more of that backstory fic

[nilchance]

because I have no chill, I have written the second part of two of the backstory fic for my oath of redemption paladin Dalton and his prince-turned-thief Kristoff. this one is set about a year after the first. there is much gay pining between the prince and his paladin if you're into that kind of thing. I also decided to post it on AO3. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

the Bastard is borrowed from Lois McMaster Bujold's Chalion series, which I would highly recommend.



It's an early afternoon at the latest camp, and Dalton has spent the last three hours digging a latrine. He's just settled in with an apple, and he's not prepared for Dizzy to thump down onto the log beside him and demand, "So are you fucking Kristoff or what?"

Dalton fumbles the apple. It falls from his graceless fingers to the dirt. He turns a glower on Dizzy, who looks as impressed by the threat of his wrath as they ever do. More the fool him to expect shame from a disgraced court jester.

"What kind of question is that?" Dalton demands.

"It's the one that everybody wants to ask," Dizzy says. The tiefling picks up the apple, wipes it off on their tattered but colorful tunic, and takes an enormous bite. “He’s awfully pretty. If you’re not fucking him, put in a good word for me.”

"You shouldn't talk that way about him," Dalton says.

Dizzy rolls their eyes. "Kristoff wouldn't care. You're the one defending his honor."

"Someone ought to," Dalton says. "And nobody but you would think we're sleeping together, you with your perverse little mind."

As if they're trying to teach an idiot higher mathematics, Dizzy says, "There's no doubt you're sleeping together, you ninny. You literally sleep in his tent at the foot of his cot. Like a loyal hound. It's adorable. I'm talking about fucking."

"I'm guarding him," Dalton says, trying to ignore the heat creeping up his ears. He considers pointing out that he sleeps in a bedroll by the door, not literally at Kristoff’s feet, but he doubts it would help. "What if one of the king's assassins finds the camp again?"

"Sure." Dizzy takes another enormous bite of apple and asks through a mouthful of mess, "So how come none of his actual guards get to take a turn?"

Because the loyal guards that followed Kristoff when he escaped the capital weren't the ones who killed that assassin. Dalton was. There are many points of contention between him and Kristoff's guard, most of them to do with his history as a soldier of Akhiilor, but their resentment only got worse after he emerged from the tent dragging the assassin's corpse by the hair. It made them look bad. Many of them can't forgive that.

"His guard can sleep wherever they'd like,” Dalton says. “I'm not stopping them."

"But you're the only one Kristoff lets that close," Dizzy coos, propping their chin on their folded hands. "If you're fucking, you have to tell me. People are taking bets. We could make a fortune."

For fuck’s sake. After everything Kristoff has done for his people, they can’t even give him his privacy. Bristling, Dalton demands, “Who’s taking bets?”

“Down, boy. Don’t get all growly about scared people making a game of things. You’ll only make things harder for him.” Dizzy waggles their eyebrows. “So to speak.”

It’s a fair point, for all that Dalton doesn’t like it. These people have been roughing it in the woods for too long and running from place to place to stay ahead of the king’s men. Too little food, too little sleep. Dalton was trained for this, but there are people as young as thirteen following Kristoff from camp to camp. They’re all loyal now, but it would be easy for things to turn sour.

Dalton turns from Dizzy back to the day’s slim rations. (Slimmer because he’d snuck a few extra pieces of rabbit jerky into Kristoff’s daily portion. Kristoff got the best of what little they had, but he had a bad habit of giving his food away.) Under his breath, he says, “He deserves better.”

“Than what?” Dizzy says, cheerfully relentless. They crane their head to an uncomfortable angle so they can look at his face; the bells hung from their horns sing a merry tune. “Are we talking about the bets, or about you? Poor sad Dalton, forever alone because of his dark mysterious past, blah blah blah. Boring!”

“Leave me be,” Dalton growls.

“Just kiss,” Dizzy says. They pucker their lips. “Like this. I know you’re probably a virgin who’s never done it before, but--”

A branch cracks behind them. Instantly Dalton whips around, shoving Dizzy to the dirt and out of the way of any incoming attack; they yelp indignantly. But it’s only Kristoff. His hair is rumpled like he dragged his hands through it, and his eyes are a little too wide. The air around him seems to jitter with frantic energy. Dalton’s never seen him like this in the almost-year since they met. The man radiates reassurance and steady calm. For something to have him this on edge, it has to be catastrophic.

“What happened?” Dalton demands.

“We received a Sending from one of Mother Night’s clerics in the city,” Kristoff says. “The king made an announcement at court that his children were conspiring with me against him. They've been confined to their quarters, even Emil. There's talk of sending them to the dungeon. The boy's barely five!”

Kristoff adores his niece and nephew as if they were his own; he certainly cares more for them than their father. Over too much ale one night, he confessed to Dalton that it broke his heart to leave them behind when he fled the city. He’d thought that they would be safer there than hiding in the woods, and it was true enough for a while. Apparently it's not true anymore.

“You know it's a trap,” Dalton says. “Algot knows you’ll come running if he threatens the children.”

“Of course it's a trap!” Kristoff snaps. “I have to go anyway. Those children have no one else willing to stick their neck out for them.”

“We have to go,” Dalton agrees. “What did your guard say?”

“I came to you first,” Kristoff says. Startled, Dalton tilts his head, and Kristoff waves a hand. “I know, I know. I wanted someone who I knew would stand behind me.”

Dalton pretends that he can't see Dizzy making lovey-dovey faces from where they're still sprawled on the ground. He puts a hand over his heart in an echo of a Hamlin salute and tells Kristoff, “If they won't follow you, then we'll be two fools storming the capital alone.”

Kristoff smiles, a fragile thing that lights a warmth behind Dalton's breastbone. “That won’t be necessary, I hope, but thank you.”

"I can get to the children and get them out, if you want," Dalton says.

"In one piece?" Kristoff says skeptically.

“Your brother's guards wear helmets,” Dalton says. “I'll go unarmored so I can just steal a uniform and sneak inside. Then I'll get them out.”

“Oh, it's simple, then,” Kristoff scoffs. "And I suppose you want to go in alone?”

“Easier to infiltrate the castle,” Dalton says. “It’ll attract less notice. Besides, you know it’s the Festival of the Bastard today. The people will be gathered in the city to celebrate, and Algot’s throwing a feast for the nobles to boot. There’ll be chaos in the courtyard and the castle. The guards will be distracted.”

“Quite a gamble with your life,” Kristoff says.

“Every time I’ve gone with you to capture one of the taxmen's carriages, I’ve been masked and hooded,” Dalton says. “They don’t know me as one of yours. Not unless we have a spy in the camp, and if we do, we’re all fucked anyway.”

“Your accent will betray you,” Kristoff says. “You think they won’t take you for an Akhiiloran assassin and kill you immediately? You're not allowed to die for me, Dalton.”

Dalton shrugs. "Then I won't get caught. Easy enough."

"And I won't ask you to kill for me," Kristoff says.

"You're not asking," Dalton says. When Kristoff tenses, he holds up his hands for peace. "I won't kill. Not unless I have to."

"That’s not reassuring," Kristoff says. “If you see my brother--”

“I'm not fool enough to try to kill a king,” Dalton says. “Even if the world would be better off. I’ll just get the children and get out.”

Kristoff sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks like he has one of his headaches, but of course the stubborn bastard won't heal himself in case this turns into a bloodbath and others need it more than he does. Dalton's fingers itch to rub the tension from his temples, his neck, his shoulders. He has no right to lay his hands on Kristoff, but that’s never stopped him from wanting to.

"Sir!" calls someone from nearby. “News from the capital!”

The weight on Kristoff's shoulders seems to increase, but he bears up beneath it with no more than a weary sigh. He always does.

"I can do this,” Dalton says.

As if it pains him, Kristoff says, "I know you can, you mad creature. Come here.”

Of course Dalton goes. As soon as he comes close, Kristoff reaches out a hand and rests it on his shoulder. Dalton shouldn’t be able to feel the weight and warmth of it through his chainshirt, but he does. Up close, Kristoff smells faintly of soap, leather, and the dried moonflowers that are sacred to the Mother. He bows his head and murmurs, “Mother Night, let him walk in your darkness. Keep him and the children in your shadows and your silence. Help him get to the children. Thank you, lady.”

Considering how many of Mother Night’s clergy Dalton has killed, he’ll be damned lucky if she doesn’t just strike him down the second he steps into a particularly dark shadow. He doesn’t know why she tolerates him so close to one of her faithful followers. But Dalton echoes weakly, “Thank you.”

Kristoff grips his shoulder tight for a moment before releasing him and taking a step back. “Go. I’ll get to the capital as soon as I can. Bring the children back to the camp and out of harm’s way.”

“And what’ll you be doing in the capital, then?” Dalton asks. “Why not wait for me here?”

Kristoff raises an eyebrow. “I’m hardly going to let you have all the fun, am I? We’ll cause a little more chaos of our own.”

“Be careful,” Dalton says, knowing it’s a lost cause.

“And you,” Kristoff says. “Just come back to me."

"So long as I'm breathing," Dalton says.

It's a damn fool thing to tell him when they both might die. Kristoff draws in a breath as if he's been stabbed, his eyes flaring wide. Like a coward, Dalton turns on his heel and walks away.

Unfortunately for him, he barely makes it twenty feet before Dizzy is beside him. He gives them a sidelong glare, and they beam innocently. Annoyed, he says, “What are you doing?”

“Coming with you, obviously,” Dizzy says. “And people call me a fool?”

“You’re staying here,” Dalton says sternly. He pauses long enough to pull his chainshirt over his head, tossing it through the opening to Kristoff’s tent as they pass. “I don’t have time--”

“You don’t have time to get lost in the woods looking for the capital,” Dizzy shoots back. “You’re not from around here, Akhiiloran. Every time you’ve gone to the capital, you’ve been guided by Kristoff or the rest of the guard. Besides, you didn't live in the castle most of your life. I can show you a sneaky way in through the kitchens.”

It’s a fair point. Also, there’s the fact that Dizzy will simply tail him unless Dalton ties them to a tree, and even then they’d just wriggle out of it. Dalton grimaces. “Fine, then, but you’re not coming into the castle with me. You worked in the court. People will remember you.”

“Oh, I’m staying outside,” Dizzy says with a snort. “Unlike you, I don’t have a death wish. I’m casting an illusion on myself to boot so that I look different. But I know those kids. I like those kids. Gotta give you the best chance on this stupid mission.”

Damn. Dalton is making the mistake that many do when dealing with Dizzy; they may be a jester, but they’re no simple fool. They survived in King Algot’s court of backstabbers. They have plenty of tricks up their sleeve. He needs all the help he can get if he actually wants to reach the children.

“Thank you,” Dalton tells them.

“Aw, I knew you were a softie.” Dizzy turns a cartwheel just to show off before continuing smoothly, “Don’t thank me yet. There’s the question of how you’re gonna get out with the royal heirs in tow.”

“No idea,” Dalton says. They’ve reached the horses now; he nods to the young boy grooming a fresh-looking horse and begins undoing the rope tying the horse to a splintered fencepost. “I’ll figure it out.”

Shaking their head to make their bells chime, Dizzy says, “You can't just walk them out the front door. What you're gonna wanna do is get those kids to the sewers underneath the castle. It'll be messy, but those sewers lead out to a grate to the west of town. I'll meet you there with the horse.”

“That's…” Dalton considers. “That's actually very wise.”

“Don’t hurt yourself with the compliments,” Dizzy says dryly.

“All I have to do is walk the king's heirs through the castle without being caught,” Dalton says.

“Yeah, well.” Dizzy thumps him hard on the back. Dalton twitches. “I bet Kristoff's really gonna miss you when you die.”

“Just get on the fucking horse,” Dalton says.

***

The city is in chaos indeed. No one notices one more pair of travelers on horseback coming near the castle, not with the streets crowded with civilians making merry, gambling for coppers, and drinking too heavily. The mood is uneasy; Dalton hears more than a few grumbles about the feast being prepared in the king’s kitchens.

The front gate of the castle is open to let revelers into the courtyard. It’s a show of power and arrogance more than any kind of equality. It’s far more sparsely populated between the guards roaming and the shadow of the gallows mounted beneath the king’s balcony, but there’s enough for a bit of a drunken crowd.

“The Bastard strikes down the high and the low,” says one man a little too loudly as Dalton and Dizzy pass by. “We’re all s’posed to be the same in their eyes, and what does his highness do? Hole up in his castle with his bloody rich friends while we all go hungry!”

“Keep your voice down,” his friend hisses. “Do you want to be dragged off to some cell, never to be seen again?”

The man scoffs. “I ain’t afraid of him. Just wait ‘til Kristoff--”

His friend smacks him upside the head. “Kristoff’s hiding in the woods like a coward. He’s not saving nobody but himself.”

Dalton jumps as Dizzy digs a knuckle into his ribs. They whisper in his ear, “Quit eavesdropping and move.”

True to their word, Dizzy shows him the back way into the castle where deliveries are made into the kitchens. He hands them his sword; it’s too obviously of Akhiiloran make, so he’ll have to steal one off a guard along with their armor. Ideally he won’t need a weapon at all.

“You ever heard the one about the cleric and the sacrificial goat?” Dizzy asks.

“Am I the goat, then?” Dalton asks.

“No, you're too pretty. I just thought you might want to hear a joke before you die,” Dizzy says with a grin.

“Get out of here,” Dalton says.

Dizzy waves him off. “Good luck, fool.”

And then they’re gone, leaving him alone.

Dalton allows himself a single moment of hesitation at the kitchen door, taking a deep breath to steady himself. It’s a mistake. As he's standing there like an idiot, the door begins to open. He hurls himself to one side, flattening against the wall, and a guard steps out into the alley. He waits for the guard to look his way, getting ready to tackle them and beat them unconscious as quietly as possible, but they simply stroll past him without so much as a sidelong glance. They make their way a few feet away and stop there, reaching in their pocket. With a sigh, they pull off their helmet. They're a young human, their face spotted with blemishes, and they seem to have no idea that Dalton is standing there. They’re too preoccupied by pulling out a prerolled cigarette and lighting it with a simple fire cantrip.

So Dalton creeps up behind them, mindful of the bits of trash littering the alley. He’s painfully aware of every footfall, but they remain hidden beneath the crowd noise and the guard’s absent humming of a raunchy tune Dizzy delights in singing at top volume. The guard doesn’t react to his presence at all, not until Dalton drags them backward into a chokehold. Their cigarette falls to the ground. It would be easy to twist their head to one side and snap their neck, but he thinks of Kristoff and simply holds on.

The guard fights him. Of course they do. They even get a few good shots in, driving their elbow back into his belly and ribs, kicking at him, clawing at his restraining arms. They try to croak out a cry for help, but it’s lost in the noise of the festival crowd. In the end, they’re just a half-trained kid. Their struggles peter out. Dalton holds them until they go limp and counts out another thirty seconds after that just in case it’s a feint. When he lets go, they slither out of his arms and hit the ground with a loud clang of armor.

Dalton checks their pulse. They’re still breathing, although it rattles ominously in their throat. There’s always a risk to choking someone; the guard might yet die, but there’s nothing he can do about that at the moment. He drags them further down the alley, behind a bin of rubbish waiting to be taken away, and begins to strip off their armor. Multiple people wander past the mouth of the alley, but none of them so much as glance in his direction. It’s lucky. Eerily so.

Once that’s done and Dalton’s dressed himself in the stolen armor, he rolls the guard onto their side in the recovery position. The guard continues to breathe, which is promising. There’s an empty wine bottle in the rubbish. Dalton puts it in their limp hand and hopes that no one notices the condition of the guard’s neck. Then he straps their sword to his hip. It’s standard-issue, nowhere near as fine as the one he left with Dizzy, but it’ll do.

Duly armored, Dalton walks into the castle.

It’s strange. As he weaves through the well-oiled machine of a kitchen preparing for a feast, no one pays him any mind. No one questions him as he walks through the castle hallways. No guards call out to him. Harried servants move out of his way like they see him, but no one tries to stop him. It’s as if he’s a ghost.

Uneasily, Dalton remembers Kristoff asking Mother Night to let him walk in her shadows. Surely she didn’t listen. Although if it gets the children out in one piece, perhaps she’s willing to make an exception. The thought unnerves him.

Dizzy gave him directions to Anja and Emil’s quarters. Dalton goes to Anja’s first. He still doesn’t have a damn clue how to get them to the sewers, but it’ll be easier to explain the situation to a 10-year-old than someone who’s only five. He can only imagine that conversation. Your uncle Kristoff sent me, and please don’t ask me for proof because I’m a fool who didn’t think of that until just now.

Unfortunately, the second that he touches the door handle, someone calls out, “Oi, you’re in the wrong place.”

Dalton tenses, one hand twitching automatically towards his sword. He stops himself before touching the hilt. Turning to the voice, he finds a skinny young man leaning on a broom and looking bored. Either whatever was hiding Dalton as he made his way upstairs was pure luck that just ran out or the Mother has no power over random teenagers wanting to give him directions.

Clearing his throat, Dalton lowers his voice and tries to imitate Kristoff’s Hamlin accent. “Yeah?”

“They took her and the prince to the king’s quarters already,” the boy says. “Didn’t they tell you?”

“They don’t tell me nothing,” Dalton grumbles.

“Ha! I know that's right.” Grinning amiably, the boy starts sweeping again. “Best get going before the captain sees you lollygagging.”

With a curt nod, Dalton turns in what he prays is the direction of the king's quarters and starts walking. Once he turns the corner, he puts on a burst of speed. Algot ordered the children brought to him. Given his paranoia, that can't be a good sign. Dalton has to get them out now. Too bad he has no idea how to do that. He’s never been very clever, not like Kristoff or Dizzy. He’ll just have to improvise.

The corridors leading to the king's quarters are lushly decorated and sparsely guarded. Family portraits line the walls. Several have been shredded with a knife. As Dalton draws closer, he sees that Algot has defaced every portrait with Kristoff in it. Crossbow bolts jut from his eyes; Algot was using him for target practice. Anja's portrait has been similarly ruined, a slash carved through her uncertain smile.

Another guard is standing beside a pair of double doors. She was standing at attention, but when she sees Dalton, she puts her hands on her hips. In an undertone, she says, “It's about fucking time you showed up. I was supposed to be off-duty twenty minutes ago.”

Dalton tries the gruff Hamlin accent again. “Sorry. I’m new. Where are the other guards?”

“His highness sent them away,” the guard whispers. Her tone implies exactly what she thinks of that. “Says he’s handling private family business and he can guard himself. The captain argued ‘til the king said he’d throw her in a cell. Just stand out here and wait. He’s got a crossbow, and he’s in a mood.”

Wonderful. So the paranoid king in a fit of unreasonable rage has sequestered his children behind closed doors for unknown reasons. He has weaponry and a quick temper. If Dalton opens the doors, there’s a good chance he or someone else will get shot with a crossbow, but he’s not sure he can afford to wait.

“Thanks for the warning,” Dalton says.

The guard tilts her head. “You got a cold or something? You sound funny.”

Oh hell. Dalton clears his throat, sniffs, and rasps, “Just a little cold, yeah. Gift from the Bastard.”

The second or two that follow seem to last an eternity. Then the guard snorts. “Better you than me. Keep the helmet on so you don’t spread it around, got it? Last thing we fucking need is a cold going around.”

Dalton grunts. With a yawn and a stretch, the guard straightens and comes toward him. Dalton waits for a sneak attack, tense as a wire, but she only passes him by and keeps walking. Hopefully she’s not headed straight to her captain to report a strange man pretending to be a guard.

Soon the hall is empty. Dalton is alone. Cautiously, he walks to the door of Algot’s chambers. Through the sturdy wood, he can hear a man speaking. Ranting, really, though it’s too muffled to catch more than the occasional word. Traitors. Thieves. Brother. As he listens, there’s a pause as if someone else tries to talk, but the man ruthlessly cuts them off with a snarl. “Quiet, girl! I’ve heard enough from you!”

So this is Algot. Strange. He sounds like Kristoff slightly twisted, the same rich tones and well-trained diction. Something twangs, followed by a thud, and Dalton’s heart freezes in his chest for a moment as he realizes Algot just fired a crossbow. A young boy’s voice gives a startled yelp, but it doesn’t sound pained. Only scared.

“Coward,” Algot sneers. So says the man terrorizing children.

Dalton’s hand rests on the door handle. He realizes he’s gripping it painfully tight, his gauntlet creaking from the strain. Everything in him screams that he needs to fling that door open and go for Algot’s throat, but it’d only get him and possibly the children killed.

Another muffled string of words that Dalton can’t make out. Emil gives a little yelp. Algot continues talking, but the sound seems to be moving further away from the doors. He’s dragging Emil somewhere. And then Dalton hears Algot call out with a magically amplified voice, “Hear me, my people! My blessings upon you on this Festival of the Bastard!”

It sounds like Algot’s taken the children to the balcony overlooking the courtyard where hundreds of unhappy citizens are getting drunk and restless. If it wouldn’t alert the king, Dalton would bang his forehead against the wall in frustration. Kristoff has his reckless moments when they’re reclaiming stolen goods from the king’s taxmen, but at least he only risks his own life.

There’s cheering from the courtyard, but it sounds forced. Scared.

“I know these restrictions have been hard,” Algot continues. “I know you have had to trim away certain frivolities. But you need not depend on material things, my friends! You have your freedom! You have the glory of our kingdom, standing strong against those who would invade us!”

Frivolities, he says while people are starving in the streets. It’s infuriating, but at least Algot seems fully distracted. Dalton takes a deep breath, holds it, and dares to crack the door open an inch.

The king’s quarters are obscene. There’s velvet and gold everywhere, richly dyed colors, a canopy bed the size of Kristoff’s tent. More crossbow bolts litter the floor and pepper the dozens of pieces of framed art hanging from the walls. Half-empty wine bottles are on every surface along with untouched bowls of fresh fruit. All of it was taken from the taxes bleeding his citizens dry.

Algot is indeed at the balcony, his back to the door, still proclaiming loudly about how he alone guided this kingdom to greatness. Anja and Emil stand beside him, looking small and scared. They’re fully absorbed in watching their father like he’s a rabid dog that might lunge for them. One of Algot’s hands rests on Emil’s skinny shoulder. How the hell is Dalton supposed to call the children over and get them out of this room?

“Of course, strength does not always flow through our bloodlines,” Algot says. He looks down at his children with disgust. “The wolf can always breed a runt or two. A brother can become a traitor. It is Kristoff that makes your lives harder, my friends. He steals from you. Akhiilor is at our doors! We cannot show weakness!”

From below, someone drunkenly calls, “Hail to the true king! Hail to the people’s thief!”

All at once, Algot’s charming smile falls away. He lunges towards the balcony, eyes darting as he searches the crowd before pointing an accusatory finger. “Arrest that man for sedition. Take the whole group. I will not tolerate--”

“Algot!”

The familiar voice pierces Dalton like an arrow. He freezes in place, his heart pounding fast, because no, Kristoff wasn’t supposed to get to the capital for another hour at least, he must’ve gotten one of the mages to teleport him, what is he doing--

Algot tenses, his grip tightening painfully on Emil’s thin shoulder. Emil must make a sound that Dalton can’t hear over the crowd; Anja turns towards her brother, fear and fury in her eyes. Dalton sees the moment that Anja catches sight of him out of the corner of her vision. Her eyes narrow in an impressive glare for such a little thing.

All at once, Algot relaxes. He gives a little laugh. “Finally you come to turn yourself in. Good. Guards, seize him and bring him to the dungeons.”

“I invoke the rite of the Father,” Kristoff says.

They’ve talked about the rite of the Father over drinks, he and Kristoff. It’s an old tradition from the beginning of Hamlin, one that’s rarely invoked. If a royal has siblings, they have the right to invoke the Father if they feel that the royal is ruling poorly. It’s a duel to the death, with the winner claiming the throne for themselves.

At the time, Dalton had been puzzled. Why did Kristoff run from the capital when he could have invoked the rite? Kristoff had given a wry little laugh and explained that the high cleric of Hamlin herself had to give permission for the rite to be held. At the time Kristoff left, she hadn’t been willing to risk execution. Yes, Algot is supposed to accept the rite or risk being struck down by the Father’s catastrophic displeasure, but Algot is not a religious man. He thinks he’s above consequences, even from the gods.

The truth was, Kristoff confessed, he didn’t try very hard to invoke the rite. He didn’t want to kill his own brother. Not when he could try to help him instead.

Kristoff is no killer. Not like Algot. This isn’t going to be a holy rite. It’ll be a bloodbath.

After a long moment, Algot laughs. His grip on Emil relaxes, and the boy shrinks away. Anja takes him by the hand and pulls him close, wrapping her arms protectively around him now that their father is distracted.

“Liar,” Algot says. His voice rings in the hush. “Thief. The high cleric Vivian would never grant permission.”

“The Father wills it,” calls a woman from below. Vivian, presumably. Her voice shakes. “Even you are not above him. The law states--”

“I am the law!” Algot screams.

The situation is unraveling. Dalton sees the next minute unwind before him. Algot is distracted. Kristoff is making this play in order to buy them time, to create enough chaos that Dalton and the children can escape. This is Dalton’s job. These were his orders. It's time to grab the children and go.

And yet there is a loaded crossbow on a table within Algot's reach.

Dalton begins moving forward, one hand going to the hilt of his sword. Anja sees him coming; she steps warily away from her father, dragging Emil with her. Emil sees only Algot, his dark eyes very wide.

“I am the will of the Father,” Algot spits. “I am this kingdom. And you think you can come here and challenge me? In front of my people? In front of my children?”

“Brother,” Kristoff says. He sounds pained. “You can come back from this. Just let me help you, and we can--”

Algot grabs for the crossbow, and Dalton shoves the sword into his unprotected back with all his strength. It pierces straight through him, sprouting from his chest like a perverse flower. Blood sprays everywhere, spattering Emil's upturned face. The crossbow fires, but the shot goes wild. From the crowd below, there is screaming.

Algot chokes. Coughs. More blood spills from his wound. He drops the crossbow. Dalton rips the sword out of him, and Algot staggers forward. Algot grips the railing as if it will save him, white-knuckled, but it isn't enough to keep his knees from going out. He falls to the ground like a tree toppling, almost hitting Emil, but Anja yanks her brother out of the way.

Dalton's mind is truly quiet for the first time in his life. He stares down at Algot's twitching body, wondering if he should finish him off, but there’s no need. Algot shudders once, hard, and stops breathing. His eyes are wide open. The air is cool and still despite the summer heat. Dalton smells moonflowers. He feels the weight of someone’s hand on his where it rests upon the hilt of his sword.

The moment shatters as Emil starts to shriek. It's a piercing, wounded cry of, “Papa! No! Papa, get up! I'm sorry!”

Dalton drops the sword. It hits the ground at his feet with a clamor he can barely hear over the screaming of the crowd and the wailing of an orphaned child. Anja grabs Emil and drags him away from Dalton, her eyes darting wildly between him and Algot’s body. Dalton lets her go. Words of comfort will not come. How can he comfort her when he just killed her father?

Instead he looks down over the rail of the balcony and into the utter chaos below. People are screaming and running from the courtyard, dragging their children. Others are surging into the courtyard in a drunken mob. Only some of the guards are moving forward, headed back into the castle or toward Kristoff, whose men move to defend him. The only point of stillness in all the madness is Kristoff, staring up at him from below. Kristoff looks stricken. Frozen. It’s as if he was the one mortally wounded. Dalton’s heart drops. He shakes his head, willing Kristoff to understand.

Don't claim me as one of your own. Don't try to save me. Get yourself and your men out of that courtyard alive.

After a moment, Kristoff sets his shoulders. His expression clears. Standing tall and proud, he bellows, “Enough!”

His voice pierces through the chaos, ripping through the crowd like the concussive wave after an explosion. In its wake, a stunned quiet falls. Even the guards that were headed towards him with murder on their minds falter midstep. In the moment of hesitation, the robed cleric beside him (who must be Vivian) steps up and says, “The mad king rejected the will of the Father! The Father has spoken! Hail to your new king!”

“Regent,” Kristoff says sharply. He holds up his hands, trying to quiet the voices calling out in confusion and alarm and (in many cases) desperate relief. He points up at the balcony where Dalton is still standing. “Guards, you will take the assassin alive! They must face justice!”

One last crossbow bolt clatters off the balcony rail. Dalton doesn’t flinch, even as he hears the nearby clamor of armor. The guards are closing in. He kneels beside Algot’s body, lacing his fingers behind his head, and surrenders. Algot’s blood soaks into his knees. It’s only a few moments before the first guard kicks the door open and rushes him. They shove him to the ground, a boot between his shoulder blades, and the point of their sword rests on the back of his neck where the helmet doesn’t quite meet his armor. Dalton doesn’t resist.

“I should kill you right here,” the guard hisses.

“No,” Anja says. Dalton can’t see her where he lays facedown on the floor, but her voice is resolute and strong. She doesn’t sound like a child of ten; she sounds like a queen. “The regent wants him alive.”

After a hesitation, the guard says, “Yes, your highness.”

“No!” Emil wails. “He killed Papa. He should--”

“Hush,” Anja says.

With a ruckus of rattling armor, more guards flood into the room. There is a great deal of yelling, but the guard standing above Dalton shouts them all down. The regent’s orders stand. Finally, rough hands grab Dalton and drag him off the ground onto his knees. Orders are barked at him, many of them contradictory. His helmet is ripped off, taking a few chunks of hair with it, and he blinks against the sudden light.

From below, Dalton hears Kristoff speaking quickly. Anja steps up to the balcony, her dress wet with her father’s blood. She holds up a dainty fist and cries, “Greetings to the regent of Hamlin. You are welcome here, uncle. Please come inside.”

More chaos. More yelling. There are far more cheers than cries of outrage. It’s as smoothly done as a transition of power in the aftermath of an assassination could be. Kristoff is given legitimacy by Algot's heir and the gods themselves. He probably won’t be killed before he steps foot in the castle. That could be enough to keep him breathing. It has to be enough.

“Please help him,” Dalton breathes, not sure if he's begging the Mother, the Father, the Bastard, or the gods he turned his back on when he broke his oath. Perhaps he's asking anyone who might be listening.

A guard backhands him hard enough to make his ears ring. “Keep your filthy mouth shut, Akhiiloran. Get on your feet.”

Dalton lets them drag him away.

***

They take him to a cell in the pit of the dungeon and leave him there after stripping him of his stolen armor. The cell's as dark as a cave, a pure velvety blackness that soothes his aching head. Quiet, aside from the distant yelling of other prisoners. It’s also as cold as hell. He curls up in a corner as best he can so as to keep an eye on the door and lays his cheek against the cold stone, trying to soothe the bruise where the guard struck him.

Perhaps he should be on his feet and pacing the tiny cell, agitated that he has no idea what's happening outside, but in truth he's too exhausted. It feels like something vast moved through him and hollowed him out in its wake. Besides, a good soldier knows to rest when they have the chance. So he closes his eyes and dozes for a while.

Time passes. He has no way of marking it. Occasionally, a person in cleric's robes and the Bastard's symbol comes by with a pitcher of water or a bowl of thin, burnt porridge. They offer to pray with him. He declines. They leave him to his darkness.

He has plenty of time to think. He worries about Kristoff. He wonders if Dizzy got away from the castle unnoticed. He tries not to think about the desolate look in Emil's eyes as he wept for his father. Eventually, his mind quiets and he just drifts in the dark stillness. He enjoys the moments he has left before they hang him.

When the light begins to rise in the hallway, he assumes at first that it's the cleric coming back with more water. Then he hears the rattle of armor and realizes they're coming to drag him out of his cell and take him to the gallows.

Well, then. He'll face death on his feet. Unsteadily, he stands and goes to the cell door. The cold has made him clumsy and his limbs stiff, but he stands at attention. It nearly takes his knees out from under him where he hears a familiar voice say, “Give me some space.”

Kristoff.

“Your highness,” a guard says hesitantly.

“I will speak to the prisoner alone,” Kristoff says. “Wait for me down the hall.”

Dalton hears the clanking of armor as the guards retreat. A moment later, Kristoff steps into view. He's holding a lantern; after all that time in the dark, the direct light makes Dalton's eyes water painfully. It makes Kristoff seem haloed in golden light. He looks strange in these fine clothes, all brocades and velvets, not a hint of dirt on him. Mostly he looks tired.

Quietly, Dalton says, “You're a damn fool to come here.”

“And you're a fool to have killed Algot, so I suppose we're even,” Kristoff says tightly. “You made one hell of a mess, Dalton.”

“The more reason for you to stay away from me,” Dalton says. “Keep your hands clean.”

Kristoff snorts. “It's too convenient for someone to have assassinated Algot right after I called for the rite of the Father. Everyone suspects that I hired you to kill him. They just can't prove it.”

“Since when have people needed proof?” Dalton says.

“I have the support of the heirs, the church, and the Royal Council,” Kristoff says. "And the gods, apparently. The nobles insisted on trying to resurrect Algot. The Father refused to answer the high cleric's prayers. Her theory is that Algot doomed himself by refusing the Father's rite. It's the will of the gods that he stay dead."

Resurrection magic is rare enough in Akhiilor that it hadn't even occurred to Dalton that someone might try to bring Algot back. That was stupid of him; of course a king would get the best of Hamlin's magic after an assassination. Gods only know what Algot would have done if he was resurrected. The monarchy would have been torn to shreds. Kristoff and he would have been executed. He winces. "Thank you to the Father, then."

"Indeed," Kristoff says. "The nobles aren't happy, but they can't move against me yet.”

“There's no reason to tempt fate,” Dalton says.

“Fuck fate.” Kristoff lifts the lantern and peers into the cell, looking disgusted. “These conditions are barbaric. Have they been feeding you? Giving you water?”

“I'm fine,” Dalton says.

Kristoff looks unconvinced. His gaze fixes on Dalton’s cheek where the bruise still throbs, and his mouth tightens into a hard line. “Are you hurt anywhere else? I have a healer working her way through the dungeon. I’ll send her to you if--”

“There’s no point in healing me now,” Dalton says as gently as he can. “When are they going to hang me?”

Kristoff makes a sound that seems too painful to be a laugh. He turns away, white-knuckling the handle of the lantern. Staring down the hallway, he says, “The Council of Royals has spoken. They argued for days. Half of them want you dead for daring to kill one of us. Half of them want to shake your hand for ridding them of Algot. It came to a tie, and I broke it. You’re not going to die.”

It’s as if Kristoff slapped him. Dalton stares at him, stunned stupid, and says nothing for a while. Finally, he manages, “You shouldn’t have stuck your neck out for me like that.”

“I’m so sorry I wouldn’t let you martyr yourself like an idiot,” Kristoff says snippily. “You see, I’m rather attached to you.”

“I’m grateful,” Dalton says.

Kristoff grunts. He still looks annoyed, but his shoulders are bent beneath the weight of some invisible guilt that probably isn’t his to carry in the first place. Dalton wants to reach through the bars and touch him in the hopes that it would comfort them both. Instead he takes hold of the bars, ignoring the cold of them, and says, “You saved my life. Why do you look like your horse just died?”

“There was a compromise,” Kristoff says. “You’ll be in prison for the rest of your life.”

Dalton studies the side of Kristoff’s face. The man needs to shave and get some damned sleep. He waits for whatever terrible revelation Kristoff feels so guilty about, but it doesn’t come. Finally, Dalton asks, “Is that it?”

Kristoff whips around to glare at him. “Is that not enough? You’re trapped in a cage like an animal!”

“Keep your voice down,” Dalton warns him.

Still glowering, Kristoff lowers his voice. “It’s not right.”

Against his better judgement, Dalton reaches through the bars. It's selfish. Wrong. His heart sings as Kristoff immediately clasps his hand. He’s shockingly warm after days in the dungeon’s bitter chill. “We both know I deserve to be here.”

Kristoff gives him a sharp look. “That’s not true.”

“I killed so many people when I served Akhiilor,” Dalton says. “Innocent people. Now I’m in a place where I can’t hurt anyone anymore. I can try to find peace.”

“In a dark and freezing hellhole,” Kristoff says. “You can find peace elsewhere, I promise you. I’ll speak to Dizzy and the guards that followed me into the woods. We can arrange for an escape somehow.”

It’s madness. Kristoff already risked enough voting not to hang Dalton. If Dalton disappears on his watch, the whispers of the nobles could turn into outright accusations. The support of the high cleric can’t protect Kristoff from everything. And one thing has become very clear in the days since Dalton has been in this cell.

“Kristoff,” Dalton says. “I’m tired.”

Kristoff stops. He stares at Dalton through the bars, taking him in. The stubborn set of his jaw softens. His grip on Dalton’s hand gentles. Softly, he says, “I know you are. But this is no place to find rest.”

“You’re the regent,” Dalton says. “Build a new prison, if it pleases you.”

“I plan to,” Kristoff says. There’s a feverish light in his eyes, the same as when he would rant about all the things he would change for Hamlin if he could. “There are many things my brother broke that I’m going to fix. But I can’t just leave you here in the cold and the dark until a better place is built. No one should be here.”

“You and your bleeding heart,” Dalton says fondly. “Free those who deserve to be freed, then. Send blankets and heaters for the rest of us. It'll have to do for now.”

“So now you're my advisor,” Kristoff says, and the warmth in his voice makes Dalton want to squirm. “Fine. I was going to do that anyway, but I'll send heaters within the hour. Any other suggestions?”

“Yes.” Dalton squeezes Kristoff's hand and reluctantly pulls away. Kristoff seems just as unhappy to let him go, but he does. Dalton's heart aches. He takes a step back from the bars and tells him, “You can't come here again.”

Kristoff takes his meaning immediately. His face falls, and Dalton hates himself for it. Then that stubborn look is back. Sternly, Kristoff points a finger at him. “Like hell. It’s bad enough that you want me to leave you in here. No.”

“You don't have a choice, your highness,” Dalton says.

“Don’t call me that,” Kristoff says, bristling. “Don’t put distance between us.”

“There is distance between us,” Dalton says. “You’re the regent, and I’m an Akhiiloran kingkiller.”

“We're trying to keep that as quiet as possible,” Kristoff says.

“They marched me through the castle with no helmet on,” Dalton says. “It's a little late for discretion.”

“Dizzy is going from tavern to tavern, spreading rumors that the king's assassin was executed behind closed doors,” Kristoff says. “Only the Council knows your name. Memories will fade in time.”

“If you keep coming down here to visit a prisoner, people will ask questions,” Dalton says. “You know how it looks. Bad enough you came here once.”

“To hell with how it looks,” Kristoff says.

“You may have the gods on your side, but you can't afford to be stupid,” Dalton says. “It's not worth the risk. Not just to you, but to the children. If they strip you of your regency and execute you, who's going to protect Anja and Emil? Who's going to protect the people of this kingdom? You know the nobles will drain them dry. They all need you more than I do.”

That scores a hit. Kristoff winces and turns his face away, looking down the hall towards his guards. “I don't believe in sacrificing one for many. Don't ask me just to leave you here alone.”

“Kristoff,” Dalton says. It may be the last time he calls that name, so he savors it. Tastes it. “Let me do this for you. Please.”

Kristoff flinches. After a long moment, he closes his eyes. Dalton wants to look away from the raw pain in his expression. He doesn't let himself. If he's hurting them both, he can at least do Kristoff the courtesy of not looking away.

“I'm going to fix this,” Kristoff says. It's an oath as fervent as any that Dalton ever took.

“There's nothing to fix," Dalton says. Kristoff says nothing, unyielding as a stone, and Dalton sighs. “I know you'll try. Until then, I want you to promise me you won't come back to see me.”

Kristoff looks at him, finally. His eyes are as dark as the sea at night. Dalton could drown in them. There's pain, yes, but there's also a terrible fondness that chokes Dalton's throat tight. No one has ever looked at him like that.

“I promise, you stubborn ass,” Kristoff says.

“Thank you,” Dalton says. “Now get out of here.”

“I don't take orders from you,” Kristoff says. “I'm a regent now.”

“Requests, then,” Dalton says. “From a friend.”

Kristoff gives him a wry smile. “Is that what we are?”

Dalton stares at him. Roughly, he asks, “What else could we be?”

“Hm,” Kristoff says. “Well, we have nothing but time to think about that, I suppose.”

“Don't,” Dalton pleads. The word is wrenched out of him. Suddenly he is more terrified than he ever was of the gallows, a sweet and excruciating fear that makes his traitor heart hammer. All those nights he dreamed of this, but he can't let Kristoff ruin himself. “Not now. You can't--”

“Have faith in me, oh dramatic one.” Kristoff steps back from the bars, and even that little bit of distance hurts. He searches Dalton’s face, looking for answers that Dalton can’t give him. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” Dalton lies. All he wants to do is reach through the bars again and touch Kristoff’s achingly familiar face. Instead he echoes Kristoff by backing away from the bars. It doesn’t help. In the end, he turns away so he doesn’t have to watch Kristoff walk away. “Thank you for everything. Now leave me.”

“Take care of yourself, Dalton,” Kristoff murmurs. “May the gods protect you.”

Footsteps, retreating down the hallway. Dalton squeezes his eyes shut and listens until they fade to nothing. Finally, he’s alone. Like he asked for. Gods, he’s a fool, but it had to be done for Kristoff’s sake. So long as Kristoff is safe, Dalton can survive without him.

As the light from Kristoff’s lantern dims, the darkness swathes him like a blanket. It’s a bitter comfort. He buries his face in his hands and stays that way for a long time.