Aicanassë barely registered Vesta’s comments on the fire being lit. Despite commanding it, his mind had already focused to other issues.<i>The usual issues.</i>Not even a glance or a grunt of acknowledgement was spared to her, his energies focused upon the dwindling tools before him. Behind him the fire crackled and smoked. Birds chirped in the morning sun. A faint breeze would pick up and then fade at random occurrences, bringing with it the scent of pine and leaf. His stomach growled weakly. But none of it mattered. Aica cared and needed only one boon, one object that could help him take one more step towards his goal, the reclamation of his birthright and his desire for revenge.<br/><br/><i>Swords.</i>Not just one for himself, but perhaps ten thousand of them.<i>With men to wield them.</i>He knew his uncle had not garnered his brother’s throne through conquest or trial of combat. It was through deception, through guile and malice, cutting off the head of the beast before the limbs could even react. The mighty army of Ostavia hadn’t even been aware until it was too late, their leaders and captains decapitated and replaced. Those few who had stood with the legitimate dynasty had died with them, loyal but too few.<br/><br/>A brief noise, uncharacteristic to the music of the forest around, came profoundly to his ears.<i>Vesta</i>he assumed. But it came behind him. Had she not wandered off eastwardly to do her deed? No, he would not be distracted by the games of his mind. It was nothing, he deemed.<br/><br/>Even before Vesta returned, Aica, his sharp grey eyes ever upon the cloak of meagre equipment, knew what she would say. She knew where ten thousand swords and more could be found. But could he ever behold himself to her family and people, to reclaim his throne for him? Never. Aica would never be indebted to a foreign ruler, for though he might end up wearing a crown, very easily could it be beaten into a collar much like his wife’s, to be leashed to the whims and desires of another. It didn’t matter if it was her father. He was his own man. He ruled himself. And he would accomplish this deed alone. How did she not understand that yet? His fury boiled even before she spoke, doing just that which he despised.<br/><br/>Vesta returned. Down came the empty rope and his stomach mournfully rumbled as the hope of breakfast faded like the passing wind. It fell silent, as if to allow his wife to speak without disruption.<br/><br/>She did speak, despite having proof of how he might react. She did speak, promising help, of a life of comfort and ease. She spoke…<i>and dared to call him husband, that a wife of his should be so…incompetent.</i>Aica at once jerked his arm away from her with violence, feeling more betrayal than comfort at the touch. “A thousand baths, a thousand libraries, ten thousand other wonders, I would still not go. This is my home. This is where I was born. And gods above and below, this is where I shall die. Go if it pleases you so much. Go, and do not deign to call me husband again.” Aica snapped, voice cold and hard, like the bite of the collar around her neck.<br/><br/>Yet for all this time, she had not left him. She could have. She had every right to do so. He failed her. He failed his family. Who was he now, but a broken man? Vesta stayed with him and he could not even appreciate her loyalty in full. He hit her. He took her sometimes as crudely as the man who violated her before his eyes. No, to Aica, only his desire for revenge and restitution figured into his mind.<i>Why did she not understand that?</i><br/><br/>With the same promptness as before, violent and abrupt, he turned and suddenly seized upon her neck with a palm, no doubt pinching it even tighter around her neck as he drove her into the hard bark of the tree. “To think I have so cowardly a wife!” He snarled, temper blaring as keenly as the vicious light in his eyes, like the hue of budding storm clouds that threaten a violent thunderstorm. “You want to hide your face in baths, in a book, then go and do so! It is all I’ve seen you do, while others toiled and worked. You are soft and afraid. You disgrace me.” He mocked, releasing his grip on her and turning around, striding back towards the spread cloak, kneeling to pick up the snare. What did he know of<i>poacher’s knots</i>and such concepts? When he hunted, he did so with bow and arrow. But they did not have that.<i>He was so hungry.</i><br/><br/>“Must you burden me with such craven thoughts?” Aica stated in a lower, more calm tone. “We cannot go to your lands. If you haven’t noticed, we are in the north of Ostavia. And nearest to your home is through the south-east. I will not pass through my lands and be idle while a usurper sits on my father’s chair and makes a mockery of my family. I cannot. Not again.” Aica said, voice suddenly shaking a little as he relived the dream, of that day, of what they did to her.<i>Can she not see I do this for her sake as well?</i><br/><br/>“I will not go. I will stay until I have my revenge. Nothing else matters. Death in battle or by winter, it matters not. The difference is trivial. I am staying. But if you wish to go, then go. Break your sacred oath. I promise you will never have peace if you go.” Aica said, turning his eyes upon her, still kneeling by the cloak. He had dropped the rope snare, his hand now hovering near the hilt of an iron knife. Stubborn as ever. Defiant as ever. Aica would not leave. How many times did he have to tell her this? He did not grab the knife, but his hand balled into a fist as he glared at her. He was out of patience and had been for days, empty of it like their stomachs.<br/><br/><i>And why did it feel like they were being watched?</i>