The Balance (Revised)

Chapter 2 (Aleksander): Part I

Aleksander sat on the train with his legs dangling out of the box car. He stared straight ahead, watching the world blur into a single point, barely hearing the hiss of the steam or the clack of the wheels against the rails. The boy's bracelet was digging into his ribs and he closed his eyes. He could have simply shifted, let the bracelet slide deeper into his uniform pocket, but he did not.

Instead, he removed it from his pocket, letting his thumb run over the smooth metal. When the tip of his nail found the engraving, Aleksander closed his eyes; the memory of the boy did not need a name to match. He was tempted to hurl the bracelet from the train and let it be lost in the snow, to let his thoughts fall away like autumn leaves until there was nothing but stillness, but neither was possible.

Regardless of what he tried, he couldn't get the sounds out of his head. The splintering of bone. The last dying gasp. The muffled thud as the body of the boy— the boy he had once known— hit the ground. They played in his mind like an orchestra and they wouldn't abate, reverberating through his brain and down to the marrow of his own bones.

He'd given the boy the chance to run. He'd held that feral instinct at bay, and still the boy hadn't fled— just the opposite, and so what choice had Aleksander had? Still, even now, it felt as if he were awash in the heat of the flames; memory or condemnation, he wasn't sure. Why couldn't he have just taken the opportunity and run?

But even as he thought it, he knew the answer: pride was more important than life. Had the boy returned, his soldiers dead and his camp razed to ash, he would have lost everything. Coward, his comrades would have called him. Weak. Useless. He would have neither their respect nor their confidence, so wasn't it better to die a hero?

Aleksander opened his eyes again, observing how the snow whirled past in small flurries. There were no heroes, only survivors and corpses, and the boy was a fool for choosing to be one of the latter. Surely Aleksander bore no blame for that. Surely, he told himself.

Shoving himself back from the edge of the box car, he stood and made his way to a corner, settling down with one leg stretched out in front of him. From the shadows, he watched the soldiers at the other end, one hand resting near his boot in case he needed to draw a weapon. He'd sat at the edge, right in front of the tracks; he'd given fate its opening, but just the same as every time over the years, either fate or the queen's orders protected him. He preferred to thank the former, to believe that his purpose stayed the soldiers' hands. Not that he would stand idly by and let them rob him of it. There was only so much of an opportunity he was willing to give.

So as the train screeched to a halt, he kept his eyes on the men, not looking away until the last one exited. Rising once more, he stepped off the train, rifle in hand. Gravel and snow crunched under his boots. An officer stood about a body-length away, one hand outstretched.

"Your weapons," he said, and Aleksander curled his lip, considering shoving the man onto the train tracks.

But all of the soldiers were undoubtedly tense behind him, and while he had an advantage in being able to inflict fear or pain without touch, they had an advantage in numbers. After a moment, Aleksander handed over his rifle and his knife, and held out his arms so that they could search him. Rocks, bits of scrap metal, even sharpened branches— they had found those before, but by now he knew better than to try and smuggle in weapons that way.

They pulled off his boots, checking the insides and the soles while his socks became cold and sodden from the snow. He stripped off his socks and tucked them alongside the bracelet before stuffing his feet back in the boots, then glanced at the officer, who seemed satisfied that he was hiding nothing.