As if in answer to his thoughts, the silence shattered suddenly with the clamour of voices, footsteps pounding against the sand. Brand tensed, his heart racing. He reared up. They were searching for him; he was certain. Blood surged through his weary limbs, stirring the strength he thought he had lost. The thought of not returning to his hell was the greatest. The notion of discovery was inconceivable and unpalatable.
With whatever strength was spared him, Brand pushed himself up from the ground, abandoning the sighs of a defeated victim. But his injured leg buckled the moment he tried to stand, forcing him back to the ground, crashing to his knees. The pain was searing. He clenched his teeth and grunted in pain. His breath came in sharp, rapid bursts, but he refused to relent. He would rather die than be caught again. His rescuer was dead, and no saviour would come.
Dropping to his hands and knees, he began to crawl through the sand, dragging his broken leg and aching body inch by inch, away from the shore and hopefully from his captors.
Every part of him hurt.
A sudden crack of gunfire tore through the air, the sound shocking Brand who had not been expecting it. His limbs gave way and he fell on his chest but did not wait, quickly and with great struggle, he picked himself up, as fast and as far as he could – spitting out the sand he had unknowingly, and unwillingly, eaten – and continued to crawl in the sand. The cold wind blew over his open wound and pain rang without mercy in his brain. He winced. The hope of freedom, dim as it was, was all the fifteen-year-old had, and needed to continue still.
Another blast thundered through the night, deafening the quiet air with ruthless finality.
Soon enough, the uproar of voices came at him, growing louder, moving toward him. Fear jolted through Brand, and he pushed himself to crawl faster—faster than his battered body could manage. His movements became frantic, his strength clashing with the dizziness that blurred his vision. He stumbled and forced himself up again, half-crawling, half-running. His breathing came in faster so much so his lungs burned, protesting for help. The panic was exhausting, and the sharp ache of his wounds dragged him down, pulling him toward defeat. The tension and the fear exhausted him further. He could feel himself losing.
Then came the unmistakable sounds: the clash of swords, men crying out in pain, the chaos of battle.
What was afoot? Had his brother arrived at last, or had his captors turned on each other, maddened with rage and confusion? Whatever may be, if they were too preoccupied to chase after him, he would continue to move, escape still and live.
How great was hope!
The young man mustered strength enough to move farther, moving as swiftly on all four, partially to stay from sight and partially because it was all the strength his broken body could muster.
But hope alone was not enough, not to Brand at the moment. His strength was fading; his limbs grew heavy, darkness was creeping into his vision. The pain in his head throbbed viciously. He stumbled once more and fell forward, hitting the ground hard, face down in the sand.
With a weak groan, he rolled onto his back, spitting up sand, his breath escaping in shallow gasps. His body had finally given in, spent beyond its limit. It could no longer fight for salvation.
Lying there, he stared up at the dark sky, the will to continue harshly slipping from him.
Perhaps this was the end for him. Perhaps it was how he was destined to die, on the seashore, cold, alone, beaten and broken, with sand and blood staining his skin, the scent of saltwater and the stench of death lingering around him. It seemed fitting, Brand thought, he had always loved the sea. It was right to die by it. If there was any goodness left in the world, the waves would claim him, taking him back into their dark depths.
His eyelids became too heavy to hold themselves open and slowly drifted shut, his breathing slowing down. Was it the troubled air, or the smell of the ocean? Whatever it was, it offered a strange peace, and Brand accepted. The ache in his bones was no longer there and the stabbing throb in his leg had ceased. It was even better. There was no more pain, he was no longer cold. It was bliss.
He prepared for it. He allowed it. He surrendered to it.
Then, faintly, a voice. "Brand!"
Alexander? Brand's heart lurched. It could not be. But the voice called again, this time, urgent and close.
"Brand!"
Eyes closed, he managed a small, weary smile. It was his brother's voice. Though it had been years since he'd last heard it, he recognised it as surely as if it had been only the day before. It was a voice he would recognise for ages to come, the voice of authority, the notion of care. Death was nice to him, at the least, he heard a voice with the semblance to his brother's. Perhaps, he could be greedy and wish for his face as well. It had been so long.
"Brand?!!"
The voice was too near, too vivid now to be a mere memory. His heart leapt again, then constricted in sorrow, his smile turning weary and sad. Stephen had told that Alexander had continued to search for as long as he was away. As sad as it was, it soothed him, a balm to his weary heart. He had not been forgotten.
The dark oblivion beckoned him, urging him to surrender. Just as he began to slip away, a sharp yank on his hair jolted him back to life, wrenching him from the brink. Pain shot through his scalp, and Brand grunted, instinctively reaching for the hand gripping him. His eyes flew open.
"I found ye, ye bastard." Balfour's voice snarled in Brand's ear as he yanked him upright by his hair.
Hurried footsteps thundered nearby. Shadows flickered against the inferno of the burning ship. "Brand!"
Brand stilled a moment. It was Alexander. The voice was neither a conjuring of his mind nor a fevered gift from death. It was indeed his brother.
Balfour tightened his grip, forcing Brand to his knees. "Yer Majesty! I do not take kindly to ye attack on me ship!" he bellowed toward the shadows, holding Brand firmly as the latter struggled.
"Let him go!" the familiar voice commanded, steady and powerful.
"Oh no, sire! Me ship's in ruins. I deserve compensation!"
The hand in his hair tightened and his vision swam, but he managed to focus, and as he stared on, the figures came into proper view. Alexander. Older and sterner now than he remembered, but unmistakably his brother, flanked by a host of soldiers.
He truly had come.
"Release him this instant," Alexander demanded, his sword glinting in the firelight.
"I am no greedy man," Balfour taunted, "but I do deserve to live a rich life."
"You will be fortunate to leave here with a life at all," Alexander warned, his tone low and cold.
"Do not threaten me, sire. I have me knife to yer brother's throat!" Balfour barked, shaking Brand. "Quiet, boy!" he growled when Brand tried weakly to wrench free.
Flames roared to one side of them devouring the wooden beams of the ship as smoke filled the air. The ship was beyond redemption now. Brand thought of Stephen, of his friend's body lost to the blaze as the ship burned away, as the flames twisted the night into an infernal landscape. He struggled to breathe. The pirate's grip was relentless, his filthy fingers clamped like iron, unyielding against the young prince's dwindling strength.
"Move wrong," Balfour threatened, "and ye'll pay for what ye've cost me."
"Lay no further hand on him!" Alexander's voice cut through the din like a blade. Behind them, timbers cracked and splintered, and a chunk of the ship collapsed, crashing into the sea as the fire devoured it.
"Me ship!" Balfour wailed, then turned to Alexander with a sneer. "Yer Majesty, how will ye compensate me for the wrong he has done?"
A pause. Then, "Your life," Alexander replied coldly. "I shall grant it to you. Take it and leave."
Balfour let out a mocking laugh. "I prefer compensation in gold, sire."
"A golden casket then," Alexander steely shot back, "even if you are unworthy of it."
"Ye jest, Yer Majesty." Balfour moved his hand down on Brand's body, bringing it to his forearm. Brand winced as the knife broke his skin. The sharp bite told him it was more than a flesh cut. Balfour had torn open his skin. Suddenly, a slash.
Brand yelled.
"Don't!" Alexander called.