((Disclaimer: Surprise! I don't own Redwall.))

…

The wind screamed through the courtyard, slamming violently against the mourners and sending more than one stumbling backwards. Jeira, caught off guard and already off balance, nearly fell over completely. Syrix reached out and grabbed her arm, steadying her with a warning look.

"Don't fall." His voice was barely perceptible over the wounded shrieking of the wind. "Not here."

Jeira shook off his arm and barely managed to contain a snarl. She turned her back on him, eyes sliding over everything but the coffin, finally coming to rest on the flags jerking violently in the wind, high above the castle. A blue flag with a thin white line across the middle flew in recognition of the king and queen, showing the world that they were in residence. And then, just below it, the black flag of the heir. But the red snowflake for her brother had been replaced with the blue crescent moon for her.

Her brother's flag lay over his coffin.

She bit hard into her lip, drawing blood. All the royal court and several royal guards were standing around her; she could show no emotion, had to keep her face impassive and uncaring. Her brother was dead, gone. And now she had to pretend he had never existed at all.

"Are you cold?"

Jeira gave Syrix a fierce, threatening look. But the otter either did not notice or did not heed the threat. "Are you cold?" He repeated.

"No." She lied, lifting her chin and glaring.

"Then stop trembling like a newborn." Syrix suggested heartlessly and nodded towards the coffin. "And look at your brother, Jeira. They're closing it up."

Jeira closed her eyes and mentally listed her lineage until she thought she could control herself. Then, warily, she opened her eyes and looked towards her brother's coffin.

He looked peaceful, if he looked like anything at all. And it seemed so unfair, so wrong that Viarin, the liveliest, the most defiant of her siblings would have to die the way he had. Hunted down and slaughtered by the Nameless One's forces like a common soldier, not even given the proper execution he deserved.

She supposed she should be glad that his body had not been delivered mutilated and dismembered like the past two royal children, but she could not find any joy within her. Viarin had deserved to die in battle. He had not deserved to be run down in the cold, alone and wounded, reeling still from the death of the twelve otters that had been under his command.

Viarin had done nothing to deserve the death he received. His only crime, if it had been a crime at all, was to have been born royal. Like Jeira. Like Calis, Nejia, Dalin, Perix, and Sacrya. Like her five older siblings. All dead. All gone.

All buried side-by-side in this damn royal graveyard.

She watched as they closed the coffin, closing Viarin away from her forever. Watched silently as they lowered him into the ground. Watched without moving as first her father and then the queen placed a familiar white flower, the symbol of her family, on the coffin and then, blankly, walked away.

And then it was her turn. She clutched the flower in her paws and walked to the edge of the grave. She looked down - a mistake - and froze.

For some reason, she wanted to climb down in the grave. She wanted to climb in the coffin with her brother and just fall asleep, just let the world move on. She wanted, more than anything, to relinquish her hold on life and stay with her last and closest sibling until the world ended. Until the Nameless One overran her castle. Until the last of her realm was destroyed.

And she wondered, in a distant, confused sort of way, if this is what it felt like to go mad. She wondered if this is what Perix had felt when he threw himself from the top of the castle. Because if it was, then she finally understood. She finally forgave him. Because this type of emotion could not be controlled, could not be contained.

All she wanted was to leave, to find a way out. And she wondered if it was worse that Viarin was dead or that she envied him for it.

"Princess Jeira." Syrix was at her elbow, claws digging viciously into her skin. "Now is not the time for one of your emotional fits."

Jeira looked up at him slowly. "Syrix." She whispered. "Syrix, I don't want to be the only one left."

Syrix gave her a rare and well-disguised sympathetic look. "I know, Jeira. But death does not ask for your permission when it takes its victims. And the only thing you can do now is honor his sacrifice. You must not make his funeral a spectacle. He would not have wanted that."

She winced at the words, "Honor his sacrifice."She had heard those words so many times now that the words themselves meant absolutely nothing, yet they brought vicious agony every time. "Honor his sacrifice."

And then, drawing more on the tattered remnants of her pride than any sort of inner-strength, she straightened, dropped the flower on her brother's coffin, and walked away.

As always, she tried not to look at all the other graves as she passed. And, as always, she failed.

They went in order of birth, which was close enough to order of death that it didn't seem too odd. Only Perix had broken the order, throwing himself off the north tower after Dalin and Sacrya had been delivered in pieces. Perhaps it was the knowledge that his rightful death had been between Dalin and Sacrya that sent him to suicide. Jeira would never know.

But it hardly mattered now. All her siblings were dead, as was her mother. Her mother had died a season ago, grieving herself into an early grave. She had been unable to bear the loss of three children within one week. Even Arinya, the Warrior Queen, had her limits.

And so she had died and had been buried beside her children in the same graveyard that held her own siblings and all of her family, ancient as the line was. The graveyard that would hold all of her cubs, soon. The graveyard that haunted Jeira's dreams every night, calling for her, waiting for her.

Jeira hurried away from cemetery, comforting herself with the fact that she would never have to attend another funeral. The Nameless One was playing a game, killing off all seven of the royal children, to torture a king that had refused to surrender his realm.

The next time there was a royal funeral, it would be for her.

…

"The princess has gone missing."

Syrix looked up from the dagger he had been sharpening. "Has she?" He inquired politely.

Faren nodded, distress brightening his blue eyes. "We have searched for hours and cannot find her. The king is…alarmed."

Syrix imagined that "alarmed" was perhaps the largest understatement he had ever heard in his life, especially when he noticed the blood leaking slowly from the corner of Faren's mouth. "I imagine so," Syrix drawled, "if he's so far gone as to hit you."

Faren reached up instinctively to brush a paw over his mouth. Then he scowled, as if irritated by his own display of anxiety. "I lost her." He pointed out. "I should be glad he doesn't kill me."

"Kill you?" Syrix stood up, the dagger disappearing into his clothes. "Yes. You should be. Especially since it would be me doing the killing."

Faren's face darkened. "Will you find her or not?"

Syrix nodded. "Of course I will. Does it appear to you that I have anything more pressing to do?"

The squirrel shrugged uneasily. "I wouldn't know."

Syrix rolled his eyes. Sometimes the way this realm was set up, with squirrels inferior to otters, irritated him. The hierarchy only served to prove, over and over, that he was not home.

"How long has she been missing?" Syrix asked, glancing out the window to ascertain the time.

"We do not know. Her maids say they haven't seen her since the prince's funeral. But the guards swear she has not left the castle." Faren looked worried. "And no one has seen the princess at meals since the funeral three days ago."

"Jeira rarely attends meals. She eats alone or with close friends."

"No one has delivered food up to her rooms."

Syrix gave him a doubtful look. "From what I hear, you were close to Jeira when she was younger."

Faren blinked. "I hardly see what that has to do-"

"I've been frequently regaled with stories of how the two of you and Lady Ayra used to raid the kitchens at night." Syrix drawled in a way that suggested he had not at all found the stories entertaining and, furthermore, thought it was Faren's fault that he had been forced to suffer through them at all.

"Oh." Faren looked faintly guilty. "Well…yes. But we've grown since then."

"Perhaps you have." Syrix glanced sidelong at Faren. "Though, I doubt it. Certainly, Ayra has not. And Jeira is not exactly a shining beacon of maturity herself."

Faren decided not to point out that Jeira, as the heir of the realm, outranked Syrix now and that daring to insult the crown princess was a considerable crime. Instead, he decided he would rather keep his head attached to his neck and let the insult go by. "Do you intend to find her or not?"

"I'll find her." Syrix moved towards the door. "And you should probably stay away from the king while I do."

"Why?"

"Because I doubt he'll appreciate the fact that I'm doing your job."

…

Syrix sighed and stared doubtfully at the window. He knew he would have to climb out of it and then, using a conveniently positioned gargoyle, swing himself onto the roof. That was where Jeira was. He knew that.

The problem, it seemed, was that he had yet to conquer his illogical fear of heights.

He shifted uneasily, allowed himself ten more seconds of paranoia, and then climbed onto the window sill. He stood up carefully and then reached above the window, grabbing for the gargoyle. What he found, to his surprise, was a rope. A rope that we being lowered down to him.

"C'mon, Syrix. I know you hate using the gargoyle."

Syrix frowned. "What is the rope tied to?"

There was a long pause. "Certainly not the gargoyle." She answered carefully.

"I've told you before, that doubtful piece of masonry cannot withstand my weight for any serious amount of time."

"Well, it's all that's up here. I mean, I could tie it to myself."

"You," Syrix pointed out, "are even less stable than the gargoyle."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment to my slender figure rather than an insult to my strength."

"Take it how you want." Syrix suggested darkly, before reaching out to grab the rope. "If I die, though, I want it clarififed that it was, in fact, an insult."

"I love you too, Syrix."

Syrix snorted in disapproval, tightened his grip on the rope, and stepped out of the window.

The gargoyle, as always, held strong.

Syrix scaled the rope easily and grabbed hold of the roof, pulling himself up hastily. Jeira, who had sprawled out on the cold roof to stare up at the sky, gave him a brief, thoughtful look.

"Why is it always you?" She asked.

"Because no one else possesses the same suicidal inclinations." Syrix retorted. "Besides, would you rather someone else?"

"Maybe. You always make me feel like an idiot for being upset."

"I've said before that I find grieving an entirely selfish emotion." Syrix shrugged. "I've also said I don't blame you for it. But if you're interested in some kind of sentimental sobbing, I could fetch Faren."

Jeria snorted. "You've never liked Faren." She gave him a curious look. "But you've never said why."

"Faren is far too sensible a squirrel to be so submissive to you simply because you're an otter, and he is not. I find his obedience disgusting."

"It's the way our realm is. You cannot judge us for-"

"I can judge whatever I wish. And I can decide however I want."

Jeira sighed. "How can you be so independent?"

He shrugged and sat down far away from the edge of the roof. "It's quite easy. You simply have to not care about others."

"I can't do that."

"Of course not. You've been convinced you need to care about everyone. It's part of being what you are, I suppose."

Jeira sighed and did not answer. She knew he was right. She had been raised to care about all of those in her care. Unlike her brothers, she and her two sisters had been raised to be negotiators, to be peacekeepers. It had been thought that her four brothers could handle the realm, if it came to a war.

But it had come to a war. And her brothers had died. And now she was the last true successor to the throne, and she knew, so deep that she couldn't challenge it, that she could not handle a realm at war. She could barely endure her siblings' funerals.

She could not stand to go to the military funerals held every week, with scores of sobbing mothers and fathers and…

"There were seven of us." She whispered.

Syrix glanced over at her inquiringly. "Seven of you?" His voice was polite, not truly interested.

"Four brothers, two sisters, and me. Why seven? Who has seven cubs?"

"Royals often have large families." Syrix replied logically. "In case of accidental deaths."

She turned to look at him and then laughed. It was a hollow, bitter laugh, and it made Syrix frown. But that was quite possibly the most hilarious thing she had heard for a while. Accidental death.

"I was just thinking," she said once she'd stopped laughing, "that we stabbed ourselves in the back with that. Seven children. It would've been a lot easier on all of us, especially my father, if there had only been one or two."

"That's rather cynical." Syrix noted. "I suppose I could say something about it being better to have children for a brief period of time and lose them than to never have had them at all, but that type of lie has always struck me as particularly heartless."

"Oh, please, don't do anything you consider morally wrong. The moral conscience of an assassin is not to be regarded lightly."

"For once, we agree." Syrix apparently did not sense the sarcasm in her voice. Or, if he did, he refused to acknowledge it.

Jeira sighed, eyes closing against the world. "It's a damned life we live, Syrix."

"Is it?" Syrix asked. "And whatever makes you think that my life is damned?"

"Something ran you out of your homeland." Jeira pointed out, well aware that she was crossing lines.

It was well-known that Syrix had not been born in Revern, that he had been exiled from his homeland. What was not known, at least not well, was where he had originally come from, and why he had been forced to flee.

She could sense Syrix tensing up, looking at her with that glare that, had she opened her eyes to see it, would have melted her resolve. "Perhaps, Jeira, it is my life that is damned and not yours. Perhaps my very being here is what brought disaster upon your family."

"Oh, I doubt it." Jeira opened her eyes and looked over at him in quiet respect. "You're the one who has kept us alive."

Syrix blinked and stared out towards the distant smoke from the fires of thousands of the Nameless One's troops. They waited half a day's march away, fully prepared to attack at any moment.

"Whatever's kept you alive will fail soon enough." He noted darkly. "Your father has no strength to stand up to the Nameless One. Not anymore."

Jeira's sigh was deep and tired, worn-down and world-weary. "Syrix, couldn't you once come up here and tell me that everything will be alright? That, somehow, it will all turn out fine in the end?"

The otter turned back to look at her, incredulity in his eyes. "Lie?" He asked, sounding vaguely offended. "To you? Jeira, I only lie to those that deserve it."

"It'd be a good lie, Syrix. Not an immoral one. Just a…a merciful one."

Syrix eyes flashed dark. "Those are the only lies I tell." He said. "But only to those that need it. Only to those I'm killing."

Jeira winced. "Well, I'll be dying soon anyway. It's not as if it really matter who kills me."

"You wouldn't say that," Syrix said, "if you'd ever listened to the dying begging for just a half-minute more of life."

Jeira's eyes closed again, and she wished idly for the world to disappear. "Syrix, why do you insist on reminding me that life is so horrible?"

"Life is no such thing." Syrix retorted. "Life is beautiful, if only for its impermanence. Death, however, is an ugly, hideous thing. It is too common and too arrogant." He sighed and looked away, staring down the setting sun. "I could tell you wonderful stories about life, Jeira, but you only ever want to speak of death."

"Then tell me about life. Tell about where you came from."

Silence. For several long minutes, silence. Then, "Jeira, we die many different deaths. I have yet to die physically, but the place I came from killed the majority of my nicer personality traits. I will not tell you why, and I would never tell you how. Ask about something else."

She sighed. "Fine. Tell me something else. Anything else. Tell me about the world I will never get to see."

"That's rather fatalistic of you." Syrix noted. He paused, sized her up. "Fatalism does not become you, Jeira. Stick with your usual mixture of optimism and confusion."

"No, Syrix. No, I don't think I will." She stood up, completely disregarding the fact that, if she slipped, there would be no saving her. "I don't think I will be all cheerful and happy anymore. I am going to die. Do you understand, Syrix? Die. Dead. What does it matter if I go to death smiling or crying? It'll get me anyway."

"Aye." Syrix agreed. "But go to death smiling, and it may smile back."

"Oh, and that makes it better?"

Syrix laughed. "Believe me, Jeira. If death comes to you painlessly, you will have been blessed far beyond your siblings."

She struck him. Slapped him across the face as hard as she could manage. He tilted his head, absorbing the blow silently, and then looked back at her. She seethed for a moment more and then, with a soft, desperate sound in the back of her throat, she turned away.

He watched her wiping furiously at her eyes, trying to choke back her sobs. "Jeira," he said finally, his tone ringing with an apology he would never voice, "where I come from, you do not hide your emotions. If you cry, you cry where everyone can see. And there is no disgust or contempt. The creatures that drove me away…they had a great capacity for sympathy and love."

She froze and turned her face towards him. "Where you came from?" She asked, obviously shocked that he had spoken of it at all.

"Where I came from." He said. "I believe you would have liked it there. I believe they would have liked you there."

"They don't hate you for having feelings?" She asked softly, hopefully.

"They don't chain themselves with propriety. They…" He paused, brutally struggling against the whirlwind inside him. "They would never try to force you to become something you could never be."

"What about you? Why didn't they accept you?"

"Because, Jeira, I, like you, could never help what I was born into." His voice was quiet, sharpened to hide the soft bitterness beneath. "I am what I am. It wasn't good enough for them."

She turned to look at Syrix, offended by the slight to him even as the tears he had made her shed dried slowly on her face. "You're good enough for me." She said fiercely. "And that should be quite enough for everyone else."

He smiled. "If only the world was so easily won."

"It should be."

His eyes drifted over the smoke ever-present in the sky. "No, Jeira." He said. "Bigotry and division have their place. If not for them, we would never fight so hard to be free."

"You never make any sense, Syrix."

He laughed then. "That," he said, "is probably for the better. Come, you have a ball to attend."

She winced. "I hate funeral balls."

"You and the rest of the kingdom. But it is a tradition in your family, and you do have to attend. So dry your eyes, Jeira. Your subjects need your strength."

She brushed away her tears impatiently. "They'll have my life." She said darkly. "Isn't that enough?"

"Never."

…

((Note: This story will be incredibly short. It'll be three or four chapters of around this size. It serves mainly to provide the back-story for a few characters that will be popping up in the third (and final) story that follows Vengeance Born and Destiny Bearing. However, this fic can be read alone without any difficulties, so don't worry if you haven't read anything else I've written.

Also, I wasn't sure how to rate this, so I just went ahead and rated it "T" like the rest of my fics. Someone tell me if this is overkill.))