muster.

“Nothing you can give. The True King sends his regards.” He closes his eyes and prepares for the burn, the agony, the final curtain fall. The blade slices the skin of his neck, but it’s not deep enough, not long enough, hardly enough pressure. It’s not enough.

The heat leaves Soap’s neck, the grating voice no longer in his ears. But it’s in his head, ringing loud.

The True King.

The knife that had just been pressed to his throat clatters against the stones of the garden’s path, glistening with the smallest drops of his blood. He can feel it trickling down his collarbones from the small slice just above. Distantly he can hear his father’s voice warning him about getting his blood everywhere from his scraped knees and nose bleeds.

His heart skips up to a dangerous rate that challenges the galloping hooves of their fastest horses. He can hear the grunts and scuffles from behind him, but he doesn’t have it in him to turn around, to acknowledge what’s happening just behind him.

His father’s son until the end. Stubborn and blind.

There’s a sudden cry, a sound so pained and bordering on inhuman that he twists from where his fear had kept him trapped. The turn is too fast, too close to the stone boundaries of the flowerbeds. He topples backwards into a bed of roses, too captivated by the scene unfolding before his eyes to catch himself.

The thorns tear through fabric and flesh, but he is numb to the feeling, too taken by the air’s biting cold. Instead his focus is ensnared by the beastly man who parries and blocks Soap’s assailants' attacks with the ease of a bear waving off flies.

He can hardly call the thing that’s bending and thrashing in front of him a man, though that is the shape it takes. It’s dark, with clouds drifting over the moon, but he glimpses broad shoulders and long arms corded with thick muscle. He’s one of the largest men he’s ever seen, so effortlessly deflecting every attempt on his life.
Soap is unable to take his eyes off the fighting unfolding. He couldn’t bear to drag his eyes away if he wanted to. This far in, he can’t tell if he’s fascinated or horrified. Something is threatening to burst out of his chest, dizzying and intense. He can barely tell if it’s something he should be running from.

The larger of the two, the beastly man, finds his hold on the smaller man’s throat. The doomed fool claws at the arm and hand cutting off his airway, lifting him up until his feet no longer scrape against the cobblestones. He’s slammed back down again before there’s any chance of getting a final hit in.
He doesn’t get back up.

Soap sucks in a sharp breath, a sharp pain tearing through his chest at the side. Horror consumes his mind, limbs shaking and flailing in a sorry attempt to free him off the bushes he fell into. More thorns scrape his palms and skin, staining his shirt with specs of red.

The frigid stone digs into his knees when he falls from the bed. He lets out a grunt of pain, a wave of regret following soon after. He barely has enough time to collect himself when he’s hauled off the ground by his bloody lapels.

His shirt is in tatters, his arms and legs sprinkled with tiny little cuts. Some thorns still remain stuck in his skin, aggravating the area with every panted breath he takes in an attempt at bringing oxygen to his brain. He can already feel the bruises forming on his back and knees from the falls he’s taken with barely enough consideration.

But for a split second, a moment longer than he should allow himself, his entire focus is sharpened. Honed in on a pair of brown eyes that stare down at him with a bone deep hunger he’s never felt but somehow knows he shares.

“You- you killed him,” he mutters in disbelief. That's all he can manage to say. All he can manage to think, really. The sound of bones cracking against stone echoes against the shell of his ear in time with the silent offbeats off his heart. All he sees is a crumpled body every time he closes his eyes to blink. Dark leathery armor, a belt with a sheath strapped to his waist.

But when his eyes are open, all he sees are pools of brown melding into a sea of black. There’s the painted print of a human skull where a face should be. Jawless, stark white bone against black fabric. Not a mask designed for celebration or mourning, but for fear and intimidation.

He glimpses the slightest shift in fabric where lips should be, when the moment comes crumbling apart. The thick wooden door that leads from the staff’s service hallway to the gardens bursts open, and with it comes flooding a flurry of hurried orders and almost a dozen guards.

The leader of the fray is Price, his sword gripped tight in an ungloved hand. He doesn’t have all his armor on, and his tunic is untucked. Hair askew, most likely from shifting against pillows. Some of the guards share his level of startled wakefulness.

Someone must have heard the man’s screams of agony, or perhaps he had let out his own without realizing when he saw the body fall. He can hardly remember.
“Your majesty! Are you alright?” Price calls, charging over to scan the scene of the crime. Soap feels large hands leave his lapels after the first step in their direction. He clenches his jaw against the rush of cold that follows.

“Price, I-” Soap doesn’t get a chance to speak. The Captain lifts his sword to aim at the beastly man’s heart before he can even get a full sentence out, to explain, to console, maybe even to rationalize for himself.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? State your name and purpose!” Price demands, his voice still a low grovel from sleep. The strange man does not waver or cower under the threat of a blade poised for his heart. He matches Price’s cold stare with one of his own.

“Captain!” One of the guards calls, “there’s a body here!” He’s kneeling beside the newly fallen corpse, turning the man on his side to get a proper look at his face. Even broken and bloody, Soap recognizes him as one of the new recruits that had joined their ranks within the past few days.

The sight of him this bloody and broken made something twist in his gut.

Price took in the body that was left twisted on the garden’s paths, and turned on the behemoth that had yet to move or speak. He lifted his sword again, this time aimed for the man's head.

“Take him into custody, for questioning and a trial.” Three guards nod and rush to take the man by his arms. He doesn’t fight back. It takes Soap far too long to notice it’s because the man’s eyes are trained on him. He can’t shake the chill the look leaves, even when he’s left his sight.

“My King, follow me.”

Soap’s stomach grows heavy with dread.

Notes:

So sorry this chapter took so long to post, I had to deal with several competitions, graduation, and moving over the past few months and didn't have time to write consistently (no wifi doesn't help much either) but hopefully I can get back on track! I make no promises

Chapter 4: Where loyalties lie

Summary:

The King is beginning to conceptualize what his near-death experience means for his country and for his court.
Ghost is forced to kneel at the consequences of his own actions.

Notes:

CW for some brief depictions of dissociation, mild suicidal ideation (if you squint), and depictions of torture

Please heed the warnings! All of this is brief but just trying to be careful

Soap

The room is buzzing with unspoken emotions, those trapped by mouths too scared to give names to what’s going on in nearly everyone’s head. It twists Laswell’s sallow face into a grimace, emphasizing the dark shadows under her eyes. Her hair is still slightly unkempt from being startled awake with the dawn's light. She had only been given a few extra hours after the night's incident to rest before a guard had come banging on the door of her chambers, startling her and her wife.

She had come rushing when she’d been told the most important part of the news. Someone had attempted to assassinate the King. The poor woman had been so shaken by the news, she had come running into the conference room, where she had been directed by the rather solemn night, still in her sleeping gown.

It took Soap and Price together to explain the situation. Soap wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about recounting the events of the garden since the man’s appearance. The bandage at the base of his throat served as a reminder of how close he had come to death.

Close calls weren’t something he was particularly fond of. He’d had enough of them in his life to be put off quite entirely. He only hoped the images haunting him behind his eyelids weren’t enough to put him off from visiting the gardens as well.

Retelling the story to one of his trusted courtiers so it could be skimmed and used in trial only made everything more vivid and real. Telling Price and Laswell felt like going on about a far fetched tale. The sight of his experience in words scribbled down on parchment drew everything into painful focus.

The cuts and scraps on his arms and legs from the rose bushes were too shallow to do real damage. No scars. No proof of what happened in the wee hours of the night when he thought he had finally found peace.

“What do we do with the assassin's murderer? We can’t let him walk free,” Laswell says, to break the silence that had fallen since the courtier’s departure. He had everything he needed, it was just in review of the courts now.

“What do you mean? The courts have the King’s statement, the sole witness to the event. The man is clearly a violent rebel, who snuck away from the barracks and brutalized one of his comrades in cold blood!” Gaz argues. Soap had requested his presence shortly after the courtier had arrived. “Regardless of his victim’s purpose in the area, he still killed him.”

 

“He saved the King’s life!” Laswell exclaims, only to be interrupted by Price.

“And has refused to answer any questions as to why,” he rebuttals, looking just as frustrated as Soap feels. Trapped in the meeting hall, slumped in a chair at the head and aching so deeply no position feels truly comfortable. “He’s a wild card, a danger to our secrecy and defense. We don’t even know how either of them entered the gardens, and he’s answering about as many questions as the man we scraped off the cobbles.”

“He can’t just walk away like a free man. And he can’t rejoin the King’s army, not when he’s a risk like that,” Gaz cuts in again. Soap nods in agreement, and ignores the shooting pain down his spine from aggravating the crick in his neck. Another shift, a new position, slightly less uncomfortable for the next few minutes.

“Then we execute him, as is the normal consequence for murder? What does that say about the respect we have for those fighting for our King? We need a punishment, yes, but also to make an example of him,” Laswell joins in, with her own sharp rebuttals and scalding glares. “We make him suffer for his crimes, but endorse him for his loyalty.”

Price begins to nod in agreement, which only causes Soap’s stomach to twist tighter with anxiety. “A public display then. Not execution, but something violent. Thirty lashings, in the training square with all the new recruits watching. Teach them what it means to disobey.”

Soap shoots up from his seat, the sound of wood scraping on stone grating against his ears like an orchestra of agonized cries he can’t get out of his head.

“His name is Riley and he saved my god damn life! And I have a name too, in case you’ve all forgotten. I am not only a King, I am also a man who is grateful to be alive after a rather terrible fucking night!” Soap exclaims in overwhelmed frustration. He’s beyond the point of exasperation with his companions' endless badgering.

“Your Majesty, this is not a matter of which you should heavily concern-”

“I will concern myself with whatever the hell I want, Price,” Soap interrupts, rage erupting from the pit of his stomach, leaving the fear to fester in hiding just a little longer. “I had a knife to my throat, and now you’re all fighting over the most tactful way of erasing a man from existence for defending a stranger.”

A terse silence follows his outburst, broken by Gaz clearing his throat to speak, “I have a suggestion, if it’s not a crime to speak in this strenuous time.” Soap briefly gives him a sharp look for mocking his anger, but nods for him to continue. “I suggest twenty lashes, he be removed from his recruitment as a night, and be reinstated as a personal guard of the King.”

Soap was nodding along with words until the final suggestion left his mouth. He spun on him, wide eyed, slightly panicked, and more than a little bewildered at the sheer absurdity of it all. Price seemed to share the sentiment, finally finding common ground, if his scoff of disbelief was anything to go by.

Laswell was nodding thoughtfully in consideration, which was the most horrifying part of the situation yet. She could not, in her decades of experience with mitigation and marketing, be genuinely considering such a ludicrous idea.

“It would certainly discourage more men stepping out of line. And the honor of being a personal guard to the King would endorse loyalty, promote stronger bonds between the monarchy and its people,” Laswell says, far too agreeable given the proposition.

“This is madness,” Soap jumps in, a futile swoop to scoop up what’s left of his control over the conversation. “I don’t need a personal guard, I’ve been doing quite well on my own. One attempt on my life doesn’t mean I need a battalion of guards following my every step.”

Laswell sighs in exasperation at his protests, “not an entire battalion. Just a single guard, who’s proved himself to be more than formidable in times of crisis. Look at it as a contingency plan, to avoid the monarchy crumbling while we’re still trapped in the middle of a war. It isn’t out of malice or absence of faith that we suggest this.”

It’s Price’s turn to speak, and his words only spur Soap’s indignation into anger. “Laswell has a point. A guard, especially one like him, would make you harder to reach, harder to threaten,” he concedes, gaze unreadable. “In times like these, you could use the extra defense. We’re at war, this isn’t just average concerns being taken into account.”

The war has been weighing heavy on all of them. Dragging down each plan, each contingency, each aspiration. Three countries at each other’s throats, over a quarter of a century passed, with no foreseeable end. A conflict that began before he took the throne, before the public had to welcome in their new King.

He didn’t even get a coronation, since the risk of assassination or an attack on the public was too great. No personal queries with his people, no balls or galas or events. The nobles never left their castles, the commonfolk never left their villages.

It was a country ruled by fear. A prison of their own making.

Every idea he had of maintaining or even uplifting public opinion of the crown was quickly discouraged. Everything was too dangerous or too futile. The people never knew the face of their King, and he never got to hear what they truly thought of him. Filtered rumors from the mouths of his servants did nothing to quell the ache in his chest.

Perhaps this would provide a new wave of opportunity. A shining light at the end of a dark tunnel. More protection, stricter security, it would create an environment where he could be in the public like his parents were.

He could speak to his people, curate a version of himself that gave them a sense of stability, comfort in a time where it seemed a luxury. With the commoners on his side, he’d have a greater system of protection. People on his side wherever he went.

“I have a condition then, if you expect me to go along with this ridiculous idea. I want more public appearances and events.” He can see Laswell and Price begin to protest, albeit for very different reasons. “I’ll have this… bodyguard with me, and he can protect me from whatever threats you’re conjuring up right now. I want the people to know their King, not just the faces he hides behind.”

Price is already digging around for every reason under the sun as to why it’s a horrible idea. His already strained features are twisted into a scowl. Soap internally muses about the fact his eyebrows could get stuck like that if he furrows them any deeper. Trapped in a permanent scowl, which at times it seems like he is.

Laswell looks contemplative, which gives Soap a spark of hope he’s not sure he can let himself give up on. He expects her to understand his points about the people's opinion. She often concerns herself with the politics of their situation so Price can put his heart into protecting their country. Together, they meld well.

Certainly kept the kingdom afloat while he was being a twat when he was still a lad.

“If he’s protecting you at high risk social events, he needs to take the oath. The last thing we need is him getting it in his high head that he’s anything more than another servant of the King,” Price says firmly, turning a look on Soap that dares him to challenge the demand.

“The Captain is right, our best bet at keeping him in line is if he takes the Oath of Allegiance,” Laswell mutters in agreement, though she still looks quite pensive. “He wouldn’t be able to do you any harm, at least not without great consequence.”

“He wouldn’t be able to do much of anything, now would he!” Soap snaps, his hands curling into fists in his lap. “My father outlawed the Oath for a reason. If I betray his word for the sake of my own safety, I might as well betray all he has said and done to protect this country.”

The Oath had been outlawed since before his birth. All those functioning under its guidelines were freed. It was a harsh commandment that forced servants of the nobility or monarchy to obey their superior’s every command.

The twisted nature of the Oath had given cruel masters a way to torture those who worked for them, and avoid getting their hands dirty. Soap had read plenty about men gone mad with their desire for free will. But there is no free will under the Oath, only subservience. He can’t imagine making the man who risked his life for him a puppet in these games.

“The Oath is the only way we’re accepting this. If you want more flippancy and freedom, you will suffer the consequences of such a responsibility,” Price scolds. Soap quells the rage building in his gut. He’s unwilling to give Price the petulant and childish response he’s looking for as evidence for his case.

Soap has argued with Price more times than he’s conversed with him in recent years. The war has created a great rift that stretches further with each passing day. A childless father who doesn’t know how to be a parent and a man whose pleas for advocacy and freedom go unheard. A tug of war between the parts of themselves they don’t care to acknowledge.

“If he takes the Oath, I get a coronation and I’m free to partake in international debates when representatives come. I am still the head of this kingdom, even when you hide me in your shadows,” Soap says, asserting himself with a hand planted on the table.

He can see the burning urge to fight back in Price’s eyes. He feels the same turmoil in his gut, the same instinct to scream and accuse and rebuttal back and forth for hours on end. The feeling never truly disappears, they both just need to learn how to keep it on a tighter leash. Lest it break free and wreak havoc among the innocent people of Scotland.
“The King has a point, Captain. You must admit that,” Laswell says, with well tempered exasperation. She carries the tact of a mediator who’s had to talk them both down from each other’s throats plenty of times. Soap, it seems, has won the coin toss of her favour in this argument.

The Captain turns on her with an all too familiar look. She meets his sharp disapproval with a cold glare of her own. Gaz shifts under the discomfort of being sat in the middle of their standoff. Soap sends him a pitying look. The humor of his friend’s exaggerated suffering does well to break him out of his spell of fury.

He makes an effort to hide the smile forming on his lips with a hand over his mouth, covering the small chuckle that escapes with a grunt as he shifts in his seat. Gaz glares at him, but there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth that shows he’s trying to hide his laughter too, contagious and evil in its path of mirthful destruction.

If Price caught them smirking and chuckling behind their palms while he was in such a foul mood, he might just have them running laps through the grounds in the heaviest knight’s armour he can spare from the armory. For now they’re safe, though the tenuous stare down has ended with Laswell leaning back in her chair and Price taking a step away from the table in a huff.

“If he takes the Oath, these events can be arranged. But he accompanies you everywhere you go. That includes your midnight escapades through the gardens,” Price finally concedes, though it looks like the effort pains him greatly.

Soap nods, despite the fact it pains him greatly as well. Agonizing compromise is the only way to work around their arguments, lest they both push Laswell to the brink and suffer her wrath instead.

“Glad it could be decided then. Now, let’s put this matter to rest. There is much to prepare for, and discuss,” Laswell cuts in before another argument can begin to fester. She rises from her seat, opening the door to whisper commands to a servant standing in wait outside.

“She’s right, the King’s saviour isn’t our only concern. He was attacked, and after some digging we’ve discovered by whom,” Gaz says, and turns to Price. An opening the man needed to escape his rumination.

“Right. Alan Ward was his name, or so his mates said. British lad, we just thought he was old. Turns out, he’s a scout sent by New Britain, meant to send intel about our growing armies. We have not made moves to aid Old Britain in battle, but we are still being perceived as a threat.”

“We will always be a threat to those who aren’t controlled by their King and Gods. We maintain our autonomy, and they maintain their animosity. We’ve known since the war started that they would be coming for us. We all thought it would be after they took Old Britain, but this act on the crown is an act of war on the kingdom,” Soap jumps in.

“What would you have us do then, my King?” Laswell inquires, her hands clasped in her lap below the table. A habit, Soap has learnt, that she picked up to avoid revealing how much her hands twisted and fidgeted when she was preparing for bad news.

“Send word to Old Britain, I want to have council with their King. We are going to tell him that we will join him in his fight, and help him win this war.” Soap could see the outrage sparking in the Captain’s eyes.

“Waging war with New Britain puts all our men at risk! We’ve only just started to build our armies for battle, we do not have men to spare to defend our fronts,” Price snapped, already looking like he regretted his prior surrender.

“Not to defend our fronts, but theirs. Old Britain forges a direct path for this False King to attack our borders. We know he aims for the head, and there's dozens of villages between us and them. Nevermind the farms full of families and livestock.”

“The King has a point,” Gaz mutters, though he gains confidence. “Word has begun floating up from the south. Word that New Britain’s soldiers take pleasure in the havoc they wreak. They would take pleasure in burning our land to ash as well.”

“That is why we help Old Britain, true Britain, defend itself against these rebel barbarians. If they fall, we fall. In this war Scotland and Old Britain are one in the same. We keep our country, our Gods, our King. But we lose everything if this False King takes Old Britain, our ally. Not just our neighbor.”

“We will not win this war, not with just our armies combined. We need more.”

“More what?” Gaz inquires after Laswell’s brief observation.

“Everything. Men, weapons, food. This fight will bleed us dry of everything we have, weaken us. We can’t let them get the upper hand, but we don’t have all the power on our own. Not even with the help of Old Britain. We need more.”

“We outsource, pull in allies from all over the continent, the world if we have to! We have allies in the south, along the mainland’s coast do we not? And what about the Middle East?"

No one dared to mention the North. Northern countries were known for their isolation from southern conflicts. Mountains separated them from any pressing concerns, and the seas to reach their shores were treacherous. They had more than storms and ice protecting their waters.

Those to the farthest south called them “ice-walkers,” for the way they mastered traversing the snowy landscape, and the harsh manner in which they trample the cold dead bodies of those who stand in their way. Notorious for their battle strategy, and ruthless apathy.

Harmful rumors, spread by the northerners themselves to keep those south of the mountain range from infesting their luscious lands with their greed. The legends of their intense battles and undoubtable skill in battle strategy are the only truth that gets passed around tables and camp fires. The Northerners protect their own, and in turn they maintain their peace. In no way, shape, or form could they be expected to join in this battle.

“Spain doesn’t owe us any favours, and relations with the middle east, especially Urzikstan, have been less than ideal,” Price sighed, giving Gaz a rueful look. “After a Northerner terror group had the majority of the country under lock and key while in power, and the west did nothing to help, they swore off any ties with any of us. They work with the east, and only the east.”

Soap fixed Price with a look of determination. “Then we give them offers they’d be fools to turn down. For Spain, we offer grain seed and access to our trade routes. For Urzikstan, we offer lumber and safe passage to the North, or West. For trade, or revenge. We give them what they need to win this war, and they give us the same.”

“The only thing you need in this war is to be one step ahead of the enemy.”

Everyone’s heads snapped to the source of the voice, which took up a majority of the doorframe to the hall. The silence that followed was heavy with tension. No one dared to move, to breathe, lest they disrupt the web of strained attention connecting them all. No one could take their eyes off their new guest.

He was taller than Soap remembered, his shoulders nearly as broad as the table’s width, barrel chested and soft in the stomach. The shackles on his wrists were tight, straining against the leather of his gloves. The shackles on his ankles barely closed with enough space to maintain circulation. He was covered head to toe in all black, from the crown of his head to the soles of his shoes.

The only visible part of him was his abysmal brown eyes. And they were honed in on Soap.

“And how should we go about that?” He didn’t even realize the question had formed in his head until they tumbled past his lips. Soap was powerless to stop them. Not that he would’ve tried, much. He wanted the answer as much as he wanted his chair to swallow him whole.

“Your majesty-” Price started, looking furious at his inclusion of a stranger, a liability, into their conversation about the Kingdom’s safety and affairs. No, he wasn’t a stranger. He was Riley.

Riley cut him off before he could continue. “You need to start thinking like him. Like their false King.” He took a step forward, barely a shuffle of feet, and the guards were on him in seconds. Two of them raced to grip his arms before he could make another move. Something told him they’d be powerless if Riley decided to be truly violent.

Soap lifted his fingers to signal his release, and the guards hesitantly stepped back into place.

“If you think like a ruthless, violent, madman, you unlock his every plan. To fight monsters, you must become one yourself.” The words carried through the air like rattling leaves on the wind, cutting against his cheeks and flurying around him. Capturing him in a whirlwind of his boundless questions and concerns.

“We do not think like monsters here, nor do we act like them,” Price scolds, pulling himself up to his full height. Even with his thick boots, he doesn’t quite match Riley’s height. “And you were not brought here for input on war tactics. You are here to pledge your allegiance to the King.”

“Come,” Laswell cut in, before Price lost his nerve completely. “To the chapel, it’s best to have the Binding Ceremony in a holy place.”

~~~

Ghost

He had known his end was coming. It hadn’t taken him long to figure it out really, just longer to accept. Being trapped in a cell had kept the shrivel of hope he kept trying to stamp out burning in his chest, threatening to torch away his heart. He couldn’t be setting himself up for disappointment if he wanted to maintain any dignity.

The approaching steps carried rattling chains with them, and he resigned himself to making this as clean as possible. Drag him out to the dogs, dangle him like a sweet treat while their starving maws ripped at the flesh of his feet. Perhaps he’d last longer this time, beating his record. He never liked dogs much anyway.

The shackles dug into his bones over the layers of fabric. He’d feel weightless soon enough. Once his head was freed from his shoulders, his essence could be freed from his damned vessel. All things in the world would fall into their natural places and he would return to the earth where he should have stayed.

The disappointment he had for himself in being caught had swallowed him in his cell. Memories and faces he thought he’d left hidden in his unconscious mind had been clawing their way into his peripherals, digging their nails into his waking mind.

Being ushered off the concrete floor by the King’s guards had pulled him far enough from his wallowing to face the reality of his situation. If they kept him alive for the night, it was because he served a purpose.

He had been intentionally uncooperative during questioning. Part of it was to hide his identity as a notorious killer part of an even more infamous guild of mercenaries. Another part was because he genuinely didn’t know anything about the situation. He never had an opportunity to pull his fallen competitor aside and interrogate him on his own.

He had seen what he thought was a pompous Laird’s son about to have his throat slit, and he didn’t want to lose someone who could provide vital information or pathways to the King later on. Planning for the future was the largest concern in this mission.

At least that's the excuse he gave himself.

If he told himself enough it would become a truth in his mind that Roach wouldn’t dare to question.

The trek through the castle’s corridors was made unnecessarily difficult by the links of chains around his ankles. The metal screeched a painful rhythm with his steps as it dragged across the cobbled stone floors. The only thing that grated on his nerves more during their winding path was how closely the guards that escorted him hovered near his back.

He could have snapped these chains and escaped long before they reached their desired destination. Their necks would snap against his palm with ease. But he could not risk losing his opportunity to execute the King.

The payment from this mission alone would be enough for him and Roach to flee wherever they wanted. North, south, east, perhaps even the daringly unexplored west. Years at sea or on the well-trodden roads across the continents.

Anything to escape this life.

Against his better judgement he had allowed himself to be led up flights of stairs and through dimly lit halls to meet his imminent demise. He had run over his final words in his head, the final message he’d channel his energy into sending Roach, who was a day’s ride away from the castle by now. An apology for his failure. A goodbye the younger man would be cursing him for when they reunited in hell.

His demise did not come in the shape of an axe swinging down in the hands of an acceptable murderer. There was no rope dangling from a tree with a loop fit perfectly for his neck. Hands did not tighten the straps of the table while the syringes were jabbed into his veins.

No, death came in the form of two words. “Binding ceremony.”

He couldn’t imagine a worse fate for someone like him. He’d much rather take the block, the noose, the table. True freedom in death.

Instead he was trapped bending the knee for a man he vowed to kill.

He’d put up more of a fight on their way to the cathedral, or at least that’s what the woman he had seen talking to Price had called it. She looked even more cold and unapproachable up close. Steely blue eyes and a permanent scowl. Severe in her seriousness. The peppering grey strands in her hair did little to soften the edge of her biting wisdom.

When the guards had urged him out the door again, he’d initially fought against their holds. He hadn’t pushed or pulled, only stood his ground in the face of his impending imprisonment. He was suddenly craving the cold, dank cell again below the castle’s foundations.

Somewhere he could rot away into dust with a peaceful mind and his dignity intact somewhat.

The chains rattling against the stones felt more like a death knell than the jangling keys of freedom. If he was lucky, Konig would catch word of his lack of success and make the executive decision to hunt him and kill him. Mercy in its purest form.

The cathedral was a grand affair. Gilded ceilings giving way to the shadows sunlight couldn’t reach. Pews created isles that lead to one grand dais, backed by a stained glass window depicting their God with his arms open. The man stood with the height of a great ship’s sail and the omnipresent gaze encapsulating his blind followers in warmth and faithful trust.

Ghost felt the gaze of God boring down on him, a stain on his image. A disease to be eradicated from his flock of sheep, lest he infect those around him with his contagion. His presence in such a holy place alone felt sacreligious.

He was not a religious man in any right. He had abandoned his faith with his home, its remains buried under the same ashes. His faith and family, one in the same. His brother would be laughing at him if he saw Ghost here.

He probably was, just from down below instead of two steps stumbling behind.

“You will kneel at the altar of our God, and you will pledge allegiance to our King,” Laswell begins, at the head of their little tour group. “This is part of your punishment for violating our laws. It is also part of your reward, for the valour you demonstrated in protecting his Majesty from harm.”

Ghost could hardly call this a reward. As of now he’d rather take the other part of his punishment but doubled, rewards be damned.

There is no valour in saving a life in a moment of misguidance only to take it later.

The guards forced him to his knees in front of a tall stone altar, engraved with imagery of their god and its purpose. Food, gold, prayer, by the looks of it. He was forced to turn his head up at his new captor to avoid the imbecile at his back from tugging the mask off his head.

“My King, you will make the first cut,” Laswell instructs, and hands the young man- the King takes the bejeweled dagger in an open hand, pressing its blade to his palm and slowly dragging it along to create a deep cut.

He began to carefully read from a book held up by what looked to be a priest. “With my blood, I reign over your desires. Your whims are victim of my appeasement, your actions at the will of my motives. Your wishes become my intentions, my word your gospel. I, John Laith Mactavish, become your master.”

It took two soldiers just holding his arm in place to pull his glove free of his hand and hold it still long enough to make another cut with the same blade.

Simon could barely hold his panic at his blood being exposed. The viscous red liquid glimmered in the coloured sunlight streaming in through the stained glass. It was bright enough the gentle glow emanating from it was lost in the light of the room, and then covered by John Mactavish’s hand in a firm grip.

A book was provided for him to read from, and he was already preparing to continue his vow of silence, exempting his little tidbits of advice in what looked to be the main conference area. But he felt the blades tip at the back of his neck. This vow was not the end of his life, and therefore not the end of his mission. He would find a way out of it, and he would end this young King’s life.

“With my blood, I vow to serve under your reign. My whims are shaped to your appeasement, my actions at the will of your motives. My wishes are your intentions, your word my gospel. I…I, Riley Sanderson, am your servant.”

He could feel the electricity rocket up his arm. Its vicious burn wrapped itself around his spine, wormed its way into the back of his mind. His fingers had numbed from the heat. He was trapped, frozen in time until the curse truly took hold. He could feel his sovereignty slipping through his fingers like the finest of sands, small grains barely clinging to his calloused skin.

He managed to cast his gaze up towards his new owner, ready to gnaw on the leash holding him at his side. He didn’t expect the horror and surprise forcing the young King’s eyes wide open. He looked like he’d been electrocuted, like his brain had been fried on the spot.

Ghost had heard of spells and curses going wrong, but for something like this direction wasn’t necessary and intention was more than clear. Perhaps the fool had been expecting more of a tingle. Amateurs, the lot of them.

“The ceremony is complete. We must now prepare him for his punishment,” Price snaps, and the words pull Ghost out of his daze long enough to rise slowly to his feet. He still feels unsteady from the amount of essence encapsulated in the curse, but he grits his teeth through it to remain strong.

It doesn’t flow into his mouth and fill his blood with its sweet heat like the rabbits had. It doesn’t cloud in his lungs and addle his brain like a conduit stone would. It didn’t feel anything like having his essence ripped out of him and forced back in, over and over, until he was more monster than man.

He felt his bones tremble beneath his layers of muscle and fat from the force of its entry. He felt his innards shake and bile rise into his throat. Not for the first time, he was brought back to that time. When he could barely feel the metal cuffs holding him down or the blades slicing through his skin. When light and dark, day and night, awake and asleep, all blended into a maelstrom of absent awareness.

He barely felt himself take lumbering steps out the cathedrals front doors. He remembered, vaguely, taking a side door directly from the castle to reach the house of God and its gilded columns of imprisonment.

Freedom was looking distant.

The sunlight was harsh on his face, blinding him with its rays and heating what little skin he still had exposed. He had been so cold. When had he become so cold?

He only managed to drag himself out of his daze when they were escorting him up the steps of a stone platform built near the castle’s front square. His stomach sank deeper than hell's cellar when he saw two burly guards lower a pole into the hole carved into the rock at his feet. The sun dancing across the metal cuffs were enough to burn his pupils, scarred with the image.

He turned his head to watch the building crowd of befuddled rookie soldiers and grim faced training officers. He recognized some of them from his own regiment. A part of him he had yet to stamp out pitied the young souls that would begin to shrivel as they witnessed this display of sheer power.

Rollin, his past drill sergeant of sorts, climbed the same steps he had as the cuffs were finally locked in place around his wrists. They didn’t remove any clothes from his body, a small shred of decency on their part.

Clothes could be replaced. The peace of mind he took from keeping his skin hidden could not.

“As reigning director of this individual's training and preparation for combat, it is my responsibility to deliver this punishment,” he begins, giving Ghost a pained look. “As decided by the council, Riley Sanderson will receive twenty lashings for unlawful disobedience of recruitment orders, and endangerment of the King.”

Ghost would scoff at the theatrics if he wasn’t the one strapped to the post. While he is most certainly a danger to the King, and has no reason to be trusted by these fools, he did not endanger the King by any means. He protected him. But a message needs to be sent, and he is just its vessel.

He hears the leather of the whip slither behind him against the stone. He can’t fight the tension in his muscles as he prepares for the first strike.

It’s only twenty, he tells himself. Only twenty.

The first pass of the whip feels like lightning erupting across his skin. He jolts, partly from the shock and partly at the pain, which makes the chains rattle above his head. He twists the metal to grip it in his hands. Anything to distract him from the burning heat forming across his back.

The second comes moments later, cutting in the opposite direction. If he could look, he’d probably see a giant ‘X’ across his back, dripping blood into the fabric of his leathers and shirt.

He hears a trembling breath before the next strike. He can feel the shift in the air, the slight spike in the flow of energy around him. It flows like waves, but the sudden jump jolts his senses as much as the third strike.

He doesn’t make a sound beyond gentle grunts and groans. He won’t give his new masters the satisfaction of hearing him squeal.

He can’t stop his face from contorting, his muscles from tightening, his body from jolting, but he can steal one small victory for himself. One pathetic little success that tells him he still has a shred of control. Of hope.

By the fifteenth swipe, his vision is half blurred and his eyes won’t stay open like he wants them too. He’s lost too much blood, too much essence from his body trying to heal itself quicker than it should.

He feels the pull of unconsciousness swallow him in its depths before he can reach for something to save himself.

***

His back aches like a nasty bruise when he regains consciousness. It’s a miracle really he woke up at all, from how deprived he’s been of any decent sustenance. He’d need to feed soon, even if it was on some carrots and stolen meat from the kitchens. Anything to keep going and make the stones Roach had given him last a little longer.

The bandages constricting his frame are more of a nuisance than an aid. Teetering on the edge of suffocating, and scratching against his skin like the devil himself was giving him his best massage.

Torture, in it’s most deceitful form.

He fought against the urge to rip the fabric off his body, since he wouldn’t much like to explain how twenty lashes had healed into mottled bruising and scars in whatever amount of time he’d been unconscious.

He manages to lift his head from the pillow it had been resting on, lifting his chest and stomach off the sheets with arms that still burn with the residual burst of energy the curse gave off.

Curse the magic-bearer who created fucking curses. Ghost would gut the man if he could.

The room he’s found himself in is made of stone, with a large window giving way to a view of the courtyard, and beyond that, the forest bordering the western side of the castle. The archway provides a decent frame to the setting sun.

The room itself is decorated sparsely, with a simple wardrobe and dresser, an upholstered chair that looked like it hadn’t been sat in since he was a babe, and a fireplace empty of any flame. The bed he found himself in was small, just long enough to keep his feet from dangling off the edge.

His clothes he had been wearing before were nowhere to be seen. There was a small pile of some of the items they would’ve found within on a bedside table.

He grabbed the pouch of conduits first, confirming the contents were still within their proper place. His blades were not in the pile, but that was to be expected. He did find the broken time-compass he had been gifted years ago from an ally of Nikolai. He could’ve done without it, since the thing never worked the way it was supposed to. But his greatest reprieve was the sight of his mask and gloves.

It takes a painstaking amount of effort just to rise into a sitting position, and he silently curses himself for letting his condition deteriorate this much.

When he manages to stand, he takes a more proper look around the room. The bandages and his undergarments seem to be the only thing they left him with when they began trying to repair his body. He feels his stomach twist at the thought of being exposed to so many strangers, unable to decide where they looked first or how much they saw.

During his scan of the room, he makes three new discoveries. The first is that these are officer’s quarters, as he’s had to sneak into rooms of a similar arrangement for his past business dealings. The second, whoever took him up to these chambers also left him a change of clean clothes, mainly black, but accented with the colours of the King. Lastly, the door to the room is either completely unlocked, or barred on the other side.

He takes a tentative step at the pile of clothes folded so cleanly on top of the dresser. Beside them is a set of leather boots and a thick jacket he recognizes for its use as a subtle protective layer. When he unfolds the garments, he notes they are similar to his size, if a little smaller.

He sets the garments down to continue searching the room. The drawers of the bedside table and dresser are empty, as is the wardrobe. There isn’t a single loose pane in the window, nor a weak leg in the bed or chair.

There are no weapons tucked beneath the mattress, behind the curtains, or in the chimney itself. He grits his teeth and resigns himself to the fact this room does not seem to be trapped or hiding anything nefarious in nature. Not even a loose floorboard lifts to hide any hidden caches.

He can’t be expected to run into the corridor fully exposed to hold himself off against whatever awaits on the other side of the heavy wooden door. He can sense the essence of at least two men, but that means nothing when he’s already seen these people demonstrate their comfort with using magic.

Begrudgingly, after much internal deliberation and a second sweep of the room, he dresses himself in the garments that had been left for him. They fit nearly too snug, and he notes that if he survives the next few hours he’s going to need to get his hands on some properly fitting clothes. At least the leather jacket fits comfortably around his shoulders and arms, and the boots fit surprisingly well.

He dares to glance at himself in the window's reflection, and nearly balks at the sight. He’s mostly clad in black, with his mask and gloves firmly in place. His right glove looks oddly puffed up from the bandage he left on underneath. The silver of the buttons and jacket’s trim is stark against the dark material, and the blue threading is not lost on him.

He looks like the King’s harbinger of death. It sickens him to see that he already has no choice in bearing the marks of his temporary master. All that he’s missing is the spiked collar around his neck with a bloody metal tag.

With the satchel of conduits and time-keeper tucked into the inner pockets of his leathers, he drops the hammer and opens the door.

The two guards posted outside his door startle, but quickly recover and stand at attention. They both look impossibly young, probably still new to the service. Yet to see any real horrors, like the recruits he left behind. Like the men who watched him be whipped ragged.

“Ser Sanderson, you are awake!” The guard on the right proclaims, his steely blue eyes blown wide in shock. From the matching look on the other guard's face, who’s auburn hair reminds him painfully of Roach’s curls, he was not expected to wake for some time.

“Why do you refer to me as Ser?” He immediately demands, as it is not lost on him that he had not been knighted when he had his little incident in the gardens. The bonding ceremony was hardly a knighting ceremony either. Hardly enough decorum for such a pompous affair.

The guard with auburn hair speaks this time, “It is your new title, Ser. We are just following the orders of the Captain. He asks that you join him in the King’s Conference when you are ready, so that he may explain.”

Ghost eyes the two guards, who are each only half his size, with an air of suspicion. The last time he allowed himself to be blindly led by a set of castle guards, he had been cursed and whipped. Whatever awaited him in the King’s Conference best be worthwhile, or else he may find himself cutting down the entire court regardless of consequence.

The last thing he needed was another rock in the road leading him to his mission.

He took his time memorizing each distinct mark or detail as they wound their way through the corridors once more. With these paths through the great stone giant being so monotonous and plain, any telling mark had to be catalogued should he need to make a hasty escape or return without escort to the room he had awoken in.

He soon recognized the path the guards from before had taken him en route from his prison cell to the first official meeting he had with the King. He had hoped his crude commentary would at least get him a shrivel of outraged information, but no such luck.

He’d heard enough though to realize the nation of Old Scotland was not yet partaking in the war with New Britain. That didn’t mean the increase in encampments and patrols on the border, and stricter entry was now null and easy to ignore.

A place so difficult to get into was hardly going to be easy to saunter right out of. And he found himself in one of the most secure and well protected cities in the entire country. If his mother caught wind of such a tale, she’d probably shake her head at the tall tale.

The doors to the King’s Conference were slightly ajar when he arrived with his two less than formidable escorts. He had been fighting the urge to slam their heads together since the fourth time they leaned into each other’s space to whisper about him. As if he wasn’t able to hear every word uttered past their lips.

One guard knocked, and a gruff voice that had ice settling in Ghost’s stomach called out a sharp, “come in!”

When the doors swung open, he met Price’s stare head on, jaw set in determination. The man was sitting in a chair beside the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest, feet planted on the smooth stone floors.

“You’re dismissed, squires,” Price groused, looking exasperated already with the awkwardly stinted nods of the two guards before they ducked out of the room, shutting the door behind themselves. Squires. Captain Price had him supervised and escorted by mere squires.

Ghost had enough energy to spare an ounce of offence at the mere idea.

“You called?” Ghost sighs, with the same amount of enthusiasm one would give a worm wriggling under their boots. He wasn’t here to make nice with the man who seemed ready to take his life last he saw him, and the first.

“Ser Sanderson, take a seat,” the King says- John Mactavish says, and Ghost grimaces under his mask at how human it makes the man sound. All that power at his fingertips, an entire country under his command, and he’s just another John Mac. Without the title, he’s just another frail body trapped at the whims of his own desire.

Ghost is prepared to protest, to chip in that he’d rather take whatever whinging bullshit they’re going to throw at him on his feet, but he doesn’t even get the chance.

A searing pain shoots up his spine, like a hot branding iron pressed against his back. The red hot poker pierces the back of his skull, tugging his head around like a hand in a puppet. Fighting against the energy pulling him towards the offered seat only makes the pain worse.

When he’s finally sat, opposite Price with the King to his right, the pain flashes away as though it was never there. No ache or lingering heat to even confirm what he’d felt was real. He let out a huff, veiling his relief beneath it with the slump of his shoulders.

“I’d very much like to know why everyone seems to be calling me Ser,” Ghost grits, fixing the King with a hardened glare, and then the Captain just the same. “In case you’ve already forgotten, my training to become a Knight was interrupted by unforeseen circumstances.”

John opens his mouth to speak, but Price has beaten him to it. “You will refer to your king as ‘your Majesty,’ when you speak to him. You are not above the King.”

Ghost grits his teeth, a threat thats as empty as his own fucking skull ready to spill from his lips. But he chokes it down. As much as he’d like to hurtle threats and warnings towards the Captain, and Simon is always a man of his word, it won’t get him very far in his path to success.

He lets out a slow, counted breath to keep from reaching over the table and sucking the man dry of the very life force that permeates off of him in waves. He can smell its tang in the air, feel the ache in his bones. The deep-seated craving for more. For now, he will sit still. Bide his time until he can take the man’s life essence away, just after he takes the King’s.

“Your majesty,” Ghost corrects, glowering at Price for emphasis, though his attention quickly returns to the King. “I wish to know why the men of your castle are speaking to me with false titles. I have not yet earned the rank of knight. Hardly passed my training, hardly started. Surely, there has been some type of mistake?”

“There is no mistake, Ser Sanderson,” the King says, giving the Captain a withering look of his own. A point of contention then in the chain of command, especially when it comes to propriety. Interesting. “Following the binding ceremony and your… punishment for disobedience, you were knighted out of the ceremony and positioned as my personal guard.”

Ghost would laugh if he could find it in himself to move.

The binding ceremony was real then. Not a conjuration of his imagination sent to torture him, make his life living hill. Make him suffer the irony of serving the man he was destined to kill. That wasn’t enough, though. His imagination could not bestow upon him the same suffering as the gods.

Not only must he serve a man who represented everything he despised, unchecked power, higher social standing, untamed wealth, privilege to be a step away from active combat. A man who could separate himself from the violence of the world should he so choose, and now he’s anointed Ghost as the one to shoulder the burden of that violence in his stead.

If Ghost could claw his eyes out, he would. Gouge them out with his fingers and turn them so he could look at himself. Pitiful, foolish, too ignorant of his own faults to believe, after all this time, that he still stood at risk of failure.

The Gods were looking down on him today, and they were grinning with devious mischief.

Ghost was going to escape this hell, with his future with Roach secured, or he would throw himself from the tallest tower to save himself the consequence.

Notes:

So sorry for the long wait again, so I've provided probably the longest chapter yet as consolation. My ex-grandpa (he's disowned) died so things got hectic but I'm hoping to pull myself together and get some more chapters out there for you guys!
Drop a comment if you prefer the longer chapters or if you'd be interested in something shorter.
Also woohoo they finally interacted! I'm excited to see how Ghost will take being a bodyguard, since he doesn't get a choice n' all