Psalm 55

      The snow was falling outside the windows. It was falling when Williams got up. The snowflakes were large like feathers. They fell softly and broke into powdery wet fluff on the bare ground. Once, when he was eight, the Duke came to him with crystal glasses of wine as red as blood. The glasses were faceted and the light caught on them like a captive star. The light glinted like the edge of a knife. He could not forget that. He was eight. Admittedly, he just turned eight, but he was eight. His birthday was on the winter solstice - Trevor found that ironic. Williams was visiting Duke Yonathen like he did every winter. That year, Trevor was sick and so it was just Williams visiting. Trevor had the fever. Trevor was his brother, and Trevor was at home.

      It was January 13.

      And every year he was eight again.

      And every year, he could see the snow again.

      The Moors were getting colder. It was late fall, and the wind wailed over the grass and frost glinted in the mornings. Williams' house - more of a rickety hut looked over the Moors. The mass that was Duke Yonathen's castle was a dim shadow on the flat line of the horizon. It was only his imagination that made the sky darker there - that made the sunsets red like blood. He knew what blood looked like.

      It was red, for one. It was actually a slightly bluish red, with a little yellow. Dried blood was a dark brown and flaky. Usually blood was a little bitter and a little sweet - and a little salty. Once, when he was eight, the Duke came to him with crystal glasses of wine as red as blood. The glasses were faceted, and the light was a knife. He hated the taste of blood.

      He knew what blood tasted like.

      Williams was once an Envoy in the war. He never entered the healing tents, but he remembered the battle fields and the crows. He knew the slide and crunch of breaking bone - the pressure and angle. He had broken bones.

      Trevor was unconscious on the cot that came with the house, and Williams was sitting on a crate and watching the snow. With every flake that hit the walking path, he felt the walls closing in again, and he was eight. Trevor slept the sleep of the drugged, and Williams had nothing to fear of him waking. He knew the proportions that he was using very well, and the last thing he would want to do is kill his brother from an overdose. He'd sooner kill himself.

      And Williams knew a lot about drugs. He had a tolerance to almost every pain and sleep aid there was including the Healing spell, pain dull. His body had a resistance from the years of use. Williams knew that Lady Elizabeth complained - her voice raising and echoing off the walls. She couldn't cast a sleep spell on him and expect him to sleep for hours. Not that she liked him asleep. If he was awake, he screamed. He could still hear her purring voice as she would lift his chin and smile at him with a smile like a knife. She loved his voice, she'd tell him that as she held him close, she loved his voice. She loved to watch his tears, and her nails would trace the veins in his arms. She loved his voice even when he had none left to scream with.

      Williams had made his brother scream.

Psalm 55

      There was nothing that he could do. He could only sit and watch the snowflakes fall. He needed to wake up Trevor enough to feed him, and then there would be nothing but waiting and watching. Eventually Trevor's wife, Nessa, would arrive, and it would all be over. With luck, she'd even kill him for kidnapping Trevor. He could hope. He had done enough to deserve it. Ruined his brother's right arm by stopping the family healer from healing it right - bullying his brother - hitting his brother. He even attempted to control his brother's mind. Nessa had the proof. He deserved to die, and then he'd be rolled on his stomach in a shallow grave and the snow would cover him. He knew what dead bodies looked like. He knew what the living that were dead looked like. Everything, everything that he knew, he was taught. He was trained. Everything that he had done was once done to him.

      Williams flattened his left hand. His hand was never truly flat. The light caught on the bend in his little finger just after the first joint. All his fingers were a little crooked - even though the bones were set. There was a thin pale line barely visible near the cuff of his sleeve from some time that Lady Elizabeth tied him to something - he couldn't even remember. He really didn't need to look. His fingers ached when a storm was coming, just like his legs, and his arms. He was lucky his ankles didn't swell more then they did. There was four little scars on his palm from his nails digging in.

      Trevor made a soft sound in his sleep, and Williams leaned over to smooth his brother's forehead. Trevor looked pale and young. His mind whispered soft fragments of drugged dreams. Everything would be fine. Nessa would yell and wave her sword. Maybe even get that fiery anger in her eyes. She'd step forward. Maybe slam her fist on the doorframe, or kick the door in. And she'd demand that he give Trevor over.

      And he would. And then it would be over. There was no point in explaining. He couldn't talk about what he wished to, and Nessa would ignore it as he'd beg that he loved his brother and that everything - everything that he had ever done was the best option he had.

      Sometimes the only option, in fact. The wind shifted a little and the snow swirled around the house lazily.

      He was eight again.

      He could feel the walls pressing in around him - the stone floor -

      The voice of the Duke -

      He was eight. He was Williams Evanheart. He loved his brother. Kin didn't hurt kin. He was visiting Duke Yonathen like he did every winter and summer. He was eight. He was visiting Duke Yonathen. Trevor couldn't come. Trevor was sick with the fever. It was a mantra.

      Duke Yonathen smiled at him in his room. The snow was falling outside in huge flakes like feathers. The Duke smiled and said, "Well, Willy-love, do you know anything of power?" He said something - something about power being responsibility. The snow fell and swirled, and always, in the end, it hit the ground and crumbled.

      The Duke had wine in crystal glasses. It was red like blood and strong. Williams didn't drink much, but the world dimmed and he slept. He was eight. It was January 13. It was snowing. His brother wasn't there and he was lonely and tired. He practiced fencing in the morning, and Mainlander verbs in the afternoon. There was a thick book with a green cover that he read till dinner. He couldn't remember a word of it. He was eight. A child -

      The Duke smiled at him again, "What is your name? Where are you? What happened on January 13?"

      And he always answered.

      And then the Duke asked, "Who is your master?" And he was eight again, and the snow was falling in flakes as large as feathers. Once, when he was eight, the Duke came to him with crystal glasses of wine as red as blood. The glasses were faceted. Captive stars drowning in blood. And the Duke looked down at him and asked, "Do you know anything of power, Willy-love?"

      And he did. And he did.

Psalm 55