"I draw blood." Balfour informed, grinning. "What shall become of the situation?"
"Do not dare me, pirate." Alexander's tone was sharp. "Remove your hand from him this instant."
Alexander glared.
Brand waited.
Balfour mocked.
"Let him free and I shall show you mercy."
Instead of obeying, the pirate laughed. Then he moved his knife higher, returning it to Brand's neck and resting it perfectly on a former wound. Brand struggled again but to no avail, calming only when the blasted pirate pressed down on an unhealed wound.
A few weeks ago, Robert, one of Balfour's blasted men had sent a knife into his left shoulder in a fight, nearly killing him, and for a good number of days, the wound had festered. He, for good reason, assumed death to be close. It had not come.
Four years of agony under Balfour's merciless grip, of injuries and near-deaths that were somehow never enough to end his suffering. Four years Balfour's greed and madness had made his life into a waking nightmare. He was weary. If he was destined to die young, then so be it, but Balfour must never be granted his life. He would not have Alexander show mercy.
He hissed when the knife broke his skin, and hissed again when the knife dug deeper, his thoughts flaring with defiance. He would forgive Balfour and his league of vile, foul-smelling men for stealing his freedom, for dragging him across the seas, for the living hell they had made of his days. Even for Stephen's death, he might find some shred of forgiveness. But for Balfour's blatant disrespect toward Alexander, his brother and king, there would be no forgiveness.
"Release him now, pirate," Alexander commanded still. Brand saw his hand tighten on the handle of his sword.
"Grant me a few bags of gold and an estate, and yer shall have yer brother," Balfour taunted, as if bargaining over a mere prize. "I am a man who holds alliance to no one. Yer might do not scare me, neither do yer threat. One thing commands me only and it is gold."
The waves rolled against the shore, drawing closer, and Brand knew he was close to the salvation he craved. His pain faded, leaving a strange, righteous calm. Death was freedom in itself, and the liberation he needed. But before its arrival, he would send Balfour minutes ahead of him.
"Balfour!" Someone called from a distance.
"Robert!" Balfour yelled back. "Come. I shall require your help!" He pulled his knife and danced it close to Brand's face. "Do not be selfish now, Yer Majesty," he chided, "Grant me me bags of gold and have yer brother." He began to laugh. "Or I shall provide the means of his death."
Anger consumed Brand. In a swift, instinctual movement, he leaned against the prudish man and did what Stephen had spent many a night teaching him: he twisted out of Balfour's grip, rising swiftly and lightly, snatching the knife. Before Balfour came to the understanding of what was happening, he drove the knife mercilessly through his throat and up into his skull. There was not a single moment of hesitation.
The world paused.
His breath hitched.
His vision wavered.
The only sounds heard were the sickening slice of metal through flesh, the crackling noise of the fire devouring the ship, and the gagging of a dying fool.
"Brand!" Alexander called from behind.
"Balfour!" Another called, closer than the former.
Brand remained still, glaring harshly at Balfour, watching the light dim in his shocked gaze until it faded completely, waiting until there were no more words of disrespect from his odious lips, waiting until the last ounce of strength abandoned the man, before he collapsed on the sand, Balfour's lifeless body dropping beside him.
"You bastard!" the voice stood beside him and suddenly a hand grabbed at the shoulder, pushing from the lifeless body. Robert delivered a blow to his midsection and Brand felt breath escape him.
Cold sand.
"Brand!"
Rushing feet.
Robert collected Balfour's knife and raised it above his head. As he aimed to deliver a fatal blow, he was pulled away.
"Your Highness!"
Brand inhaled with great effort. He felt blood move slowly down his face, until it touched his lips, seeping into his mouth. It was warm and nauseating. Where was it coming from?
Cold sand!
Rushing feet!!
Warm blood!!!
A tussle ensured away from him as gentle hands grabbed him, lifting and cradling him gently.
"Brand? Brother?!"
He felt the warmth, and heard the whispering voices, though muffled and distant.
ĹHis eye, Your Majesty." someone called out.
"He is wounded."
"This second man inflicted it."
"Come on, you damned fool," Alexander's voice urged him, cussing. He was shaking him. "You cannot possibly choose to die now!"
"My liege…?"
"He is not dead!" Alexander snapped. "I did not search for him this long to have him taken from me. No!" He shook Brand gently. "Brand, open your eyes. It is your king's command!" Another shake. "Brand!"
With great effort, Brand obeyed. A blinding pain shot through him, but suddenly, it was gone. He tried again, managing to do so partially—his left eye bore no sight. His single gaze met his brother's face. Alexander's expression was torn between regal composure and worry. Blood still trickled to his mouth, warm and wrong. Strangely, he felt no pain. Where was the blood coming from? He wondered.
"We must get him to the physician at once," someone said urgently.
"Bring the carriage about!" Alexander yelled.
"The pirates have been captured, sire." Another man informed.
"I shall attend to their defiance later. This very man, though, is mine."
"Certainly, Your Majesty."
"Brand, Brother, I shall have you back at Mainecroft Castle in a matter of hours. You will not perish on these sea sands. I shall not have searched for so long to lose you now." He murmured to himself.
Brand's faint smile held, contentment settling within him. It was perfection, and quite sufficient, to see Alexander now, at the edge of his life. If he had any voice left, he'd tell how glad he was, how truly grateful he was too that his brother never stopped searching for him. If he could but whisper a word, with his last breath, he would pledge his allegiance, swell his fealty to him.
He pledged anyway, swelling with the voice in his thoughts, a voice only he could hear, to see no one else but Alexander as king.
"What shall be done of his eye, Your Majesty?"
"Whatever to see that he lives. Hurry. Let us bring him to the carriage."
A handful of men surrounded Brand and soon he was floating. Silently, he grunted when the pain spread through his body, as blood continued to drip from his face, warm but thick now, the scent of it filling his senses.
"He must now hate the sea and wish never to be near it." Alexander murmured.
Airborne, Brand stared singly at the dark sky, watching as the yellow light in the distance provided an iota of clarity. The sea. It had been his prison for years, someplace he had been eager to escape, but it had saved him even as it took his friend's body and the ship which had held him into itself. The sea had provided chaos and security, the perfect wind of calmness and trouble. And the salty smell, he tried to inhale deeply, but could not.
How now must he hate it, when even with his dying breath he still yearned for it? When rescue brought him away from it, he wished it even closer. There was no knowledge provided of how he must hate the sea. He could not.
Brand winced painfully when another man joined to heave him, but he smiled as the last of his sight dimmed. He could never hate it. In life and death, and as he had as a child, he would forever want the seas.
His breath hitched, the last of his vision was lost.
"Brand! Brand!"
"Your Highness!"
"My Prince!"
"Your Royal Highness!"
The voices about him clamoured and echoed, accompanying him as his body went limped. His consciousness ceased and carefully, he slipped into the much preferred and warm embrace of darkness, a mighty opposition to the cold and beloved sea.