The Relationship Between The Two Of Them

Brand attempted another parry, anticipating Alexander's attack from the left, but his brother's cunning and expertise in swordsmanship proved to be a formidable challenge. Instead of following the expected trajectory, Alexander swiftly changed tactics, manoeuvring to Brand's right side. Caught off guard, Brand left himself vulnerable, providing Alexander with an opening and he took advantage. With a perfect move, Alexander swung and his blade made contact, grazing Brand's upper arm and drawing blood.

Brand let out a yell of pain, instinctively retracting and clutching his wounded arm. "God dammit, you bastard!"

Alexander let his sword drop to his side. "Watch your words, you speak to your king." It was ironic how he was being called a bastard by Brand.

"I speak to my brother." His eyes narrowed with an intense glare.

"Who happens to be your king." Then, "Raise your sword." He commanded, raising his, ready to fight again.

Brand flexed his shoulders, stealing a brief glance at his broken skin. "Cut me again and I will…"

"What? Threaten to relinquish your crown?" Alexander interjected, his tone laced with mockery as he teased his brother. Brand's determination to withdraw from his crown and title was unwavering, a fact Alexander knew all too well. He would never let him. "Enough of your idle threats. Ready your sword and fight."

Once more, Brand gingerly brushed his fingertips against the fresh wound on his arm, a fleeting acknowledgment of the pain before launching into another aggressive attack. However, his movements were fueled by anger, clouding his judgement, while Alexander, ever crafty and discerning, anticipated his every move. In his reckless fury, Brand's attack became predictable, providing Alexander with the perfect opportunity for a swift counterattack.

With practiced precision, Alexander swiftly manoeuvred, outmanoeuvring his enraged brother. In mere moments and with another wrong move, Brand found himself overpowered, his back pressed against the unforgiving ground beneath him, as Alexander asserted his dominance in their sparring match.

"Yield?"

Too quickly, his brother said. "Yes."

"I win again, which means you, Your Royal Highness, lost." He was mocking.

"You are the worst cheat there is." Brand declared, rising from the dust.

Alexander succumbed to laughter, unable to contain his amusement. The servants came to them, relieving them of their weapons. "No one is a saint. I have simply chosen to accept my flaws." He accepted a piece of cloth and wiped the sweat from his brows even as Brand's unsatisfied eyes swore at him. Carlisle stood away from them, inspecting the wound on his own arm.

With a tsked, Alexander called. "Carlisle, stop moping. I did not mean to draw blood." When Carlisle eyed him, he chuckled. He had been caught. "In battles, wounds are inevitable!"

"Especially when one fights against you." Brand retorted, sampling his wound as well.

"Do not be such a loser, Your Royal Highness." He said, giving a mock bow, annoying his brother further. Brand was not the least happy. He intended to relinquish and relieve himself of his title for a win, but Alexander would never let that happen. He would cheat if he had to.

He was not a bad man. Well, he told himself daily that he was not as bad as the world painted him to be. He was simply a king.

Upon their father's demise, having succumbed to the mysterious illness that had plagued him for years, Alexander was thrust into the role of kingship, given the mantle of leadership at a tender age. Ever since assuming the throne he had devoted himself tirelessly to the welfare and stability of the realm. Despite his earnest efforts, however, the kingdom occasionally perceived him as evil, casting him in a bad light despite his benevolent intentions.

It was an open secret that he revelled in teasing others, and why shouldn't he? With hundreds and thousands of subjects at his command, the simple act of teasing brought him a subtle sense of delight, a nuance of joy. After all, they were his subjects by birthright and the authority vested in his office, and he saw no reason not to indulge in such small pleasures. If anything, he felt entitled to claim even more from his position of power.

Edmund approached them, accompanied by a maid bearing a tray on which calling cards sat. cards. "Your Majesty, while you were engaged in your sport, your remaining guests arrived." He announced, collecting a total of five cards from the tray.

"My solicitors and the ministers?"

"Yet to arrive Sir, but I would say they would be here in no time."

He nodded. "Ensure proper accommodation for those that would be staying in the castle." He commanded.

Against his normality, Carlisle had chosen to remain within the castle walls rather than retreat to his estate, WhistleHall. Alexander had pondered the reason behind this decision, but as he entered the courtroom, flanked by the Fitzgerald ladies, the answer had become apparent. He made a decision that diverged from his usual habit, a choice seemingly influenced by Lady Beth Fitzgerald. This prompted Alexander to ponder what other aspects of his friend's life the small lady might influence.

When he raised his eyes, he saw her, the lady whose friendship Carlisle swore was all he wanted. She was small with red hair and from where she stood, she was even smaller. Her hands were held together in front as she walked slowly to them as though contemplating if to turn around and escape her decision.

Carlisle saw her too and rose too quickly to his feet causing a wicked smirk to stay proudly on Alexander's cheeks. Trouble sure was brewing but this trouble was something that promised to be enjoyable. He had anticipated long for it and intended to take it slow. The small woman seemed to tug at his friend and Alexander decided to sit back and cheer on the entertainment, watching and enjoying it.

"Lady Fitzgerald, do you fancy a sword fight too?'' Alexander asked as soon as the lady reached earshot. Carlisle turned at once to him, giving one of his disapproving looks to which he gave him a smile, one to annoy. "Pick any weapon of your choosing."

The lady flushed, stopping when she was close enough to Carlisle. "No, Your Majesty." She began, her voice was soft but resolute. "I congratulate you on your victory, nonetheless."

"Thank you. But you would have loved to offer it to Carlisle, wouldn't you?"

"No, Your Majesty, you are deserving of the win."

"So Carlisle is not?"

"No, I didn't…"

"Alexander?" Carlisle interrupted.

Alexander grinned. "How I am enjoying your visit, Lady Fitzgerald." He wriggled his fingers. "And as you have given it in good faith, I accept your well-wishes." She bowed. Silence. Then, "Why are you here, Lady Fitzgerald?"

"I don't… I…um I thought perhaps Lord Carlisle needed a bit of help with his wounds."

"It is a kind thought, but you didn't have to. It is only a flesh wound and will be gone in a few days." Carlisle said.

Alexander shook his head, dismissively. "Oh, Carlisle!" He muttered only to his hearing. Then with a light tap and a single throw of his head, he commanded his brother. "Come, Brand, let's leave the 'friends' alone." His sarcasm was not noticed. Then, "You should have someone tend to you."

"This wound would not be the reason I die."

"Be mindful of your words." Alexander said. He hated Brand's careless words, especially when they were of death. "Come with, now."

Rubbing his arm, Brand said. "I dread being left alone with you."

"And I dread that you might earn an infection." His voice bore a hint of anger. "That must be tended to properly."

From behind, Carlisle added. "The king is right. That should be tended to."

"I'll attend to my wounds. You tend to your heart." Brand suddenly said, surprising all of them. Carlisle lifted his gaze from Brand's injury to meet his eyes, his glare brimming with intensity. Brand met the hot stare with equal enthusiasm. The tension between them was palpable enough to suggest an old quarrel.

"Enough the pair of you. Brand, come."

Lady Fitzgerald sat on the bench as they walked away. What was the relationship between the two? Friendship? He scoffed. Friendship indeed! He was no fool, no friend looked at the other as Carlisle looked at Lady Fitzgerald. Was he seeking to make her a mistress? Before or even after his wedding to his affianced? Did he intend to be like the men they both hated? Was he finally choosing to walk the part they abhorred?

Alexander shook his head adamantly. He would not allow him. He refused to stand idly by and watch Carlisle become the man and the life that had nearly brought them to ruin. If necessary, he was prepared to issue a royal decree to prevent it from happening.