"His majesty the King will see you now, Prince Lucien"

Lucien ran a hand through his silver hair, patting the tied ponytail to ensure it was still in place. A force of habit, he kept his appearance immaculate. He had to.

He stood, rich purple robes cascading over his slim, slightly hunched frame. He still retained a shadow of the athletic body of his younger and middle years, but time spares no-one, not even princes.

The Lord Chamberlain waited for Lucien to walk over before entering the gold-trimmed throne room doors. The man was an experienced professional of nigh-forty years. With practiced movements he marched in, stepped to the side and announced in a thundering voice:

"Presenting Prince Lucien, High General of the Fifth Legion, Master of the Treasury, Lord of Whitestone Castle and Victor of the battle of Anetor Passage."

The Lord Chamberlain knew the King had little patience for lengthy introductions. There were at least a dozen other titles Lucien could claim for himself, accrued through the years. But his brother knew them all already, the man had bestowed most of them himself.

Lucien gathered himself and slipped into his princely image, head high and long strides full of purpose. He reached the base of the steps leading up to the throne, stopped abruptly and dropped to one knee with head bowed.

"Your majesty." He greeted his brother, the King.

Kourand's voice boomed, travelling the length and breadth of the massive hall. "Arise Prince Lucien!"

As Lucien stood, the King did also, then took the stairs three at a time to come down and embrace his brother.

"How are you, old man?" Kourand asked, a smile on his lips and his pleasure to see his sibling clear.

"You are two years my senior, Kourand." Lucien replied. The King only chuckled.

"And yet here I stand with only streaks of grey in my grand beard, and you are a sly silver fox!"

The descriptions were apt. The King was an imposing man, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His royal finery only enhanced his image, covered with gold, silver and rich red cloth, grand summed more than just his beard.

Lucien smiled. He loved his brother, but he knew what it meant to be called to audience with the King. Another task. Another mission. Another royal order cloaked as a brotherly request.

"My brother," Kourand began. Lucien felt his heart sink. He was tired. And hurting. His fifth wife had passed only recently, and he was still in mourning.

"-it is time for you to step down from your duties." Finished the King. He was the type of man who preferred to get right to the point. Lucien looked up at him, and saw compassion in his brother's eyes, not insult.

"You have been a most dutiful servant of the Crown for your whole life. I and our father before me have used your strength, your talents and your love for the betterment of the kingdom. You have never failed us. Even through tasks that I know you found torturous."

He referred, of course, to Lucien's last three marriages. It had been a point of contention in their relationship when Kourand had asked Lucien to marry after his second wife. Her demise had left a permanent scar on Lucien, one he had not wanted to risk reopening.

Unbidden, flashbacks of his trauma came to Lucien, even as he stood before the King, trying to take in the man's speech.

It is the middle of the night, and Lucien's head snaps up from where it had lay at his desk. Papers are beneath his hands, and ink has painted his fingertips. It takes a moment to recognise the noise that awoke him. A clatter and a sharp metallic ringing. It is gone as quickly as it came, and Lucien closes his eyes to listen for it again. It comes again, and he recognises the sound of a voice yelling out, stifled mid-shout.

He leaps to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the ground. His hip smacks the corner of the table as he bolts to the door and throws it open. He gasps from the pain but doesn't stop. On the left the hallway leads to the dining hall and throne room, and that's where the noises are coming from. Instead he sprints in the opposite direction, towards his wife's bedroom.

He throws the door open and by the light of a dim candle sees his wife's slumbering form on the bed. Without pause he rushes over to the crib where his infant son sleeps peacefully. With a sigh of relief he rushes from the room and bangs on a nearby door.

After a few moments it opens, and a woman stands at the threshold.

"Enid!" He practically shouts. "It is happening, they have come."

Her face pales and she shakes her head in disbelief. "No, surely not." But the growing clamour from down the hall reaches her notice.

"Yes. Wake Abernathy, take Charlotte and Rowan to the place we agreed. I will cover your escape, and God willing, meet you there."

The servant woman nods and goes back into her room to wake her husband. Lucien wishes dearly to go to his family. His marriage is no great romance, that is no secret. His wife is as fond of his sharp features and inappropriate sarcasm as he is of her splotchy skin and pompous nature. But they have a familiarity, and are bonded by their progeny. Rowan is Lucien's first child, and he had never before loved with the strength and fear with which he loves that small boy.

He tears himself away and makes for the one weapon he knows is within reach. A ceremonial sword in his office, but kept sharp and well oiled by servants. It is of exceptional make and will serve him well.

Blade in hand he joins the fight. A dozen or so men in hoods and leather, bearing assorted weapons, have invaded his home. Bodies lie strewn across the dining room and his royal guards in their plate armour fend the men off with long pikes. He finds himself grateful for the tradition that forced his men to wear such unwieldy armour even within the palace itself. He can see the dents and scratches that are evidence of how it has saved their lives this night. But there are only two of them, and a handful of the male house staff with improvised weapons in hand, fending off nearly twice their number.

Lucien enters the fray with a manic fury, driven equally by rage and fear. He catches the first two off guard, slicing one's wrist and puncturing the other below the belly. His battlecry is an unintelligible curdling scream.

His entrance is enough of a distraction that his guards fell two more of the would-be assassins. And now the odds look a good bit more favourable.

A melee begins. The assassins leap forward and engage, their counterattack spurred by the deaths of their comrades. It is an untenable position, and though Lucien survives, he is not unscathed.

Blood drips from a gash across his chest, and another on his hand. Both of his guardsmen lay still and only one man stands by his side. The rest are dead or dying.

Lucien grabs the servant by the arm, dragging him away. "Come quickly, we must follow my family and escape. I hear a greater fight underway outside." The man nods, and they hurry towards the bedchamber.

As they reach the door, flickering torchlight falls across a pale, splotchy arm stretched out from behind the doorway, lying in a growing pool of blood.

"Before you go, I must confess something to you Lucien." The King said, squatting to sit on the steps to his own throne.

"Hm? What's that?" Lucien snapped back to the throne room, to his brother. He sat down beside the big man.

"I feel I am to blame for what happened to Charlotte. And to Rowan." The King looked at his hands. "You were a different man after that day. That was my fault."

"You had no way of knowing that brigand would try to kill his own aunt and cousin." Lucien put his hand on his Kourand's shoulder, to comfort him. But the King shrugged it off.

"No. I should have known. I pushed too hard for the alliance. There was too much dissent. You should never have been made to marry her. The very concept of a child uniting our kingdoms was a threat to his rule. Your son would never have been safe for as long as he lived."

"You were not the King. It was not by your order that I was wed to Charlotte." Lucien insisted.

"Oh come now brother. You know as well as I that our father was in poor health. His mind was going. I may not have been King in name, but I was King in every way that mattered."

There was a long silence between them. Lucien gathered his words carefully.

"I have had but one child only. My love for Rowan is the greatest love I have ever known. If I could do it all over again, I would. Just for that love."

Kourand smiled weakly. "Yes, well... Either way, take the deepest apology of a King, and of a brother, with you today. As always, anything you wish is yours for the asking. And I hope you will not stray too far that our meetings will be scarce "

They stood and embraced.

"Now go, and do whatever it is that old retired men do." The King joked.

Lucien sauntered away towards the throne room doors, saying loudly over his shoulder. "Perhaps I shall take up carving!"

"And you shall be terrible at it!" His brother boomed back.

Lucien stopped at the door and turned back to Kourand. "Then I shall carve you a terrible new throne, to suit a man of your stature!" Then he was out of the door and away down the hall.

As he walked, another man joined him. About his height, but without the slight stoop Lucien had developed of late.

"So where is the old man sending us now?" He said to Lucien.

Lucien looked at his companion, a sharp featured man with faint patches of pink mottling his cheeks. Lucien smiled.

"Where do you want to go?"