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The winter was a horribly cold, yet dry one. It was already January, and despite countless overcast days like this particular afternoon, it had yet to snow. Raphael was left trudging through dense forest, floor mangled with the vines of floor ivy and frozen-solid leaf litter. Raphael hated cramped woods like these, so constricting and somber compared to open, short–tree forests of the Mediterranean. The trunks were growing more dense and daunting, branches more sharp and uninviting. A creeping feeling told him to turn around, which was a sign he was going in the right direction.
Over the centuries, the signs of an upcoming nation birth were compiled. It was almost a science, and if you knew the right nations who could tell you the signs, you could get to a newborn before more malicious characters did.
The first sign was the local nation losing sense of a once held piece of land. It was a very subtle process, especially for the affected nation. But there were small, yet noticeable signs. Your ability to jump within that piece of territory was more exhausting and instinctive navigation became increasingly difficult.
That had been what altered the Knights to send an emissary to Fraternitas Hospitalaria specifically. The Magyars had already banished the Order out of the threat the Knights and a possible puppet nation of Rome posed. Who knew how the Mazovian would take to another German nation, a militant one at that, in the wake of Rome and the Empire supporting the dissolution of the Polish Kingdom back into duchies.
They wanted Raphael because he knew many of the men when the Order was still stationed in Acre. When Israel was almost Christendom's. When Uriel was still alive.
He was there when Saint John’s knights had visited Saint Mary’s, teaching them about the nation that had come into their care and the destiny God had for them. He was there with Gabriel as they told little Uriel how important he was, the great things they would do for all Christians. How their swords would pave the way for heaven on earth and peace for all mankind. And how his crystal blue eyes had sparkled at those promises.
This time, Raphael wouldn’t make any promises he couldn’t keep. Though he was still young for his kind, he was beyond a human lifespan now. He knew enough of human and nation nature to think a few small parasitic nations on the coast of the Middle East could take down centuries of Muslim rule with faith alone.
The second way to find a newborn was to go in the exact opposite direction you wanted to. The land of an incubating nation naturally turned away those from the birthing spot. Raphael had abandoned his horse a while ago. The beast refused to travel any further. That’s when he knew he was close. Thicker vegetation was a telltale sign too, to turn away any humans who could ignore instinct.
Once he found the spot, he would leave supplies and return to the Knights until they were born in the upcoming months. Once he retrieved the newborn, Raphael would stay by their side until Michael could declare them officially a Nation of Christendom , a declaration specific among Roman Catholic nations that effectively protected newborns from infanticide. In a continent as crowded as Europe, land was a precious thing to come by. It wasn’t a sin for a nation to kill like it was for a human, and they were vicious when it came to territory.
There were mushrooms now. He was probably only a furlong away. For whatever reason, mushrooms were abundant within the birthing round, especially in the clearing. Mushrooms, for most life, followed decay, yet for their kind, it signified life. How paradoxical, yet fitting. For a being that could defy death for so long, it seemed fitting that their birth was shrouded in it.
Finally, he found the clearing. It was covered with a stiff, shriveled brush that reached his knees. The radius was only a few yards across and covered with the final telltale sign—bones. For some reason, animals during their last days on Earth would traverse through the dense foliage and lay themselves to rest in the clearing. Perhaps the beasts’ bodies fed the Earth that ended up building their body, just like how it could feed crops. Maybe it was more akin to maggots, and how they spontaneously spawned from spoiled meat. A birth riddled with signs of death. Sometimes, Raphael couldn’t help but think God had an odd way of playing poet.
He approached the center, stepping over on the bones of snakes, deer, rabbits, birds that had somehow decayed despite the first frost of the year appearing back in September.
The brush shortened and yellow grass encircled a sleeping shivering nation. They appeared not much older than a one year old human. His first impression was pity for the poor thing. They were most commonly born in the Spring or Summer. He had just hoped to find the birthing grounds today.
The second was relief. They looked nothing like Uriel. Raphael was hoping they didn’t.
The third was shock. He looked nothing like any nation he’s met. Instead of Uriel’s olive skin and wavy locks, he had ghostly pale skin and straight, pure white hair. For a moment, he wondered if he was even looking at a nation .
He knelt down, quiet to not spook them. They were tucked in an odd, pale filamentous blanket that was interlaced with the Earth and covered in a few thin blood vessels. Raphael had seen a birthing ground once before, but it had been a few weeks decayed. This one was remarkably fresh.
The wind picked up, and carried a sharp chill with it. The little thing shivered and tried to pull the cover tighter. Raphael sighed and pulled his bag to the front of him. Even if it wasn’t a nation, it was still defenseless and suffering. He’d cared for Christians and Muslims in his hospitals before, so why not this little abomination?
The newborn finally sensed his movement and opened his eyes. They were blood red.
White complexion, red eyes… Were they an albino? Could nations even be born albino?! Michael would probably know, he dealt with nations on a daily basis. But even for an albino his coloration was extreme. Sure, they could come out of the ground looking a little different compared to humans—odd colored eyes, bright silver or gold hair—but nothing so conspicuous, and so boldly inhuman.
The little thing finally registered his presence, and tried to move away. But it looked like they didn’t know exactly how to move yet. They sort of just squirmed in place, letting out frustrated and fearful grunts and whines.
This was incredibly rare. Of the three known cases of nations found on their day of birth, they usually learned how to walk quicker than a fawn. And fawns learned how to stand within ten minutes. The little nation was probably just born, probably within the hour!
Relieved he wouldn’t have to go around chasing the thing—he’s heard little nations could be remarkably agile—he wrapped a wool blanket around them and sat them up. A boy—good, since Raphael wasn’t sure how a monastic order would feel about having a female nation. His suspicion about the time of birth was correct, he still had his umbilical cord attached. It led from his belly button to the ground, where the filamentous film also spawned from. The underside of it was still warm, and had many more blood vessels attached.
What an opportunity this was! Their birth was mostly a mystery, and many nations scoffed at the idea that something as spiritual as their existence originated from something as filthy and material as the dirt. But Raphael’s occupation as a nation of a military arm of Rome and the Emperor themselves made him privy to certain information. And it’s not like humans, who despite being created in the image of God, had any more of a clean origin…
He pulled a dagger and cut the umbilical cord. Growing up around a hospital made the process automatic, like this was just another human child. He wrapped the squirming mess of a nation as tight as he could and turned back to inspect the birth sight. He likely wouldn’t encounter something like this again, and Michael would most definitely want to hear about it.
He grabbed a stick, and like any person with a morbid curiosity, human or nation, poked it.
The newborn had given up trying to wiggle free from Raphael’s grasp, instead resorting to biting his arm to get him to let go. All it did was leave slobber all over his chainmail, but the little thing persisted. A ferocious one he was, but that wasn’t such a bad thing. A vicious nation is needed to match the cruelty of the world. Uriel had been strong, but delicate in spirit…
He lifted the filamentous film and a warm wave emitted from the hole. Fog started to form as it reacted with the air. Just behind where the newborn had been laying, there was a cavity with an opaque liquid pooled at the very bottom. It was very reminiscent of a human womb or a chick egg cracked open too soon. Yet, it was starkly different in other ways. The roots of fungi and plants interwove with what looked like a placenta. Strange metallic veins lined the opening and collapsed into the cord. It smelled like the earth after a rainstorm mixed with wet rust.
Raphael dropped the stick and stood up. The baby nation tensed at the sudden change in elevation.
“Alright, you little freak of nature,” he said with fondness already dripping into his voice. The newborn perked up, struggle melting out of him at Raphael’s soft words. Dammit. He was going to get attached to this one, huh? “Let’s get you home. You have a lot of people excited to meet you there.”
Raphael hoped they wouldn’t be too affronted by their nation’s odd appearance. But he would be there to mediate, and Michael too eventually. Though, he wondered what Gabriel would think. Would he be insulted by the appearance of the nation representing his dead compatriot’s people, or would he be relieved he wouldn’t be reminded of Uriel every time he looked at his new little brother’s face? Maybe he was simply overthinking it. Gabriel was never the spiteful type. Holding the new nation of Uriel’s people was just making him emotional.
They finally reached Raphael’s horse. The little nation buried a little more into his chest at the sight of the beast, not without making a grumble. Raphael realized just how overwhelming it was for the newborn. Everything was new. This was the first time he was seeing a horse, just as it was the first time seeing another nation. His first instinct for seemingly everything was suspicion and aggression. Which was good, those two reactions kept a person alive.
Damn. He couldn’t shake the thought from his mind no matter how hard he tried, huh? Is this one going to survive?
Is he going to have to watch this one die too?
They made it back to the fortress sometime in the afternoon the next day. Raphael was shocked to feel two familiar presences behind the walls.
“Sir Raphael,” greeted Hermann von Salza. Raphael dismounted his horse, keeping his reins in hand as if he would need to flee. ‘ What for?’ he wondered to himself. “I presume your search went quite well.” The Grand Master eyed the bundle in his arms, and the little nation instinctively turned towards his leader. Raphael could see the look of surprise in the human’s eyes, if not a little discomfort.
Raphael pulled his shoulders back, and tried to look as militant as one could with a baby in their arms. “Yes, it looks like your new nation was a little too eager to meet you.” He turned his attention towards the castle. “Michael is here?”
Von Salza nodded, and turned to lead him inside. “Yes, Mieczysław and him wished to discuss the nature of our presence in these lands. We’ve been protecting the Mazovian border from pagans for a few years now, but,” he stopped walking for a bit. “I think we can do much more for the Church than just fend off heretics. There’s an opportunity to be had, for both the Empire and Poland alike.”
“You want them on board.” Raphael withheld a frustrated sigh. Politics. Of course. And he was so willing to put his unborn nation at risk for it! Mieczysław wouldn’t want a militant nation on his border anymore than Erszébet, and he would probably sense the shift in ownership since his territory lay right on the edge of the Knights’.
But Von Salza was right. The Prussians weren’t the organized, well equipped armies of the Sassanid Empire, but various disjointed feudal tribes. It was practically a treasure chest waiting to be opened and emptied, and he couldn’t fault the Grand Master for wanting the Teutonic Knights to be at the front of it.
“If we are to make this a permanent home, we need Rome and the Emperor's favor. I have that now, but whether the Order is going to have that in the future is uncertain. With this, we have something that cements our purpose and value here, and a financial base to turn this operation and these lands into something long term.” He pulled down the blanket over his nation’s head, revealing the white head of hair Raphael unconsciously tried to hide from the fortress. For what? As if this wasn’t going to be his home… “I don’t want Prussia to end up like Acre or Transylvania. For that, we need a foundation beyond the word of the Emperor or the length of our sword.”
The little nation looked up at his leader, a gleam to his eyes. Not understanding, but intrinsically feeling the promise. Finally, Raphael relaxed. The Grand Master would not reject his nation. The man was a shrewd one, and knew permanence required a nation by a leader’s side.
“I can support that.” He held the little nation a bit tighter. “I would like for this to be permanent too.”
“I am sincerely thankful for that, Hospitaller.”
Torches burning throughout the winter had turned the fortress roof black with soot. It gave the castle a dark appearance, but it somehow had a cozy feel to it. The darkness seemed to pull around them like a blanket, the narrow halls constricting around Raphael like a hug. Maybe it was a side effect of camping out alone in the winter forest for a week. Maybe he just missed the underground tunnels of Jerusalem he knew by heart.
He was in the kitchen now. The little nation had a long tan cotte on, graciously donated by one of the households surrounding the fortress. While he played with a spoon, Raphael waited for Michael, Gabriel, and Mieczysław to be informed of his arrival, he sat at the table wondering just what his name should be. There was a general rule among nations regarding naming. That is: you find it, you name it. It was a terrible amount of pressure. Sure, many nations decide to change names, but many also decide to keep it even if a name falls out of fashion or gains a stigma.
He was honestly clueless. Maybe Gabriel could help him.
Speak of the Devil…
“Raphael, how was the hunt?” A code word. Looking for the newborn was a confidential operation, especially from the Mazovian himself. Gabriel froze when he saw the nation on the table, which gripped his spoon offensively when the Templar entered the room. Mieczysław, who’d been trailing behind, nearly tripped over the younger nation. Just as he was about to berate Gabriel for stopping mid walkway, he looked at just what had surprised him, and promptly froze too, before letting out a slew of curses Raphael didn’t need to know Polish to understand.
“Already!?” he hissed. The newborn seemed to pick up on the Mazovian’s ire, and mirrored his mood, ready to fight the adult sized nation. It was honestly sort of comedic. “The hell do they look like that? Is that even a nation?”
“I’m pretty sure,” Raphael admitted his uncertainty, but made sure Mieczysław didn’t miss his glare. The Pole may be able to win a fight against a newborn armed with a spoon, but Raphael himself was a different story.
Gabriel tentatively approached the newborn. Raphael didn’t miss the sadness and longing in his eyes. The thought that it shouldn’t be this imposter who doesn’t even reflect the Teutons in appearance that takes his place. But that wasn’t the little one’s fault. Gabriel knew this intuitively, but there was still a knee-jerk emotional reaction that wanted nothing to do with him. Their youngest, sweet little brother, replaced by something so monstrous looking. Raphael had thought it at first, so had Von Salza, and Mieczysław was currently thinking it.
Gabriel sighed, and lifted a hand to ruffle the nation’s hair.
Which was promptly smacked with a spoon.
Raphael huffed in amusement. “Don’t be too offended. That’s his reaction to everything.”
Gabriel relented and backed off to the other side of the table. He was probably going to need a while till he came around, but Raphael had a feeling he would warm up to their new little weird brother. He’d always been the most empathetic of the three of them.
Mieczysław on the other hand, stayed by the wall with his arms crossed, venomous glare never leaving the kid. As if he could sense the little thing wouldn’t grow out of the feral state typical of newborn nations.
Finally, the nation of nations himself, of the Holy Roman Empire, Michael, entered the room. Gabriel and Mieczysław, and even the little nation, turned towards him. It was an incredible ability of his, no matter the entrance, even that of a kitchen like now, he commanded the attention of every room he walked in. How could he not? He was one of the most powerful nations in Europe! Only the Byzantine and Papal nations could command the same amount of reverence.
He took a look at the newborn. Raphael didn’t see disgust, or discomfort, or fear in his eyes, but fascination. It wasn’t too surprising, Michael himself was a bit of an anomaly among their kind. Apart from his youthful appearance, no older than a teen despite being hundreds of years in age, he could not only teleport within his contiguous territory like other nations, but between noncontiguous territory and even the territory of other nations within a certain radius. A volatile ability that cemented his status among nations by being able to violate such an exclusive, intimate feature of their existence.
“So, this is the new nation of the Teutonic Order.” He walked closer to the boy. It swung the spoon at Michael, but he caught it and took it out of the little attacker’s hand and placed it to the side before picking the nation up. Like it had done with Raphael, it squirmed and thrashed in his arms like a fish out of water, but Michael held firm.
And to Raphael’s shock, he calmed down! The little brat had started panicking and squirming so much once he mounted his horse that he had to restrain him in a swaddle for their entire journey, and all he had to do was pick him up?
Maybe it was his energy. Maybe he instinctively sensed the guilt, the resentment, the sadness harbored for Uriel, and maybe he was projecting it a little more than he realized on the kid. Michael had known Uriel, but they weren’t close. He was probably just happy to have a nation of an Order to himself again, and the little nation sensed the amicable sentiment. The Hospitallers and Templars were more of Rome’s domain than the Emperor’s even though Michael and Lucilius shared a lot of jurisdiction on that front. The Teutons were purely German, and Michael could do a lot more with him without Lucilius’s input.
“I suppose I should make it official then.” He sent a look at Mieczysław, insinuating the desire that was definitely on his mind.
“Relax.” The Mazovian rolled his eyes. “I’m obviously not going to do anything now that you’ve made him your pet.” Someone was still annoyed by the Imperial involvement in Poland. That’s probably why Michael was even here, huh? German princesses had been infesting the Polish bloodline lately…
Humans for some nations were a means to an end. But for a nation of nations like Michael…
Eh, the little guy would probably be fine. Lucilius sees everything, nation and human, as a means to an end, at least much more openly than Michael who liked to act civilized. Raphael and Gabriel weren’t too worried on that front. For now…
“Some privacy would be appreciated, Sir Mieczysław.” His tone was perfectly polite and respectful and somehow the ‘fuck off’ was clearly audible. He was simmering, but Mieczysław didn’t bother to retort, and simply left the room.
Michael let out a light huff of exasperation, and that was a much annoyance Raphael would ever hear from him. Seriously, it was ridiculous. Nations were notorious for their very short, fiery tempers, and somehow he had a patience that rivaled saints.
He turned his attention back on the little nation. “So, have you picked out a name for him yet?”
Raphael grabbed the edges of his cape. “I was thinking ‘Gilbert.’” After a glare from Gabriel. “Not after your Grand Master. After Gilbert of Assaily.”
“Still don’t understand why after him. You didn’t like him all that much towards the end…”
“I have my reasons,” he insisted, but didn’t have the energy to delve into the explanation now.
“Well I think it’s a wonderful name,” Michael interjected.. “Means ‘bright pledge.’ A good name for the nation of an Order.” He placed the little nation back on the floor in a standing position, which he quickly fell flat on his face from.
“He doesn’t know how to walk yet?”
“Never really got the chance to learn… I had to restrain him on my way back from where I picked him up since he kept fighting me. I think I found him right when he was born. The umbilical cord was still attached.”
Gabriel perked up. “Umbilical cord?” Ah, that was a new discovery he made, huh? Gabriel was also privy to information on the birth of nations, but he was more of the impression they just grew in the ground like an onion.
“How interesting!” There was that fascination again. It was honestly kind of morbid. Michael crouched down to meet the little nation at eye level. For a nation who prided themselves on their impression on others, it was kind of sweet how he was willing to lower himself down for the little thing. Maybe his liking for the nation wasn’t as purely political as Raphael initially thought.
“So you’re saying yesterday was his birthday?” Raphael nodded. “Gosh, you can probably count the number of us on one hand who know the exact day! It would be nice to celebrate it once a decade.”
Gabriel cast a cautious glance at Gilbert. “You think he’ll make it that far?”
Ah, that’s why he was being so standoff-ish. He had absolutely no faith in the new nation’s survival. Not that Raphael could fault him. Uriel had barely lived beyond that… Even relative to a human’s lifespan, their kind didn’t tend to last long. Those who made it beyond the first hundred years were uncommon. Millennia old nations were an extremely rare breed, with Hera being the only one left in Europe.
“I’m sure of it,” he promised, and left no room for disagreement. Raphael tried to trust his experience on this. He’d seen dozens of nations be born and killed over the centuries. Nevertheless, it still felt like he was promising snow in July.
Michael took Gilbert’s hands and pulled him up into a standing position, helping the boy learn to balance. “Easy there, you’re getting the hang of it,” he said, switching from Latin to German. He gently pulled the toddler along, and with each step he wobbled a little less, eyes never leaving Michael’s. “You have to know how to walk before you can run down your enemies.”
Raphael grinned. “Training from day one? Shall I fetch a kitchen knife so he can learn to duel?”
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “You sure that’s a good idea? He tried to stab me with a spoon, I can’t imagine he’d be any more pleasant with a knife.”
Michael shook his head. “We’ll hold off on sword fighting until he learns how to talk.” He let go of Gilbert for a moment. He was able to stand by himself, but as soon as he took a step forward he fell down. Michael caught him before he hit the ground. “Best to speak German around him so he’ll pick up speech faster. We have a natural affinity for our people’s native language. He can intuit what we mean even if he doesn’t understand what we’re saying.”
Michael set him down and scooted away to let the little nation figure it out by himself. Gilbert stood up again. This time he was more cautious with his steps. Each one was slow and janky, but deliberate. Michael sat across from him on his knees, waiting for Gilbert to approach him. Finally, he had the hang of it, and a few little steps later, collapsed onto Michael’s lap.
It was so simple, so trivial. Everyone—nations, humans, even a newborn fawn—learned how to walk to no one’s surprise or astonishment. Yet for some reason Raphael couldn’t help feeling that with those few steps, little Gilbert had conquered an empire. He felt pride on his behalf—and what for? Michael had done all the work. But it’s normal to be proud of your baby brother when they accomplish something, right?
Michael scooped Gilbert up into the air, showering him with congratulations. He brought him close and nuzzled his face into white hair. This got a laugh out of Gilbert, who in turn tried to play with Michael's hair.
Maybe Michael had a weak spot for kids, or maybe a weak spot just for Gilbert. Raphael didn’t know him well enough to say for certain. But, a small part of him was starting to feel like this one was going to make it farther than Uriel. He had a shrewd Grand Master for a leader, and the favor and affection of one of the most influential nations in Europe. A weak neighbor waiting to be pillaged and conquered to the north, and a divided kingdom that was currently Michael’s personal chessboard to the south. His appearance may give him trouble, from humans and nations, but the boy seemed tough and ready to bite back on whoever dared to ridicule him.
“I hope you surpass your predecessor in age and success,” Michael said offhandedly, but surely he must’ve noticed how Grabriel and Raphael flinched. “You shouldn’t forget,” he addressed Gilbert, but his words were meant for all of them, “that artificial nations like us are glass cannons. We are brilliantly destructive yet fragile. You live not off tradition and community compounded over generations, but fanatical desire channeled in an extreme few.”
“What good is it to tell him this now?” asked Gabriel. He was looking away from Michael, or Gilbert, probably both.
Michael set Gilbert down and stood. He straightened his shoulders and folded his hands behind his back. Always the regal deposition with him. Raphael guessed it was a habit he picked up when addressing Kings and Popes looking no older than a teen barely pushing sixteen. He always knew how to direct authority into the smaller things—his body language, eyes, and words where his appearance lacked.
“Because the effort to take back Jerusalem for Christendom will only persist if it remains financially feasible. If you cannot prove yourself, you will perish. I do not wish that upon this little one,” he said fondly, “nor do I wish the same on you.”
His eyes were soft, mournful, but determined. His face told Raphael and Gabriel that he understood their pain. That he didn’t want them to go through it again.
But none of it was genuine.
He wasn’t sure if Gabriel caught it, but Raphael quickly read between the lines. Justify your existence, so you can be useful to me, or I will not try to save you. Gilbert had Prussia, now go find somewhere else because clearly Israel is not working.
A nation of nations. And nations will care for their men, rouse their hearts, then throw them into battle for their blood to stain foreign soil so it becomes theirs. That’s what they were as artificial nations. Take a zealous few, throw them onto foreign soil, and wait for the respective nation to pop out and fight a battle a sea away. A soldier. An investment.
Raphael had lost a brother. Michael had lost an investment.
It was not fondness Michael was showing towards Gilbert. At least, not fondness for a new life or companion. It was simply just fun. Amusement. The joy one feels playing with a cute puppy.
He looked down at Gilbert. He was clinging onto Michael’s leg, using it as a balance to stand. Those blood red eyes looked up at him with a sweet naivety Raphael once did hearing the stories of the great nation of the Holy Roman Empire.
Raphael gave a respective bow. “I appreciate the sentiment.” He bent down and took Gilbert from Michael’s leg, bringing him tightly to his chest. “And I’ll make sure he knows it when he's old enough.”
Micheal dusted off his leg. “Good to hear, Sir Raphael.” He ruffled Gilbert’s hair. “Goodbye little one. Hopefully the next time we meet, you’ll be able to hold a conversation.” He turned towards the door now, basalt black cape flaring behind him. “I must continue my discussion with Mieczysław about his siblings. Until next time Raphael, Gabriel.”
Once his footsteps were inaudible. “His confidence scares me more than it reassures me,” muttered Gabriel.
Raphael replied with a dry laugh.
He took a seat next to Gabriel. The Templar gave an uncomfortable look at the nation in his lap, but didn’t scoot away. “I’m at a loss of what to do, Raph,” he said after a moment of silence.
“Hm?”
He sighed. “I feel like if I decide to get close to him, I will have my heart torn out again when he’s slain by some Pole or Prussian. But I fear if I keep my distance, and he does survive, I will regret missing the chance to have a little brother again.” He rested his head on Raphael’s shoulder. “What should I do?”
Raphael untangled an arm from Gilbert’s grasp and set a hand on Gabriel’s head. “I can’t make that decision for you.” He used his other arm and moved Gilbert onto the Templar’s lap. “That has to be your own decision.”
Gabriel shoved him with an elbow. “Tch, you can’t say that and then push him onto me like this.” Nevertheless, Gabriel secured Gilbert in his lap. Gilbert looked up to inspect his new seat, and Raphael swore he saw his brother’s heart melt when their eyes met.
Raphael gave him a knowing smile, and Gabriel stuck his tongue out at him. Gilbert mirrored him, and Raphael couldn't hold back a laugh.
It was noon. Gilbert was taking to castle life well. All the servants adored him, and the knights were finally coming around after Von Salza gave a sermon that justified his weird appearance as not demonic. Both Michael and Mieczysław had left for their respective territories any hour ago, and the three Orders had the place to themselves.
Raphael and Gabriel stood by themselves against the castle wall. It had snowed the previous night, the first of the winter. Despite this, the sky was remarkably clear, devoid of all clouds and birds. A welcome change to the overcast weather the previous week, but the frozen, white blanketing destroyed any relief clear sky might’ve brought.
“So,” Gabriel broke the silence. “Why Gilbert? He nearly drove you to ruin.”
“Exactly.” Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Look, during that time, I truly felt invincible. The reality of war, of conquest, of politics—it hadn’t set it yet. I wasn’t even a human lifespan old, and the men around me older in age told me again and again that God Himself had destined me— personally —to take back Jerusalem from heretics and bring salvation for all mankind. I was convinced that if I fought hard enough, if I had enough faith, that surely divine intervention would do the rest. Isn’t this what God wanted? Wouldn’t he smite down those who desecrated His holy site? That ambition, that inflated sense of grandeur Lucilius and Michael weaponized for their own agenda, it drove me to do something as asinine as invade Egypt for years with no chance of success. And it wasn’t until I was slick with debt and the Pope refusing to let Gilbert keep his position as grandmaster that I questioned what I was doing.”
He sighed, and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, thumb tracing the pommet. “It forced me to realize that there are more important things I could be doing for my men and for Christians than senseless pointless killing for nations and men that had never seen the shores of Israel.”
It was silent again, save for the crunch of the snow as Raphael shifted his weight. “I named him Gilbert, so when he’s old enough to understand, he will always be reminded of what unrestrained ambition and false grandeur will lead to. I want him, every time someone addresses him, to be reminded of what he should be fighting for. Gilbert of Assisily was one of my more unpleasant Grand Masters, but he taught me an important lesson. I hope I can pass that wisdom onto our little brother without him having to experience it himself.”
Gabriel was quiet for a moment. He clung the cross around his neck. “I guess that’s our job now, as big brothers.” He turned to Raphael, a glint in his eyes. “We have to pass down the wisdom of our failures so he does better.”
Raphael smiled, and slung a shoulder around Gabriel. “Of course we will, but I’m also your big brother so you have to learn a thing or two from me too.”
Gabriel pushed himself free. “Hah, I’d never make the same mistakes as you.”
Raphael rolled his eyes, but his smile never left his face as he followed Gabriel back into the castle. Still, an uneasy knot never left his stomach. Wasn’t sure it ever would. He was the oldest. He could only rely on his own experience and the careful observation of others to learn. Michael was right. Israel was proving to be untenable, prospects needed to be found elsewhere. Gilbert was blessed to have Prussia, but Gabriel and Raphael?
He was the oldest. He had to protect them. Rome was as much a threat as the Sassanids. They were born glass canons—powerful, virulent, but fragile. But power could be traded for stability.
He gave one last look at the landscape. Among the tangle of fragile branches was a murder of crows stretching across a dozen trees. In the charcoal crowd, Raphael could make out a single white bird. It was an albino, he realized. How incredibly rare, especially for the specific species! He was surprised he spotted it. In any other season, it would stick out like a sore thumb, its color a beacon for hungry predators or trophy hunters. But in the winter, Raphael couldn't help but think how wonderfully its feathers blended in with the fresh snow.