AN: The story will go on! And, with the return of Magnus, no less!

If I have not yet already mentioned, then it will be worth it to say: this story is no longer a fanfiction. Other than the characters being loosely based off of Hetalia, the similarities really end there, and you will find the the cast have their own life to them.

I hope you will continue to enjoy the story!

XO Apple

When the people of these lands look up to the heavens, they peer into the ever-reborn souls of Life. Prophecy is born from the wisdom of the silent stars.

Snow fell onto the fine-grained leather glove, crunching as the fingers clenched the sign in their fist. The brief snowfall amidst the thunder did not surprise the Dark Spirit. The omens had already described the dimming of the Sun Spirit's illumination and the obliviousness of the Moon's attention. The courses of the stars glittered like a silvery thread, lighting a path to their heavenly counterparts, though the storm that crept up from the horizon crawled over them and hid their message.

"Not that it matters," the spirit scoffed to the empty road. These modern incarnations forgot to look up and decipher the declaration so clearly spelled out in the sky. The Astrarium tongue was dead. Bitterness was a foul perfume that clung to their thoughts in a thick cloud; Darkness knew the ignorance of the Sun and Moon only benefited their purposes. Yet, it had become a lonely existence ever since their shackles had begun to weaken.

Wind furled their cloak into billows as they mounted their steed. The sky erupted with light and thunder boomed overhead, merely the overture to coming rain. They booted their eerily calm steed to walk, hooves falling silently like they were walking on plush carpet rather than gravel. Darkness had not forgotten, for their memory reached longer than shadows in twilight could stretch. They remembered every moment their skin was burned by Sun and Moon, captive once to the whims of their power, held prisoner in what was once Darkness' dominion. Darkness remembered what it was to rule. The distant city lights shone bright in the gloom, their reflected light burning in furious glowing eyes.

.

The velvet purple darkness pressed against the window panes, the humid afternoon having given way to a rumbling sky. Lightning wove the windblown trees into black lace against the swirling heavens, the branches near the castle windows tapping to the relentless rhythm of the spring storm, strange for the time of year.

Heavy chintz drapes were drawn against the drafts, the warmth of the fire in the tall, ornate grate warmed his back like the embrace of lover's arms. Sindre's lips quirked at the thought of his new fiancee.

The candles on his desk burned brightly, banishing the shadows to the corners of the gilded cornice ceiling. The Prince sat bent over his writing desk, shirtsleeves rolled back on his arms, the sky-blue stitching marred now by earth and grass from his afternoon abroad. He dotted the last letters of the phrase and gently sanded the paper so it could dry. He tried not to think of his escapade with Marta while he penned thank-you notes to the courtiers who had attended his mother's luncheon last week. He doubted they would appreciate his inner thoughts accidentally spilled in inkblots into the missives.

He felt his lips turn up and heat rushed to his… face. He set down his pen and uncurled his fingers, breathing a sigh as he leaned back in his seat. He stared at the steady candle flame, his thoughts that had been blown about in the whirlwind that was the Sun Spirit, settling into understanding.

Marta was an exceptional woman. Though she had not known anyone in the market today, her presence brought smiles to faces and willing hands to work. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed again.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that you are beginning to grow fond of this girl," came the Queen's sarcastic murmur from her seat beside the fire. Cozied in the armchair, Yrsa placidly turned her embroidery hoop to check the back of it.

"I suppose you could say that," Sindre teased back. "I thought you would be delighted, after all the finagling you have done to see us be a couple," he said.

"Perhaps I have nudged you here and there," she paused, "But come now, did you really need me to do anything at all? She is your Sun Spirit. Tell me about her," she prompted. She turned the embroidery hoop again and began counting the stitches, the subtle whisper of thread pulled through the fabric was a familiar and soothing sound.

Sindre bit his lip and grinned, "She's not at all what I had anticipated. At first, I thought she'd be an ignorant of court life, more like a peasant and less refined," he shrugged as if sheepish to admit it. "She surprised me," he said, "she's delightful."

Yrsa snorted, but did not interrupt further. Sindre rolled his eyes, but continued.

"When we talked this afternoon, we connected intellectually, which is more than I had hoped for in my future partner. She did not give me only the polite drivel that parties afford you. Her ideas and grasp of politics is far more than I thought. She gets it, Mother, how bone-wearying it is to see your ideas bungled by the delegation to people without your vision." Sindre tried to impress the nature of the revelation this was to him.

"Oh? Does she? Or was she just humouring you?" Yrsa asked pointedly. She frowned at the last few stitches, now crooked. She placed the hoop on her lap.

"I asked myself the same thing, but there's something about her that I can't help but trust. She didn't back down when faced with debate. We even had a shouting match this morning," Yrsa raised an eyebrow and frowned, Sindre waved his hands as if to wave away her concerns, "there were no tears or blubbering or grovelling. She argued her points clearly and concisely, all of them very well thought out..." he trailed off, eyes shining with a small glimmer of pride.

He had never met a woman like that, many of the other ladies at court were demure and backed down before a fight could take place. Marta challenged him. Sindre found he quite liked that.

"A shouting match? Well, she does live up to her reputation as a spitfire then," Yrsa said dryly. "I've spent time with her mother Lady Andersen, and the stories I am told! But, do continue, I can see those wheels of yours turning," she prompted him.

Sindre chuckled, "A spitfire is a precise way to describe her. I cannot call her perfect, but had you seen her this afternoon! She was grueling over the haggling, leaving the vendors cheerful. She caught three pickpockets and yet somehow managed to get them to show us the best places to find brambleberry pies," Sindre did not add that he and Marta had dared thieve two extras for the silver they paid, much to the admiration of the boys they had thwarted. Sindre did not quite know how he felt about the theft, except that the smiles and 'ohs' on the lads faces had been worth the potential blowback and Marta's assurances that any vendor worth their salt would have built a theft or two into their cost of business. It was just an expected part of the market culture.

Sindre picked up his pen again, "I've proposed to her this afternoon," Sindre announced quietly. "Even had I not been born the Moon and she my Sun, and the circumstances of her coming here different, I think I would have picked her, Mother." A shiver ran up his spine. He could not tell if it was from the draft off the window.

Yrsa blinked. "You jest!" she said in disbelief. She stared at his illumined figure poised over the desk. "You're quite serious aren't you? Well!" she huffed both startled and pleased. A smile crinkled in the corners of her ice-blue eyes. "Here I was concerned you hadn't made up your mind!"

Sindre smiled, "She did accept, and we shall have to announce it formally, of course. Spring Fest is soon, which is an auspicious time by the Celestial calendar, according to the priests," he snorted.

"And what a way to break it to your Mother!" Yrsa chided, slightly nonplussed. "You're certain of the woman, Sindre? Have you spoken with Lord and Lady Andersen yet?" her brows rose. "Protocol in this should be heeded." She pulled the last green threads and snipped their ends with her snips.

Sindre grimaced, "No, I have not. But as I recall, protocol mattered little to Great Grandmother," he said pointedly. "Surely a royal can use his privilege once in awhile," he said. He stood and tucked his chair into his desk, putting aside his task.

His mother sighed, "Well, yes I suppose it didn't. Grandmother often spoke of the deep love she held for your great grandfather, often only explained as divine intervention. You know it was not even a year after my grandmother left this life to join the Moon's Council in the sky that Grandfather fell ill? He was lost without his moon, his nights no longer had her gentle guidance, and he suffered her loss greatly." Yrsa sighed again.

"You believe that such romance truly exists?" Sindre asked, unconvinced by the notion. He had felt exhilarated dancing with and spending the day with Marta, reveling in her intelligence and passion, and patience - surprisingly enough, but never had he felt that magnetic pull since… he could not place it. He stood at the hearth, hands folded comfortably in the small of his back as he studied the flames.

Yrsa looked thoughtful before she answered, "It does… for some. From what you describe of your fiance, it seems you know of it, do you not?"

Sindre smiled and shrugged, "I think she would make you proud, if she were succeed you as queen, Mother," he said sincerely.

Yrsa's brows rose," Is that so? High praise coming from you." She paused and set aside her needlework. "I will share this with you then," she added. She unwound a long, narrow chain from her neck and drew a locket that had been hidden in her bosom. She smiled fondly as she held the locket in the palm of her hand, thumb brushing over the delicate designs on the front.

"Your great grandfather left this in my care as a girl. He said it had been passed down through three incarnations of Sun and Moon, a token of both protection and affection. Sun to wear the Moon so they are blessed with pleasant dreams, Moon the Sun as so to feel their warmth, always," she separated the two halves of the seemingly whole locket, and held them in her hands. "And together made whole, as so life may flourish and banish Darkness," her deft fingers slipped the pieces back together, and twirled the locket on it's chain to depict the story of Sun, Moon, and Darkness in eternal struggle.

Sindre turned from his place at the hearth and came to kneel at her chair.

Yrsa took Sindre's hand and pressed the intricate filigree into his palm, "Now it is your time to have these, and to give your Sun their half. May your love be as powerful as your ancestors'. You're favoured by them, I can feel it, Sindre," her voice pleaded, and she paused before shaking her head, deciding against saying anything more.

Sindre had so many questions about his great grandparents and their relationship. He knew history - the tales of their rule; the wars and reconciliations, their personal additions to the religious texts and the fables that arose during their rule. Yet still he wished to know some of the personal stories. He wanted to ask how it felt to them to meet their soulmate.

Sindre fingered the pendant, studying at the delicate goldwork, he opened his mouth to speak, but Yrsa gathered her needlework and stood. "Speak with Lord Andersen and announce your engagement before the week is out. The kingdom needs to see its heir to the throne in a secure marriage. Then, we can plan the engagement celebrations for Spring Fest," she said.

Sindre knew it was the Queen speaking now, not just his mother and she turned to go. He nodded, "Very well, Mother. I will."

Yrsa smiled, "Good lad," she said as she walked to the parlour door.

Sindre returned to the hearth and heard the door click closed. He thumbed the pendant in his palm. Anxiety bloomed in his belly as he stared at the golden face of the Sun, though he could not place why. Perhaps he was simply tired? It was the right decision, fate destined them for each other, but his heart seemed to stutter in his chest unpleasantly while thinking on it.

He placed the locket upon the mantel.

A knock came on the door and the valet entered to announce a guest, he was shoved aside by a blazing furious Marta Andersen. "Sindre! Please, I must speak with you," she stopped abruptly at his startled look. "Sorry," she said awkwardly.

Sindre blinked, stunned. Recovering quickly his lips twitching into a smile at Marta's candor, "Thank you, Rolf, that will be all," he said, nodding to the valet's dubious look. He crossed the room to gather Marta in his arms as Rolf closed the door. "Well I did say you were always welcome to call upon me, though I didn't expect it to be quite so soo-"

"It's Magnus. He's not been seen since mid-morning and I fear he's gone and done something stupid," Marta interrupted, her riding skirts swishing as she met him on the rug, where she clung to his forearms. "I've looked everywhere I can think of, and asked nearly everyone he may have even remotely spoken with - including Father," she huffed.

Sindre's brows rose, "Are you sure? The palace is quite large. Perhaps he's in the library or with the kennel masters. I'm sure he's fine," Sindre said lightly, though the anxiety in his belly squirmed. He watched as Marta twisted her hands and wondered why she was so upset. Surely an afternoon or evening away from the palace would be a nice change for someone in the family who didn't want to be here?

"Please Sindre," Marta said witheringly, "he didn't come to dinner and he would have if he were in the palace. The only time I have known him to miss dinner is when he was ill!" Sindre sensed there was something more to her worry, but he let it pass.

"Perhaps he is just at one of the local inns or taverns, there are many good ones close to the palace. He could have just lost track of time?" Sindre suggested, he let Marta go as she turned to the hearth, only to cross her arms under her breasts and chew her lip.

"Maybe. Though if so, he would have either left a note or sent one," she said, rubbing her arms. "On any other night I might have agreed with you, but something feels off about this, Sindre. I've asked the stable master and his horse has been gone all day and none of the household staff have seen him."

Sindre looked skeptical as he moved to stand next to her. "Honestly, he's probably enjoying a night out on the town. We saw this afternoon how many corners one could find a good time-"

"Sindre," Marta ground out, "I appreciate that you are trying to soothe me, but believe me when I tell you that Magnus is not here." Sindre was taken aback by the venom in her tone. She paced restlessly to the window, back, and back again. Her face went from anger, to worry, and then to something Sindre could not quite define. Maybe regret, as she chewed her lip again, though Sindre thought she didn't realise she was doing so.

She stared out the crack in the drapes to the bitter night, "I worry he may have tried to ride home. You heard his spat with Father this morning… He gets hasty when things like that rile him, and with this storm - if he's in one of his moods, he won't have even noticed it, or worse, ignored it. I asked the guard to have someone search, but I was pointedly ignored, 'having not the authority'," she sneered.

Though he was also perturbed that the guard did not respond to Marta's authority as the Sun Spirit, something in her worried tone made him consider the possibility of Magnus' potential flight. He refused to acknowledge the panic it seemed to induce. "Very well," his jaw clenched. "We shall do something about this."

Sindre turned to his chambers, "Rolf, fetch my cloak and-" Rolf strode from his rooms carrying Sindre's cloak, sword belt, and boots. The servingman had a long suffering look, carefully devoid of judgement of the Prince's peculiar ideas. Sindre knew he found them both amusing and exasperating. "Good! Please inform the guard to have Marta's lady-in-waiting bring her things," he instructed. "And summon the Captain of Guard," he said firmly, pulling on brown leathers, worn from long use.

"Of course my lord," Rolf acquiesced, holding the cloak open for his master.

Sindre looked up to see Marta's astonished look. "I thought perhaps you might be convinced to send the guard but not-" she began, but Sindre saw the gratitude shining in her gaze that, finally, someone had taken her seriously. Marta nodded, her worried features firming into determination, "You're right, direct action is best."

Sindre smiled, "Yes, sometimes it is." He shrugged himself into his cloak, waving Rolf away to his instructions. "Come, we will wait at the guard house for our horses. Though, in this weather..."

"It would be far more expedient," Marta finished. She crossed the room to the door and flung it open. Sindre followed at her heels, with a sinking feeling in his gut that this would not end how either of them hoped.

.

A dark cloaked figure slowly approached the wild mount at the roadside. Riderless, the roan gelding's eyes rolled with every rumble of thunder, fear contesting with the ingrained training to stay with a fallen rider.

Cautious, Snorri snorted nervously and laid his ears back before he settled under the gentle black gloved hand that met his velvety nose.

The stranger led Magnus' horse, skin shivering with fright, towards the figure's own mount that stood obediently on the road, black as polished ebony. Both steeds nickered and sidestepped as the clouds suddenly opened and the deluge spattered the gravel road into puddles in moments.

The rider's low, melodic voice sang in a strange tongue, as they steadied both horses with experienced hands. The fine fur-lined cloak dragged in the mud as they knelt to examine Snorri's knees, "Now where is your rider, beast? Hmm?" they asked the frightened creature. Swollen and hot, Snorri's legs were skinned and bleeding and would not make another night-time dash for many long weeks. They fingered the royal sigils on the breast band and stood.

"A royal? Or his messenger?" they wondered aloud.

The rider turned to the wind-whipped trees, their blowing shapes blurred in the downpour. Pulling their cloak close about them, tall, black boots skidded down the small embankment into the pitch dark treeline.

.

The doors to Marta's apartments flew open on well oiled hinges and Marta strode in, disgusted. The lamps had been damped and the fire crackled lazily in the grate. Floral accents seemed to grow in the corners of the room, leaves and ivy and gilded songbirds peeped in the carved foliage of the cornices. Thick rugs in ochre red and brown, earthy tones and colours in the hunting scenes of the tapestries suggested one was walking into an enchanted wood.

Though he had been in many of the guest apartments before, he had not taken the time to visit Marta's chambers personally. Less ornate than the western suites, the east wing had wonderful views of the hills and river basin - usually reserved for lesser nobles, it had not stopped Marta from requesting the wing for herself and her family.

Sindre smiled to himself, feeling he had just learned a little more about Marta's tastes. For all the airs she put on about fine things, he did note most of it was far more practical than that of popular fashion and her rooms were only further evidence. He wondered if the embroidery on his shirt was her work - she hadn't answered when he had asked earlier. He decided it had to be, for it was too different to the usual patterns he saw on the hoops of the ladies at court.

He turned to shut the door, noting with some concern that Marta winced to remove her cloak before her lady-in-waiting scurried, still in her shift no less, to aid her mistress. With dark brown hair, growing gray at the temples and a motherly demeanor, Heide was diligent to her duties nonetheless.

"Thank you, Heide. Please, go back to bed, it's far too early to think of me," Marta peeled the gloves from her hands.

"But my Lady Sun! It is my pleasure to-" she stopped as Marta shook her head.

"Please Heide, it's the wee hours and my patience for propriety is at an end. Morning will come too swiftly. Go," she said firmly, even as her voice rasped from the evening's shouting over the storm. Marta's smile was tired, 'And sad,' Sindre thought. Heide merely looked over her charge and nodded slowly. Sindre knew Heide was a dutiful woman who did not lightly abandon propriety.

"Yes, Milady. I will wake you if news should arrive of Lord Magnus' return," Heide said before she curtsied to them both, and retreated to her adjacent rooms. Sindre acknowledged her courtesies, then he too flung down his gloves on a table.

Sindre placed his cloak on one of the pegs near the fireplace, tendrils of steam beginning to rise from the fine wool. He collected Marta's cloak from where she had let it drop and placed it beside his own. The night suddenly grew close in the glow from the hearth, "Are you alright, Marta?" he asked gently.

"No," she said bluntly. She sniffed once and knuckled her eyes. "My brother is missing and I, for a fact, know he is hurt and I am helpless to find him." Marta said succinctly. Sindre raised his brow in askance. She had been growing more and more withdrawn since they had left. Disheartened, he might have said.

Sindre crossed the the room to stand before her, rubbing her shoulders as she crossed her arms.

Marta sighed, "It's hard to explain."

"Try. For me. Please?" he asked. His voice was pitched low, warm like the coals in the hearth. When Marta stared at him, he wondered what it was she saw in his face, for he found he didn't wish to be seen as callous or taciturn by her.

Marta hesitated, but nodded. "Alright. Let me change first, I despise being damp," she said. Sindre snorted. They were soaked to the skin with their hair plastered to their scalps. Marta strode through the parlour to the bedchamber, "Come, help me with my buttons?" she requested.

Sindre smiled, "That 'ole ploy, eh?" he teased. He grinned at the exasperated snort of derision as he crossed the threshold of her bedchamber.

"I am far too tired to play hooky with you now," she said honestly. She untied the laces of her corset, and let it fall.

"I know. You scared me earlier tonight, when we were crossing Needle Street. You nearly fell from your horse." Sindre said, his fingers far more comfortable now with the small buttons than they had been earlier that day.

"Yes, I apologize for that," she said slipping from her dress. She crossed the room to one of three tall armoires and opened the gilded latch to reveal shelves lined with fluffy white cotton towels and linens. She grabbed two and then opened the second mahogany wardrobe and pulled a white linen shift from within.

Sindre undid his waistcoat, and unlaced his shirt. He wondered that Marta did not seemed more perturbed at his presence. He would have been ejected with shrieks and an army of ladies-in-waiting for the breach of propriety of even stepping into her rooms on any other occasion.

"What happened?" Sindre asked again.

Marta slipped into a shift and towelled her hair tossed the other to her fiancee. "What do you know of twins, Sindre? I know there are plenty of wives tales about twins being good or bad luck depending on your folk tales, and dozens more about how to conceive them. But have you ever met twins before Magnus and I?"

"Once a noble family who visited whose heirs were twins. I was quite young when I met them. Identical twins," he closed his eyes and seemed to search his memory, "Ladies Saoirse and Bronagh from the Iriden Islands to the south. They seemed far more attached to one another than you and Magnus. They went everywhere together and finished each other's-"

"-sentences. Yes. Magnus and I still do that on occasion," she smiled. "But no, the bond I share with Magnus as my twin is difficult to explain. As kids we would often get into the same sort of trouble - but when the other was in danger or hurt the other twin felt it too. Physically sometimes. When we were ten I threw a beehive at him because he had made me so angry, I don't remember the reason now, but when we both managed to flee, he had nearly 50 stings. I however got away with less than 5 for my trouble - and a raised welt for everyone of his in all the same places."

Sindre looked skeptical. "Truly?" he finished with the towel and laid it over a chair.

"Mother was quite perturbed, though she didn't have much sympathy for me at the time. I did throw bees at someone," Marta grinned cheekily.

"But how does that even work?" Sindre tried to reconcile the concept. He sat on the chair and hauled off his sodden boots. He wrinkled his lip at the equally drenched stocking and sighed quietly. He hated having wet toes.

Marta nodded, "Hmm, I honestly have no idea. When I broke my leg once, he said that his left leg ached all the time I was healing. I mean, he and I have even shared dreams, or nightmares sometimes. Though he gets them more than I, it seems. It's an odd thing, but I have come to rely on it. Even miles apart at times, we've known how, in general terms and emotions, the other is doing."

"I had no idea such a thing existed outside of stories." Sindre said. "So what about tonight?" he pulled off his socks, and gave up any sort of pretense of tidiness and let them fall with his boots. He turned on the bed to see Marta standing with her arms hugging herself at the inner fireplace, golden hair tangled and beautiful, with her eyes shining like burnished copper in the small flames. He rose from the bed and padded across the carpet to where she stood.

"It was like being cracked with a horsewhip about the size of a ship's mooring line, that nearly startled me right off Odin. It's hard to tell, for I ache all over now, but I feel as though he's been tossed head over hindquarters down a mountain slope. He's gone and concussed himself too, maybe. It may just be an exhausting day, but my head is ringing like an anvil being beaten on by a blacksmith." She rubbed her temples.

Marta curled her arms about his waist and pressed her damp hair under his chin. "He's hurt Sindre, I can feel it. And I find myself thinking he's been caught in some plot, or kidnapped, or cracked over the head by a city street tough, or tossed from his horse and lying in a ditch... " she stopped herself and sighed, her breath unsteady.

Sindre arms wrapped around her and held her close. He breathed in the damp of rain and the subtle fading scent of her floral soap. "We'll find him. I have the entire garrison on alert, stationed at every gate or out riding the roads and searching. I know we checked many of the inns and taverns, but there are dozens more we didn't. If he's not returned by tomorrow evening, I'll send for the Spymaster to see if her contacts can find news of him. I will also send a rider to your homestead also first thing in the morning, just in case."

"I know we'll find him, I just hope he will be in one piece. I couldn't do this without him, being here and all this courtly drama." Sindre felt her smile against his chest. "Thank you," she mumbled as she squeezed him. Sindre felt there were more words she wished she could say to express all the things it encompassed, but could not quite find them. He too felt fuzzy headed with exhaustion.

"Come, let's put you to bed, Marta Andersen," Sindre prompted.

"Tease," she poked him in the chest. The look she gave him, however, was thoughtful rather than coy, and he wondered what that meant. She was so confusing sometimes, but he felt that tonight had brought them closer. "I get window side," she said and allowed herself to be propelled toward the giant bed.

Sindre didn't know when he had decided to stay, but he nodded as if they had discussed it explicitly. He pulled off his sword belt and hung his baldric on the bedpost. His shirt and trousers were added to the pile of sodden clothing on the rugs as Marta seemed to stretch and curl up like a cat into the sheets. Her yawn drew one to his lips, and the weight of his tiredness crashed into him like an ocean wave. Sindre climbed into bed in his smallclothes and curled around Marta, who welcomed him with a gentle murmur. The knot in his belly of fear and anxiety seemed to lessen as he and Marta wiggled into a comfortable position.

"Will you be alright?" Sindre whispered.

Marta made a sound, "Mmm, much better already."

Sindre agreed. He could almost, almost, forget he was ready to turn over every rock in the kingdom for a man he hardly knew.

.

Sindre woke with a start.

Someone was leaning over him, reaching, "Your Grace, My Lady, awake! A runner has brought word of Young Lord Andersen!" he was jostled gently by caring hands. He blinked blearily and did not seem to absorb the words. The lamps had been lit and the room glowed with a warm, golden light.

He felt the bed shift as Marta leapt from the sheets, "Where is he?" Marta tied her sleep tousled locks into a knot on at the nape of her neck, and swayed. She steadied herself on the bedpost.

"He's on his way back to the castle in the company of Lord Sjovard and a foreigner," Heide, now dressed for the day, carried dry garments for them both.

"Get my robes!" Marta ordered, interrupting Heide. "We'll meet them," she picked up and threw aside her damp boots for the slippers Heide held.

Sindre barely heard any of the conversation, save that Magnus was returning. He closed his eyes again, suddenly relieved. He imagined Marta felt the same. The warmth of Marta's bed cocooned him and he was reluctant to leave it. He sighed.

"I'm coming," he said, "What is the hour?" He threw back the duvet and rose. Goose pimples broke across his ivory skin as he reached for clean stockings.

"Nearly dawn, Your Grace," Heide supplied, as she handed over Marta's robe. "A shirt, my Lord," Heide made no comment on the Prince's state of undress, but Sindre could not help but note her pursed lips. Always one for propriety Heide, Sindre thought.

Sindre threw the dark blue shirt over his head and almost jumped into the woolen grey trousers that were offered. "Hey Marta, wait!" he dashed after Marta, still trying to slip on his boots. Marta had forgone getting properly dressed and had flung open the bedroom doors to the parlour.

Sindre caught her up at the parlour door, where she had stopped to steady herself on the doorframe. "Marta?" he touched her shoulder gently. "Please, slow down. We don't need two Andersens getting ahead of themselves," Sindre commented gently.

"We need to find more information about what's going on," she said and shot him a look of what Sindre could only call contempt. She shook her head and winced. "Where would the runner be received?" Marta rubbed her temples. When she caught his gaze again, Sindre saw the apology reflected like golden candlelight, and he nodded. They strode down the corridors briskly, her slippers barely making a sound.

"Likely the Gatehouse, or the Captain's Office if it was a soldier that carried news. If was sent via The Bluecoat Messenger Corps, their Main guildhall is located on the northern palace grounds." Sindre frowned. Marta was not herself, and it showed. Was she ill? Or was this just part of that connection she said she shared with Magnus? Questions tumbled in his mind, like leaves in the courtyard on a blustery day.

They had only gotten to the main corridor when they were swept aside abruptly by a squad of guardsmen galloping past them, armour and sword belts jingling. Sindre steadied Marta against his chest as they passed. Sindre frowned. That was odd.

Shouts and the ring of steel being drawn echoed through the hall.

"What the-?" Sindre brows furrowed. Steel? His sword belt hung on Marta's bedpost and he berated his thoughtlessness. Never had weapons been drawn in earnest within the palace in his memory!

"Magnus!" Marta sped down the hall after the guardsmen.

"Wait Marta! Hang on!" Sindre exclaimed, but she twisted from his grip.

He dashed after her and into the Grand Vestibule and skid to a halt at the top of the staircase.

As he stopped, the massive main doors cracked as they were burst open by the hooves of a giant, screaming, warhorse. The rider astride the beast had a complexion akin to an appleseed, a closely cropped black beard, and flashing brilliant green eyes that were as hard as gemstones. Soaked to the skin, it did not seem to deter from his commanding presence. "Stand down, please! I bring a member of the court! He is in need of a doctor immediately!" he boomed in a voice not unlike the thunder that had finally ceased.

The horse and rider clattered into the vestibule, steel shod hooves skittering on the smooth marble. Guardsmen scrambled to point spears at the intruder, a ring of steel points, nearly a span long, closing around stallion. The horse snorted loudly and seemed prepared to kick or bite at his master's command. Using only his knees, the rider whirled his steed round, sending half a dozen men tumbling, whilst never endangering the man cradled against his chest.

Sindre saw the shock of blonde hair stained red, one side of Magnus' face a sheet of dried blood and mud. His shirt, mostly hidden by the velvet green and sable cloak, was also not the brilliant blue Sindre remembered from yesterday morning in the garden. His heart seemed to lurch sideways.

Lamps sprang to life as lights were lit by frantic servants, eager to be away from the furious glares and frenzied shouts of the Head of Household, who was tearing the few threads of hair from his head at the absolute chaos that had erupted.

Marta charged into the pandemonium with golden eyes alight with passion and panic, shouting commands only to be drowned in the cacophony. She was sent reeling by one of the guards trying to rise from his own fall, and whose carelessness with his spear nearly concussed Sindre's fiancee.

"Please, call for a physician! The lord is badly hurt," the stranger again called, the foreign accent thick on his tongue, his mount stepping in circles, snorting at the steel bared.

"Dismount and release your passenger! Do not make any sudden movements!"

"-get those lamps dealt with or so help me!-"

"-Someone fetch the physician?!"

"-Get that horse under control!"

"Where is the Lord Sjovard?!"

The clatter of booted feet came down the corridors as a company of crossbowmen took positions on the stairs, brushing hastily past the Prince. Sindre's temper flared. This was unacceptable!

"WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?!" Sindre roared over the din. Silence reigned as the scene seemed to freeze. Only the echoing tap of the dancing horse's hooves, and the jangle of harness, rang in the entryway.

From the top of the grand staircase, Sindre's eyes blazed with command. Immediately, servants made their courtesies and bowed low. The guards, though they did not retreat from their duties, stood a little straighter, and gripped their spear hafts tighter. Sindre swept down the staircase with regal poise and picked up Marta from where she had tumbled.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, thank you. But Magnus-" she started, but Sindre interrupted.

"-will be aided forthwith," Sindre promised, and his tone would not suffer argument. Marta, to Sindre's great relief, for she was very strong minded, obeyed. She twisted her hands in her robe, glaring at the tall, dark, and handsome stranger as if to stick a spear in him herself.

Sindre turned to address the room, "You, rider. Dismount, please," and Sindre was pleased to see he did as asked. Though it was also a surprise to him that the gentlemen, for his finely embroidered mahogany coat and commanding presence proclaimed him as such, also hoisted Magnus down himself to carry forward.

The ring of spears eased, but they did not seem to perturb the stranger in the least. His horse nipped at the guard who came to take his bridle, but settled at a short word from his master in a tongue that brought frowns to many of the grizzled soldier's faces.

"My Prince-" Lord Benjamin Sjovard wheezed as he came up the palace steps and stumbled into the Grand Vestibule. The portly nobleman seemed to have run up the marble stairs. "I sent a messenger ahead, to- but- I-" he tried breathlessly as he leaned on his knees. He blew out his moustaches. He straightened and tugged at his damp red coat, wrinkled and seemingly slept in.

"My Prince, I apologize for the commotion. I sent this young lord ahead as fast as I could, for you see I was up at the Seven Leaves Tavern - you can always find a good dice game there - and then-" he broke off, silenced with a disdainful look from Sindre.

"Please, Lord Sjovard, the explanations of what has occurred will wait," Sindre said, trying to absorb the peculiar style of coat and dress of the foreigner. Even dismounted Sindre felt like he was standing in the shadow of a mountain. His bearded face was composed, confident even, though he seemed more concerned with the man in his arms than the 20 men threatening him with glares like the steel they leveled.

Marta looped her arm in Sindre's and he felt her lean on him. He caught her hand and squeezed. He glanced down and saw she had composed herself. Her smooth features hid the tempest of worry he was certain she was experiencing, and he suddenly felt a rush of pride in her abilities at court.

"Master Drummond!" Sindre barked.

The Head of Household bustled over, his black and gold livery not quite its usual crispness. "Yes, your Grace?" he bowed, his white gloved hands pressed together to keep them from trembling.

"Please summon the Lady Holly promptly and see young Lord Andersen to his rooms. It will require a stretcher. You will also have the Lord and Lady Andersen notified of the nature of their son's return," Sindre instructed. Master Drummond bowed low and backed away with murmurs of acquiescence.

"No need to summon me, You Grace, I am here," Lady Holly said as she swept into the entryway in the company of the Captain of the Guard. She pushed back her hood, slipping her dark leather gloves from her hands and handing them to a bobbing servant.

Sindre wondered at where she had been to be out so early, but the court physician could be called upon by any of the nobles at their manors, should Lady Holly deem it appropriate to go. She strode immediately to Magnus in the arms of the giant gentleman, ignoring steel, and gently pressed deft fingers against his pallid skin, searching for his pulse. Magnus' eyes did not open, but danced beneath closed lids, restless.

The Captain bowed to the Prince and waited patiently to be addressed. Sindre saw he wore a small frown, and a hard look for the guards who would have been posted on the main doors. Sindre did not envy the tonguelashing he was sure they would receive.

"The Guardsmen will stand down. Captain, you will see they are reminded about our security protocols." Sindre ordered with a small gesture of emphasis.

"Of course, your Grace, it will be done." He turned to his men, who spears returned to their sides, crossbows lowered, and swords sheathed. The Captain nodded to two of the number and they flanked the foreigner to escort him to the place of the Prince's choosing. With salutes, the rest of the company began to exit and return to their posts.

The tension in the hall finally dissipated, only to be replace by a different kind of fervour. A stretcher borne by a pair of well muscled valets appeared and a flurry of activity commenced once more. Imperious directions were given by Lady Holly who, with the experience of a physician used to having her commands obeyed, had taken control of Magnus' situation.

The brown coated stranger, with surprising care, lowered Magnus' limp and bundled form onto the stretcher. Marta extracted herself from Sindre and rushed to her brother's side, hands reaching to worry at the wound at his temple, only to be kindly pushed aside by Lady Holly.

Magnus's eyes opened suddenly, and he rolled toward the edge of the stretcher nearest his sister and the Prince, to the dismay of those attending. He reached to Sindre and spoke, or whispered it more like for its breathy volume, and Sindre did not understand what he was saying, "Argenti! Argentum luna, inuenit animam meam vos tandem-!" Magnus groaned, and his lips pulled back as the pain of his own movement returned him to oblivion. Sindre was frozen momentarily by the words and their unfamiliarity. It took a minute for it to register that Magnus was not speaking the common tongue.

The stranger gently arranged Magnus on the stretcher and he stood with his hands behind his back calmly accepting the commotion, still as a stone in winter. He looked at Sindre thoughtfully, and Marta, who was no longer glaring, too engrossed in her attentions to her brother and Lady Holly.

"Your Grace, Young Lord Andersen must be attended immediately. By your leave," Lady Holly said distractedly, bobbing a quick curtsy. She did not wait for his reply, but instead gave further instructions. "You boys," she pointed and addressed the valets who had brought the stretcher and her brown leather medical bag, "You'll carry him to the medical ward, quickly now, please. This way," she strode briskly down one of the adjacent corridors with a small train of servants that had materialized from the palace machinery.

Sindre watched Marta trot beside the stretcher, pushing the mud-covered hair plastered from her brother's forehead. Sindre bit his lip, his fingers curling into fists as watched Magnus' pale face and Marta's golden head disappear.

Quiet descended on the hall. Shining lamps drew the white and gold of the vestibule to life. One of the guardsmen stood with the foreigner's horse, calmer now, ears flicking curiously. Leather boots echoed on the marble floor as the stranger approached the Prince and bowed, his right hand pressed to his breast in salute. He glanced at the soldiers accompanying him and nodded to himself. With a smooth movement, he removed the hunting knife, nearly a short sword, from the bright azure sash 'round his waist and presented it to the guard, hilt first.

"Your Grace, my name is Alric Amharahad of Darcia, Lord of the Northern Steppe. I apologize for my actions and I will of course accept the consequences of them and pay recompense for any damages," he said as he removed his black gloves and folded them into his belt. His voice rolled like thunder over the plains, carefully enunciated for his Darcian accent. The guards stiffened, hands tightening on their sword hilts.

Sindre raised his hand, suspending any further apologies, "Please, Lord Amharahad we will discuss this privately. You are to be thanked for returning the brother of the Sun Spirit as quickly as you did. You will be escorted to Glass receiving rooms and offered the Crown's hospitality, of course. Please, be welcome. Shall we summon your retinue?" Sindre blessed whatever powers that be that he did not stumble over the Darcian name.

"Thank you, Sindre Sigurdson of Mithras, Lord of Silver," his voice was respectful, though Sindre wondered at the formal and yet familiar way he was addressed. Alric continued, "My company awaits me at the Seven Leaves Tavern, if they can be summoned, I would be grateful."

"Of course," Sindre nodded to a nearby soldier, who bowed and exited with his task. "We will speak further once you have had a chance to at least find a dry shirt," Sindre said with a charming smile. Alric lips quirked also, and his hands folded comfortably in the small of his back.

"My thanks," he said, and nodded respectfully.

Master Drummond appeared at Sindre's shoulder and bowed to their new… guest. Sindre could have laughed at the wrinkle in the man's brow. Competent and efficient for the tasks of the Court, but useless in a crisis.

"Please, my lord, this way," he said, making a gesture to follow. A servant carried the gentleman's saddlebags, giving a wide berth to the tall, black stallion who was finally being led from the hall.

Sindre watched the Darcian ambassador tailor his stride to the plump Master Drummond.

A lordling from a foreign land carrying an injured man through the night? How odd. Sindre frowned as the echoing silence of the Grand Vestibule returned. He strode down the west corridor, chewing his lip. He had to inform the staff, and his parents about the guests - and, more importantly, he needed to meet with the Lord and Lady Andersen.

Their daughter was to become a princess.