Chapter 7

Brendan is already waiting outside by the doors when Alcina and Mary reach the castle.

As usual, he cuts an intimidating figure simply by standing, an utter stillness that’s almost unnatural and seemingly displaces him from the rest of his surroundings.

His dark eyes lock with Alcina's from a distance, and Alcina has to, clench her jaw to fight the urge to look away.

Aren’t young children taught not to look evil or bad things in the eye, for it will doubtlessly consume them whole?

“Good afternoon, my Lord,” Alcina greets politely, dipping into a graceful and proper little bow. Brendan seems amused as he returns in kind, though far more muted than Alcina's own greeting. 

“I am to escort you to be introduced to the Captain Commander,” Brendan says instead of any further pleasantries. 

At Alcina's blank stare, Brendan adds, “He is the commander of the kingdom’s armed military forces, as well as the royal guards’ chief - and therefore, the individual primarily responsible for our lives.”

Does that responsibility also extend to protecting them from one another? Alcina, wisely, chooses not to voice these words.

Instead, she simply nods, and turns to dismiss Mary - only to pause, startled by the sheer terror the girl is percolating.

She’s practically trembling where she stands, hands gripping white-knuckled around the picnic basket’s handles, her eyes fixed firmly on her own feet.

She looks as though she’s been frightened out of her very wits, and Alcina cannot comprehend what on earth it is, that could have rendered her so afraid-- 

She glances at Brendan, who appears perfectly unruffled and does not spare even a glance in Mary's direction.

Alcina realizes, with a start, that it is Brendan Mary is so visibly terrified of.

Just what has this man done, to evoke such a response from his own household staff?

Alcina's weariness returns tenfold. She dismisses Mary, who promptly sprints back into the castle without a backward glance. 

Brendan, seemingly done waiting, gestures briskly towards the side of the building, and Alcina nods. Together, the two of them set off down the small path embedded on the outdoor grounds.

It takes them all the way around the very large castle, and Alcina, at the least, can appreciate the outdoor stroll rather than an indoors trek, which would have doubtlessly exposed her to the same whispers and murmurs of the servants as the day before.

She wonders, briefly, if the reason Brendan chooses to walk along the outside is for this very purpose.

Alcina, admittedly, had done the same thing back home, when she was too tired to deal with the constantly pointed stares and not at all subtle whispers.

It is hard to imagine that someone like Lord Brendan- for whom all of the darkness has been his kingdom to command at his fingertips from birth - could possibly be forced to retreat the same way Alcina had.

That, really, they could hold anything in common between them, besides the arrangement at hand.

Still.

Alcina realizes that whether this man is a monster or not, he is still to be her husband, and so she quickens her speed so as to try to stay in step with Brendan a bit better as they walk.

“So, um. Is- you said that the Captain Commander leads the entirety of your armed forces?” Alcina tries to initiate a conversation - just so she could get a glance of - what exactly is her husband-to-be is trying to do - Introducing her to Captain Commander.

The military force of the kingdom of the Western Plains is unmatched in its size, might, and skill; for a long time, Alcina remembers hearing growing unease at the nation’s growing military power, as other Houses feared that they might one-day fancy expansion.

But House Warner, it seemed, had no such ambitions, and the anxiety eventually diminished, though no House would be so foolish as to not keep a watchful eye on the Western Plains, nevertheless.

Even on their own, they would pose too great a threat, should they ever decide to push along the borders.

The territory at greatest risk, however, had always been the Heartlands, lying directly adjacent to the Western Plains, without the protection of natural landforms as House Arison's territory. 

“Yes,” Brendan answers. “Lincoln is a man quite accomplished for his age.”

Ariadne startles. “Is he very young?”

Another monotonous smile grace Brendan's lips.

Alcina noticed that the only expression she’s ever directly seen on the lord’s face, is what could technically be called a smile - but one that never reaches his eyes, and hardly even creases his cheeks.

It’s more perfunctory than anything else - like a doll’s mimicry of a human expression.

“He is twenty-six.”

Alcina openly gapes. Twenty-six - only four years older than Alcina, and yet, already the head of an entire army.

The strongest army, in all of the Ethereal Isles land. What a ferocious power he must hold, to already command an army at such a young age.

“But I did not hear that the Western Plains’ military’s leader possessed a Gift,” Alcina murmurs, more to herself than anything else; in fact, she hadn’t even intended to speak it aloud.

But she must have, for Brendan pauses in their walk, and tilts his head at her. “He does not,” Brendan confirms.

Alcina's eyes widen. “He must be an extraordinary man,” she finally manages to say, faintly. 

Brendan shrugs lightly. “At least, that is what everyone seems to believe.”

“You do not think of him to be an extraordinary man?”

“I do not think it is certain that he does not possess a Gift.”

Alcina stares. She doesn’t understand.

“I think it arrogant for us to presume that we understand all there is to know about these Gifts,” Brendan says, with the same toneless elegance as he always speaks with.

But the word Gifts is spoken with such- such a sneer, almost, that it startles Alcina.

“‘Gifts’ such as your brother’s, perhaps, are easily ascertainable and understandable, on a general level.”

“But I do not think it beyond the realm of possibility, to think that there could be those who possess Gifts but live their entire lives without knowing they are in possession of one, nor have it be thought of as such.”

Alcina's brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Brendan clasps his hands behind his back, his voice contemplative. “Are there not merchants who seem inconceivably to find only success in their dealings or farmers whose crops have only ever yielded effortless bounties?” 

Alcina stares.

“It could be said that one is merely an extraordinarily talented trader and that the other is simply blessed with good fortune and a good plot of soil. But could the merchant not be blessed with the Gift of a Midas touch and the farmer with a supernaturally Gifted green thumb?”

Brendan continues walking, and it takes Alcina a dumbstruck moment to remember to stumble after him. When Brendan speaks again, he gazes not at Alcina but forward, his eyes focused on the courtyard now visible before them. 

It’s a massive, sprawling open space, filled with the background din of faint shouts and clanging metal, as armed men spar in twos and fours throughout the area.

At the head of it all, Alcina thinks she can see the blurry outline of a lone man, watching the proceedings with an eagle eye.

“Lincoln entered the castle as a messenger for one of the lieutenants until he was entered - as a sport in good fun by his Alpha - in the festival tournament.”

The man’s features come into focus slowly, as Alcina and Brendan grow steadily closer to the courtyard.

He does not seem particularly physically impressive - not in any unusual or striking way, that might misrepresent a man who could lead the Ethereal Isles land's strongest military force at under thirty.  

“He won, rather spectacularly, as I recall.” A pause. “He was thirteen.”

Alcina stumbles momentarily. “Was it a tournament for youths?”

Brendan's lip quirks into one of those ghost-like smiles of his. “No. Most of our own military’s fresh recruits were among the participants.”

Alcina's eyes flit back to the man she realizes now must be Lincoln Feierman, the Captain Commander of the Western Plains’ army.

He has gentle features, looking every bit the twenty-six-year-old that he is, rather than the old and battle-hardened military leaders Alcina has met in the past.

“Commander Lincoln rose through the ranks in the army rather quickly. There was a series of conflicts with some nomadic tribes in the south, eight years ago.”

Alcina remembers hearing of the matter. Of the gossip that, perhaps, the Western Plains kingdom will end up falling to a scattered group of nomadic tribesmen, against all odds.

The tribes, with their agile mobility and ferocious strength, were pushing the forces back with more power than anyone had anticipated.

And then, abruptly - all at once - the talk died down.

The Western Plains kingdom, it was said, had laid the conflict to rest. In a matter of days, almost, they’d gone from a concerning risk of collapse altogether, to having unilaterally won the battle.

No details were ever said, but Alcina had always assumed that the initial reports must have simply been a fluke. 

“Our forces were most definitely losing.”

Alcina's lips part in surprise.