THE BROKEN THRONE

Chapter 26

January 2nd, 1517 – Haven's Beach

A wasteland would not be the proper term to explain the desolation present before them. Hundreds if not thousands of Angloans lay dead, their blood slipping into the sand as gentle waves came crashing in under a metallic sky. But they still held the line, for the English were relentless.

Edward stared at the developing fiasco. There was no way they would win this battle and their forces should have retreated days ago. He stared in defeat as yet another group of young men—boys not out of their teen years—were forced to attack the flanks of the English. The massacre was brutal as arrows rained down like rain on them and shots were fired. Somewhere a canon sounded through the white smoke and fog.

"We take the left flank of the second group over there!" the Marshal shouted atop his lungs. "Collins' orders," he screamed.

"Sir, if we run for them head-on we will all die!" Edward growled as he neared the thin man. Jeremiah Trett squinted his eyes at the masked man, not letting himself be intimidated by a mere soldier.

"Soldier, you are to follow orders, not disobey them."

"Field Marshal Collins will lead us into a massacre and we will all fall like those Angloans now dead on the beach!" the masked man continued. His companions did not protest, for they did not wish to run out into the open fire and arrows that rained down.

"If we leave Haven's Beach, the English will have a grip on the island," Trett reasoned.

"We could circle back and cut them off by Castell if anyone would listen to reason!"

Trett knew the masked man was not entirely off, but he was a mere Captain, following orders from his superior officers. He also had little say in the matter.

"If you do not go out there and face the English, I will be forced to have you imprisoned for disobeying a direct order," Trett argued, dismayed by the fact that a simple soldier of the ranks spoke more sense than the men who were supposed to know these things.

"Edward, leave it," Jonathan said as he stepped in between them. "Go tell your concerns after the battle. I am certain they will listen to you when this battle is lost."

"And how many Angloans will have died by then?" Edward could not believe anyone would so gladly cast away so many lives.

Screams sounded behind them and the soldiers turned around, witnessing firsthand how a group of youngsters was being slaughtered in the open field.

Jeremiah Trett stared at them in disbelief. "If you make it out of this battle, soldier, I shall take you to Collins myself," he promised.

Jonathan Cullen thanked his superior officer and dragged Edward to the side. "When we get out unscathed from this fight, Edward, we shall be known as heroic survivors!" he chuckled despite the horror that surrounded them. It was Jonathan's way of blocking the screams of death and pain. It was his way of blocking out the wounded men shouting for their mothers as their innards spilled out from open wounds. He did not wish to see the horror of battle—not like Edward did. "Perhaps our names will even be remembered if we fall," he joked, more disheartened as his eyes could not avoid the red color spilling all around them. The drums of war invaded their ears and soon mixed with the song of death.

"I am a soldier with no name, Jonathan. No one will remember me if I fall," Edward said, preparing his sword for the upcoming fight. They would rush in without anyone covering them, without cavalry—against a vast flank of trained and armed soldiers.

Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder. "Then I shall make sure that your name is forever remembered if you fall here today, my friend," he chuckled.

The captain of their platoon urged them to be ready. Loud booms of drums echoed in the winter air as the winds dragged the frozen specks of sand into their eyes.

The metallic essence of blood could be tasted as they waited for a sign to strike. Edward's heart sped up as his adrenaline rushed through him. He had grown used to this sensation ever since joining the ranks a few months ago.

With little ceremony they got their sign and rushed against the left flank of the English, coming like the waves crashing on the beach from vast wooden ships.

May 25th, 1520 – Wessport

In the open square, they gathered. All social stances of Wessport were represented in that crowded space. The houses enclosing the square had their windows open, people spilling out, trying to get a glimpse of what was to happen.

A giant wooden platform occupied the far end of the space, where the queen would sit. It was soon that she arrived with all the pomp and grace befitting a woman of her stature. Her ladies-in-waiting all dressed in black, together with the queen who had adorned herself in royal blues and silver.

The whisper of the summer breeze floated through the throng and all crooked their necks as Matthew Alistair stepped up with a reluctant Isabella Swan in tow. Rosalie Fell bore her head low to the ground, her hands clutching the torn rosary that she'd kept ever since her father had passed.

Edward Cullen arrived, placed with the lower nobility until the queen herself called that he should come stand by her side on the platform. He had kept away from the queen ever since learning what she'd tried to do against him when he was a child. Edward would never look at her the same and he could not ignore the small spark of hatred that had taken root within him.

Many stomachs were aflutter with nervous butterflies. The people wondered what would happen in the course of the following minutes. Whatever it was, many of them understood that it might change the outcome for Angloa in the future.

Theodor Glovendale stood, reluctant as ever, next to Lord and Lady Savoie. He looked less beaten up, but the sour scowl would not leave his face as he cast side glances at the queen. Glovendale was not the only one to hide his distaste for her. Many in the crowd watched in silent anger as the graceful woman glowed in her seat. It was a seat, many believed, not dignified for someone like her.

Edward's gaze swept over the public. There had to be at least hundreds in the crowd, waiting for the carriage that would bring the once king of their country.

He had made up his mind. As Isabella supported her frail mother against her small frame, he could not stand how Alistair would loom over her, satisfied, searching her frame with his eyes. Edward's pride and common sense would not allow him to leave her one more minute in the capital. Returning to Wessport had been a mistake that might cost them dearly. He consoled himself with the thought that they might at least get Rosalie and Glovendale safely out of there.

They had planned meticulously for the next few moments. Every possible outcome had been thought of. Rosalie met his eyes. It was only an instant, but a mutual understanding passed through them as she gave a faint nod in his direction.

"Why is it taking so long?" asked a disgruntled Launël as he straightened the collar of his doublet. "Let us get on with it and see Magnus' pesky offspring shut away once and for all." Victoria overheard him and her lips curled into a slight smirk.

"If the lords are growing anxious, the people must be so even more," Rosalie whispered in her sister's ear.

"Good, I want there to be tension," Victoria muttered.

Rosalie settled back in her chair with a frown. "You said this would be a quick trial, Victoria."

The queen shifted her gaze from the people to her sister. "Indeed, it will. Trust me, you shall see," the older woman answered enigmatically.

More minutes passed where the people of Wessport waited for Jasper to be brought to them. The low whispers soon grew to loud murmurs as the clock ticked on. When the sun started sinking in the sky, someone exclaimed and pointed to the far end of the vast square. The summer breeze died down as the day cooled. A fresh waft of hay and grass passed through the now silent square as the squeaky wheels of a cart were the only discernable sound.

He sat on a flimsy wooden cart, atop a bed of fresh hay and grass with his hands tied behind his back. Jasper held his head high as the sea of people opened up for him and his cart, dragged by two small and starving-looking horses. But his pride would not wash away. Jasper held his head high, like a true Fell and did not cross eyes once with the public.

His white linen shirt was already wrinkled, and his once combed hair shot all ways. The trimmed goatee made his face look more sunken in as it added to the deep shadows in his cheeks, temples and under his eyes. Jasper looked as if he had not slept nor eaten in weeks.

The silence only continued to press as he was taken down from the carriage and led to the platform to kneel before the queen. Victoria eyed him for a long time atop her chair, her face ridden with a saddened expression.

"I wish this would not be necessary, dear cousin," her voice echoed, as sudden as a thunder.

Jasper met her intense eyes, he saw past the mask of the willful queen and meant for them all to see it. "You made it so when you had Lord Braun attack me, and then attacked me yourself."

A carefree chuckle sounded. "Placing the blame on others—how alike your father you are."

The people started whispering amongst themselves at Victoria's comment. Edward saw some nodding their heads in agreement. The trial had not even started, and the queen already had some of the citizens on her side.

"Let this trial begin. And let it be swift," Victoria said, clapping her hands for the prosecutor to come up to the platform. An old clerk in black clothes made his painful way up the stand, carrying a huge stack of letters and documents under his arm.

What followed was a full hour of him reading through most of those papers, each of them taking care in incriminating Jasper Fell for actions he had not committed.

But, instead of loudly protesting against the charges, Jasper knelt in utter silence, letting the old man accuse him of one crime after the other. Charges of murder, theft, and corruption floated carelessly through the silent square.

Edward squared his jaw at most of the accusations, knowing a large part of the statements to be false. When his eyes drifted to the platform, he suddenly noticed that both Lord Glovendale and Lady Renée were nowhere to be seen. Edward crossed eyes with Rosalie and she gave him a small nod. Victoria was so taken with Jasper kneeling before her that she had not noticed as a maid of Rosalie's had whisked them away.

He was snapped back to reality when Victoria's voice broke through the monotonous voice of the clerk. "These charges are indeed grave," the queen began. "And my cousin has done little to defend himself against them."

The crowd now protested, for without much context, it was easy to believe Jasper had indeed been behind many of those atrocious crimes. But the queen put up her hands to silence the masses. "My good people of Wessport," she said. "Jasper Fell no longer sits on the throne. The main Fell line once more dominates the crown—as it always should have. You will be safe under me now, safe from any threats like Lord Athar and his traitors. But I am inclined to forgive my cousin." Another wave of protest sounded and amidst the tumult, Isabella slipped back and jumped off the stage, running behind the maid who showed her to a secret passageway hugging the corner of the square. But the young woman was not yet ready to leave the square until she was certain Edward was coming with her.

She would not part from him again.

She watched as the maid went back for Edward and the princess, begging for them to be quick. Rosalie would have it the hardest to leave there, for she was right next to Victoria.

The piercing eyes of the queen now sought out Jasper. "Jasper Fell, your charges are many and quite substantial. How do you plead?"

The quick interaction passing between Victoria and her cousin did not go unnoticed by Edward. He wondered if the queen had not visited Jasper right before the trial. Perhaps she had offered him some sort of deal if he pled guilty.

"I am innocent of all these charges," sounded Jasper's voice, as loud and clear as day. He would not back away—not when he knew that the queen was trying to use him as her final scapegoat.

"You disappoint me and the people of this glorious kingdom," Victoria sighed. "Jasper Fell, by admitting to your guilt, you may still escape the law—I may still help you. But if you persist in lying, I cannot do much."

The crowd was now starting to protest faintly, some had even gone as far as throwing a few mild insults Jasper's way. He was hit by vile words, but he would not bend.

"It is true my father and mother did terrible things. But I have neither murdered nor stolen from the kingdom. I will not be your scapegoat now, Victoria. I will not bend the knee and accept you as the queen of this country!" the royal spat, gritting his teeth as Victoria frowned down at him.

"Have it your way," she snickered. She bent down so that only he might hear her. "How differently this could have ended, dear cousin," she spat. Victoria waved her hand and from the corner of the platform came a hooded man carrying an ax.

"Sister, what are you doing?!" Rosalie exclaimed, shooting out of her chair. "Back down before it is too late!" she hissed in her sister's ear, her eyes flickering to the raging crowd.

"Listen to her, Your Majesty and end this madness," Edward growled, joining them.

"Step aside, Cullen," Victoria hissed back. But Edward would not have any of it. He started pushing his way to Jasper in a desperate attempt to save the once king of Angloa—to save his cousin. But, as he reached him, Jasper shook his head in defeat.

"Leave it, Edward," his tired voice said. He directed a small smile his way. "Go," he whispered. The eyes behind the mask widened—Jasper had known all along what Victoria had meant for him. He knew his fate would most likely end that summer day. Before Edward could answer back, four guards managed to drag him away from the kneeling king to where Victoria stood. But Edward unleashed his rage and put up a good fight, it was only when two more guards joined in and some lords that he was subdued. Edward took a few good punches, but not before completely taking out the initial four guards.

"You disappoint me, Cullen," she said in a stiff tone as he was forced down, his breath ragged after the intense fight. The people watched with wide eyes as the masked man was made to kneel before the queen. "But I want you to remain here and see this. Guards, take him to where my sister is and make sure they have a good view," she smirked.

"She cannot mean this," Rosalie said in disbelief, the shock still not wearing off. She was expecting Victoria to back down on her word at any given moment. But when the executioner neared Jasper and Edward and Rosalie were taken to the end of the platform, they understood that Victoria was serious.

They watched the hooded man near with slow steps to Jasper as he stared at the wooden boards below him. While all of the attention now rested on Jasper, Edward managed to free his hidden dagger and in a swift series of motions, he had managed to disarm two guards, killing one of them. He was about to be overpowered by the other two when Rosalie directed a blow to them, momentarily confusing them. It was enough for Edward to silently make them fall to the ground unconscious. His eyes swept over the square.

Rosalie crossed eyes with the masked man as they stood helplessly behind the raised platform, away from the eyes of the people. A maid had placed hooded cloaks that they were to disguise themselves with. This was their only chance at fleeing—but it would mean leaving Jasper behind. Victoria could still be bluffing, but as they saw the executioner readying his ax, their stomachs dropped.

There was a hard choice to be made, and none dared utter the words. Finally, it was Edward who prepared to dart for the platform, ready to fight whatever got in his way to save his cousin.

But Rosalie stepped in his way, her face oddly neutral. "You will run up there and fight a gallant battle—and you will fail, Edward," she lamented.

"If we do nothing, he dies," Edward hissed. "Jasper will die, Rosalie!" He put all notion of formality aside when uttering her name.

Rosalie fought hard against the weakness in her voice as she took his upper arm in her hand. "Then I will make the decision, Cullen." Edward knew deep down in his heart there was nothing they could do in a city full of guards loyal to the queen. His moment of valor would be foolish. The strategist within him—someone who had been pushed aside all these months as he'd let his emotions rule—now screamed at him to leave. "That woman is no longer my sister, she died long ago," Rosalie mourned as she saw Victoria smirk at Jasper. "If we stay here, we will meet the same fate as Jasper and Athar will lose the battle. We cannot let that happen, Edward. I order you to come with me, to take me to Athar," she said with a slight tremble in her voice. Rosalie had offered him an easy way out—she had made the ultimate decision. It would be her conscience that would weigh heavy, not Edward's.

He would forever be haunted by that moment of putting away the dagger and slowly picking up the cloaks, blending into the masses. He did it in a haze while his heart beat madly in his chest. He had been so intent on saving Jasper, but now, in his hour of need, he was to leave yet another family member behind.

They slipped through the crowd as it gawked at the spectacle in disbelief. "I failed my cousin," Rosalie lamented to herself as Edward pushed past the people.

"We both failed him." Edward hoped Victoria was still playing. He hoped the axe would not fall down.

"Is it not customary to offer him some last few words?" shouted someone in the crowd. Victoria's eyes narrowed, trying to find the culprit. But when she did not see him, she complied.

"Make it quick," she growled to her cousin, low enough for the people not to hear.

Jasper was pushed forward with hands still tied behind his back, the surreal situation still not processed within his mind. His eyes searched the sea of people, searching for one face—one mask within it.

When he saw the hood and the dark mask hiding within it, he knew Edward was still there—and he would be there until his end, standing by his side.

It was the least his cousin could do.

Jasper had never thought expressing himself would be so hard. Having just a few moments to reveal everything that defined him was not enough. He wished for the people to know that he himself knew he had not done enough for them. He wished for them to know that he was and never had been his father. Every day of waking up, he had fought against the bad name Magnus had tainted him with. Jasper had strived to be more like his uncle and less like his own parents. To have lived with the shame brought on by his own blood was curse enough.

But he was strangely calm. Perhaps because he knew that in that very sea of people, there was someone that would carry on what his ancestors had stood for. Jasper cared little if it was Edward or Rosalie as long as someone did it.

Jasper turned to face Victoria, eyes narrowing as hers did too. "Know that you will ever be known as the ultimate traitor to this country. Good men will see to that. Know that the ghosts of your ancestors will come for you—your past will haunt you, Victoria." The prophetic words died out into the summer afternoon, carrying a chill with them. "He will come for you."

Victoria nodded, not letting her dismayed state show in her face. But her heartbeat had risen slightly at those eerie words. Yet, she ignored the senses they provoked in her.

"It gives me great grief to do this, cousin," the queen said. Her eyes trailed over the crowd, wallowing in the fear present in their eyes. Victoria savored her power, savored the hold she now had over them. With this action, she would be the true ruler of Angloa and no one would be able to go up against her.

With this minor action, the daughter of Philip Fell would die, giving birth to something else—something ruthless and void of empathy.

"Off with his head," sounded the terminal words.

The executioner had someone place his block in front of Jasper as he was roughly made to kneel in front of it—meeting his fate with full force.

"I remember what he said to me," he said out to the crowd, knowing Edward would understand those words were meant for him. A melancholic calm settled within him as the murmur died down. Jasper had still been a king and the powerful rumble in his voice still commanded respect.

"We must go," Rosalie whispered in Edward's ear. Many in the crowd had lowered their gaze, unable to believe that they were about to witness the execution of a king.

"Wait," Edward said, wanting to hear what Jasper had to say. His whole body trembled as Rosalie reluctantly turned to face her cousin as well. She had decided they should leave, she would not turn away from him. The princess started shaking despite herself in expectancy of the loud chop of the ax to sound.

Jasper's eyes met one final time with Edward's, a string of sadness coursed through the distant cousins, knowing they would never truly get to know one another. "A king is not born, he is made," Jasper said with full force as the executioner forced his head down on the block.

The hearts in the crowd stopped as the ax rose in the sky, catching the powerful beams of a warming sun. A ghostly stillness settled as time slowed down—everything slowed down.

Edward's mouth opened in a silent protest as the steel came down with full force against the exposed neck of the monarch.

His head was severed from his body in an instance, falling from the platform as his blood painted the square red. Rosalie was strangely silent by Edward's side. They turned around at one time—he could not remember when. A hollowness soon followed, the small black hole of pain in his heart growing a size bigger after what he had witnessed.

Moving through the throng as people stared in disbelief proved to be difficult. Their legs moved with the speed of a snail, feeling as if they were wading through water.

He did not remember reaching the corner, he only remembered the cold sweat emerging from his skin, how nausea claimed him and how everything felt undone. Edward remembered feeling utterly defeated as if he had been fighting for hours and just lost against life. How could he go forth with such a scene playing out before him?

A calming voice reached his ears, breaking through the fog, anchoring him once more to reality. She was there, waiting to be by his side. He could feel the warmth of her presence. Edward snapped out of it—he had seen many of his comrades fall before. Was it so different just because it was his sister who had spilled the blood?

Maybe.

But one voice brought a spark to the dying flame.

Isabella's horrified face met his own as she stood, hugging the corner, holding the passage open for them. They did not speak, they did not have to. She took his gloved hand in hers and placed the other one briefly on his cheek. Her touch was enough to settle some of the raging tempests within him. He urged her to race through the tight passageway. Rosalie turned around before following the young woman, she took a long and good look at her sister. Her eyes narrowed, and her face settled into a frown. Edward stood next to her, following her gaze.

Victoria stood by the pool of her own cousin's blood, not being able to help the satisfied smirk spreading across her features. Her eyes searched the square, relishing in having the people by her side. Suddenly, she saw her own sister push her hood down, eyes saddened and downtrodden, shaking her head.

Rosalie had abandoned all hope for her and something within Victoria was extinguished—as if the final flame of good had finally gone out.

Rosalie could bear it no more and disappeared around the corner behind Edward. He remained, having caught the queen's glare. The shock of Jasper's execution was replaced with something else. Disappointment and another powerful feeling took root.

Edward lifted his nose in the air, an arrogant gesture. He had broken his oath to her—broken his word. But, strangely, his honor did not feel tainted. Despite having seen his cousin murdered on that square, leaving Victoria gave him a strange bittersweet feeling of relief and anguish. He had no qualms about abandoning her. Edward had never known Magnus or Rebecca Fell. But he started imagining what kind of monsters such people had been if Victoria was the fruit of their horror.

Before the queen could call attention to the masked man in black at the edge of the square, he had disappeared as the sunbeams momentarily blinded her. When Victoria's eyes went back to that location he was gone. It was only then that she noticed Lady Renée, her daughter, and Lord Glovendale had disappeared like dust in the wind as well.

Her voice boomed across the square as she shouted: "Guards!"

June 6th, 1520 – Sorossa

Their horses braved on. "Mother, just a bit more, please," Isabella pleaded as a pale Renée did her best to stay lucid. Rosalie helped the older woman off the horse.

Rosalie's eyes softened as she watched the worried daughter coddle her mother. "If we get to Lord Athar's camp soon, there should be a healer there. Your mother should be fine, Miss Swan."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Isabella said as she kissed her mother's head and stole a glance from Rosalie. "For everything." She could breathe now—something she had not done for a long while. They were safely away from the capital.

Rosalie's gaze was still foggy. Isabella could not imagine what must be going through her mind. Her cousin's head had been chopped off in front of her, by her own sister whom she loved, nonetheless. But Rosalie would show nothing as to what went through her mind. She remained eerily similar to Edward—just as stoic and silent in her way.

Edward stood on the cliff, looking out over the valley and at the dark forest rooftop emerging in the distance.

"Are you certain he will even be at Raven's Grove?" asked Theodor as he joined him.

"He will be there," Edward answered with sure conviction. Theodor did not question him further.

Theodor, once a respected ambassador, was now no more than a traitor on the run. But as he looked back at Rosalie, he knew she was something worth fighting for. He would follow her, just so that her sister might not remain in power. And, standing by his side, stood a man that could make that a reality. Edward Cullen together with General Fawkes and Lord Athar could work together to place the princess on the throne and restore peace to Angloa.

"Indulge an old man," he said as he turned to face the masked enigma. When Edward did not answer, Theodor continued.

"What will you do after leaving the princess and I in the secure hands of Lord Athar?"

The masked man shifted where he stood as if it was something he was not certain of yet himself. Thoughts circled in his mind like the cogs of a watch, they turned slowly, until they sped up. He almost chuckled at the irony of things. He had spent so much time and effort running from a situation like this, and now he found himself here again—with a critical decision to be made.

He turned to look at Isabella, helping her mother mount the horse once more. She wanted to stay and fight. It seemed she had grown even fiercer than he—wanting to defend Angloa so badly in her time of need. "I will stay with Lord Athar," he finally answered, hoping he had made the right decision.

Theodor lit up at those words. "And once this is all over I am leaving these shores forever with Miss Swan," he added. Rosalie and Isabella could not help but hear those words as well.

"You came to help us in our hour of need once, Edward. And now you come once more," Isabella said as she went to stand by his side.

They glanced out over the valley, kissed by the warming beams of the sun. The clouds floated low in the sky, casting great shadows over the grasslands as they swayed gently in the breeze.

The shadows from Raven's Grove crept away from the light and stretched far. The leafy crowns danced in the wind and the music of the rattling leaves reached them where they stood.

Raven's Grove called them and they answered.

Edward Cullen would return. The Lion of the North was back and this time he truly had something to fight for.

January 2nd, 1517 – Haven's Beach

The calmness after a battle was always unbearable for them. General Fawkes stared out over the field, knowing they should have retreated days ago.

"This was a failure," his second in command muttered behind him. The number of bodies piling up was enough to fill an entire cemetery.

Seagulls flew overhead, their white wings contrasting against the dark skies. By the beach, the English docked from their ships. Haven's Beach had been taken. Fawkes rode away with his entourage, past the woods and toward the field near the town of Gaera.

They were losing this war and if it continued in such a fashion, Angloa would fall embarrassingly fast to the English.

On the way to his tent, he passed a giant of a man in black clothes with a black leather sack upon his head. Or perhaps he just appeared a giant from the way he would loom over one if they neared enough. The man was furiously digging into the frozen earth, a burlap sack next to him. There was no doubt in Fawkes' mind that the sack contained a body. He had grown used to seeing the soldiers burying their friends.

"I did not know we allowed lepers into the army now," Collins sneered as he pushed a lock of dark-blonde hair out of his eyes. The Marshal dressed as impeccably as ever, never allowing himself remotely near the battlefield. It was the reason for him not even recognizing a soldier of his platoon. He had probably not even made use of the finely crafted sword resting on his hip.

"Give him peace and let him bury his friend," General Melkeer, the second in command, sneered. His brow furrowed as he regarded the pompous Marshal. The white streaks touching his auburn hair gave him a charming aura—much like it did with General Fawkes.

But Collins listened little to them and stayed on as they went for their tents. Fawkes had no mind to squabble with the man.

Several hours passed until it was time for them to hold a meeting, not entirely sure of how to proceed.

"Where is that bastard?" Fawkes shouted in anger as he pushed a scroll off the table. His jovial and careless manner had long since been repressed as he had taken on the full responsibility of fighting the war—a heavy weight on his shoulders.

"I haven't seen Collins since we passed that masked soldier," Melkeer said, the tone of his voice echoing that of Fawkes'.

Fawkes bit his jaw together. Melkeer sighed. "I will go get him."

But almost an hour after disappearing and not returning, Fawkes himself set out to find Collins. He was absolutely sure he would discharge the bastard after having so disrespectfully made his superior officers wait.

He asked his way across the camp until he reached the end of it. Melkeer stood next to a tree, overlooking the field—Haven's Beach in the distance, the winds bringing on the smell of blood and death.

What he saw was a most amusing sight. The masked soldier from earlier now stood towering over Collins, growling at him with such a deep and frightening voice that Fawkes did not have a mind to go closer. The soldier in black looked like an apparition. The rags he wore made it seem as if he had run through a forest of thorns. The ill-fitting leather mask on his head was pulled by the wind every so often.

Melkeer had been standing there for the better part of thirty minutes, his expression going from anger that a mere soldier was insulting an officer, to surprise and finally awe.

The things the soldier had been speaking of—fighting from a higher ground and not charging first were things they should have thought of from the start. General Melkeer had not wanted to interrupt the argument as the masked soldier continued giving solid arguments for why they had lost and what Collins could have done with his flanks to avoid it.

"I'll be damned," Melkeer whispered to himself. "Even in the ranks, eh—"

Collins had been taking the insults for the better part of thirty minutes just because he did not wish to fight back against the brutish man.

"I had to bury my friend because you sent us into the slaughter. Your Captain, Jeremiah Trett and all the other soldiers in that platoon are dead because of you. Take a good look at this grave, Collins, take a look at the unmarked grave of this soldier who will never return home!" Edward stared into the eyes of the officer who had not dared open his mouth.

Jonathan had fallen while helping one of their wounded friends. There had been nothing Edward could've done to help him. And now he was gone. His name would die with him, floating off with the winter winds.

"That is enough, soldier," came a harsh voice as a man in expensive clothes and chainmail neared them. The older man with auburn hair and clear eyes stared at them both. "Arguing out in the open against an officer like this," the man chastised. "It could be enough to send you to the stocks."

Collins smirked as General Melkeer came to his rescue. His grin grew even wider as he spotted Fawkes waiting patiently by a large oak tree.

"I tell you, Melkeer, this man is insane. He should be taken to the nearest town and executed at once," Collins drawled.

Edward cast away the shovel and prepared for the storm of insults that would now be hurled his way. He was used by now receiving every type of comment. He knew how he looked, how he was. Edward did not exactly inspire a sense of companionship. The only friend he had known now lay in the cold hard ground as maggots found their way to his body.

But the icy blue eyes grew soft as they met his gaze. "You think we led you into the slaughter, eh?" the man asked as he scratched his silver speckled beard.

"He would dare insult your brilliant strategy and that of General Fawkes," Collins added.

"Well, the man is right. We acted like fools today and many got killed because of it."

Collin's face went from amusement to disbelief in a split second.

"Wait, what?" Collins asked in confusion.

Melkeer neared Edward and put his arms around his shoulders, leading him away from the baffled Marshal. "What were you saying about taking the 'high ground'?" he asked, generally interested.

"You want my opinion?" Edward asked in disbelief. Melkeer faced him straight on and with the most honest tone and expression Edward had ever seen in anyone he answered: "Yes."

Fawkes saw them nearing and heard the masked soldier talking in a low voice. Every word escaping the soldier made Melkeer's smile grow wider and wider.

"General Fawkes," the second in command of the Angloan armies said as he neared the disbelieving General. "Permission to bring this soldier to the meeting."

Fawkes stared at the towering man in disbelief. "This man?" he questioned.

"Would you rather Collins come?" Melkeer asked with utmost sincerity.

Fawkes looked at the man dressed in black. He had his doubts about a man hiding his face. Bringing in a soldier from the ranks to such a pristine meeting would indeed raise a few eyebrows. But if Melkeer wanted him there, it was for a reason.

"One meeting, Melkeer," Fawkes said harshly.

The soldier kept his mouth shut as Melkeer rejoiced in the sudden turn of events.

Fawkes staggered back to his tent, wondering what he had gotten himself into. Times were indeed desperate if they would even listen to a common soldier for help.

"You never told me your name," Melkeer said offhand as they walked together to the tent.

The soldier's head snapped to him and Melkeer could not stop a chill as he felt the eyes watch him carefully.

"Edward," the man finally said. For Melkeer it was not enough. "Only Edward?" the second in command asked.

Edward stopped for a moment and glanced back at the freshly dug grave, his friend's words echoing in his mind still. Jonathan would always be remembered by him. The man had no family left to mourn him, only a friend whose face he had never seen.

It occurred to the masked man that there was one thing left he could do for Jonathan. He shifted his gaze back to Melkeer and fought against a smile spreading across his lips. "Edward…Cullen." He liked how the name sounded on his lips. Apparently, so did Melkeer.

"That is a good name, soldier," he winked.

Edward nodded. He walked back with Melkeer, heading for the tent. "It is," he murmured to himself. The winds of winter pushed harder against them as Edward turned from that grave, leaving it behind him and headed forward to whatever might await him.

A/N: So, as promised, I gave you the FINAL chapter before Christmas eve! I can't believe this fic is done! Holy hell, that went faster than thought. Now for a nice and relaxing vacation where I can put aside all thoughts of plot and character development lol. I hope you enjoyed reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. There are certain tidbits I'd like to oversee. But, for now, I am just going to leave it.

Also, I keep stressing this, again and again, I know some readers get pissed, sending me angry PM's that I can't "finish the story here". Again: READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTES. Dear God, you'd be surprised how many ignore these notes and then think I just ended this and the first fic so abruptly. No people, there WILL, of course, be a third and final fic. It is in the process of being written and I do not yet have a date for the first chapter. We are most likely looking at the end of March/ early April. I will update my Tumblr and FF profile if anything changes/ if there are delays.

Again, I really hope you liked this, please let me know if you did. I can only leave now with wishing you a Merry Christmas, or Happy Holidays if you do not celebrate Christmas. Oh, and a Happy New Year! Let's make 2018 better than the last, shall we? ^^'

Cheers,

Isabelle