No.
The voice which spoke inside his head was his. And yet it was not. It was the voice which the last fifteen years had formed, which had been born in his hate and his rage at all that he had lost, at a betrayal that was unforgivable. It was a voice that knew nothing of love or affection, that knew hate and that only. A voice that demanded satisfaction, a satisfaction that could only be carved out of the body of the man who had betrayed him.
That voice could not be appeased, knew nothing of redemption, only of loss. “No,” he said, and though it was not his voice, not really, it used his voice, ragged with grief and rage. “Sorry,” he hissed. “Do you think that changes anything?”
“No,” his brother said. “But I’m sorry just the same.”
How long, he wondered, had he sought such a reaction, such humanness from his brother? How long had he sought to have a relationship with him, to be, in reality, what they had always pretended in fantasy, or at least what he had, creating and maintaining the illusion, as he had for so long. There had been a time when he had done so well at feeding that fiction that he had convinced nearly every man and woman in the kingdom of the truth of it, that their princes were the best of friends, loyal to each other—and to their kingdom—above all else.
A pretty lie, one that much easier to tell because they had wanted to hear it. Easier to tell because he had wanted to hear it, for now he could admit that he had always craved his brother’s affection, his love. And for a time, despite all of the atrocities he committed, despite the fact that the Crimson Prince had never cared for anyone except in as much as they might be a victim through which he might vent his unending rage, the kingdom had believed it.
Even though he had laughed and mocked Feledias for his many attempts at building his brother’s reputation, calling him “womanly” and “weak” as he sat around getting drunk and reliving battles with his inner circle—always the most bloodthirsty troops in the army, though never as bloodthirsty as Bernard himself, never that—Feledias had, after telling himself the lie enough, come to believe it.
But the truth, as was so often the case, was far grimmer than the fantasy. The truth was that his brother had not killed to save or to build his kingdom as Feledias had always claimed. Instead, he had killed simply because he had enjoyed it. The truth was that instead of appreciating Feledias’s efforts on his behalf, his brother had scorned them, treating him like some pathetic dog following him around, eager for any scraps he might drop him. And the truth was that he had been.
But the biggest truth, the one which could not be ignored, was that his brother had taken everything from him, had taken her from him. The truth was that the dog, no matter how pathetic, how bent on its master’s approval, would bite if it were kicked enough.
“Damn your sorry,” Feledias hissed, his voice choked with emotion. “Perhaps it would have mattered before, before her…but it does not matter now. Now there is only one thing that matters.”
“I know the thing you mean,” his brother answered, his voice sounding full of regret, another thing he had never expected to hear from the man, “and blood, death, they never fix problems, Feledias. I know that better than most. They only cause more. A man cannot create by destroying and killing me will not fill that hole in you. That hole you can only fill yourself.”
“And you, brother?” Feledias sneered. “Have you filled your own?”
“No. But I’m trying.”
Feledias stared at the big man standing there by the edge of the building, a storm of emotions raging inside him. And he thought, in that moment, that perhaps he could forgive him, that perhaps together they could heal, could become whole once more. But he realized something as he stood there. He did not want to be whole, did not want healing. He only wanted revenge. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said finally. “Perhaps killing you will fix nothing. But then, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
He smiled then, withdrawing his two swords, sheathed at either hip.
“I do not want to fight you, Feledias,” Cutter said.
“Want?” Feledias hissed. “Do not speak to me of want, brother. And do not think me such easy prey. You might have beaten me at every sparring match we ever had, might have taken pleasure in embarrassing me, of making me into a joke, but you will find that I am not the same man I once was, and I have you to thank for that.”
“Prince,” Commander Malex ventured quietly from beside him, “we outnumber him. If we were all to attack at once—”
“No,” Feledias growled. “Not another word, Malex. He’s mine.” With that, Feledias started forward. And then his brother surprised him yet again, doing something he had never seen him do before, something he had never expected to see him do no matter how much he might have changed.
Bernard, the Crimson Prince, the most feared warrior in the realm, known for his bloodthirsty nature and for never backing down from a fight no matter how uneven the odds, gave one final look at his brother, then turned.
And ran.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I asked him, after the battle, why he did not retreat, for while the battle was won, it was won at a great, a terrible cost. I asked the Crimson Prince why he did not flee to fight another day.
And do you know what he told me? Nothing.
He only laughed.
And in that, he told
