The three brothers rode into battle, sitting proud atop their horses. The clanging of armor and the chinking of metal rose in a cacophonous noise that announced to everyone the coming of the royal army. Prince William looked from side to side at his two companions, the proud and arrogant King Rupert to his left and the easy-going and good-humored Prince Edward on his right.

They could see, over the crest of a hill, the army of the kingdom upon which Rupert had set his sights, coming to face them, their faces grim and determined even though they were vastly outnumbered by the king's army.

They charged forward and swords met with a crash, shields banged against one another and the scrape of metal on metal filled the air, along with the battle cries of men and the screams of the wounded. The number of the enemy's soldiers was obviously decreasing but the remaining men fought with determination and desperation for their country.

Suddenly, a change seemed to come over the soldiers of the enemy. Six fresh horses each bearing an armored soldier, charged down the opposite hill, and straight into the fray.

William suddenly felt trapped, and a tight feeling began in his gut, making its way up to grasp his throat. His breathing suddenly felt tighter. He whirled around, turning his horse, looking for the enemy he sensed rather than felt.

Seeing nothing, he convinced himself he had just imagined it, that it had only been a touch of battlefield panic, and turned to face the battle once more.

The archer loosed his arrow and it flew straight towards William, its deadly aim true.

Antony jerked awake and sat up, breathing quickly, his sleep-heavy eyes darting around the room, trying desperately to make sense of where he was.

Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the dark of his bedroom and he sighed heavily, running both hands over his face and up through his sweaty, tousled hair.

He threw back his blankets and stood, pulling off his linen night shirt and exchanging it for a simple pair of trousers and a plain cotton shirt. He pulled on his boots and exited the room.

Walking the dark hallways of Mansfield, he finally felt himself begin to calm, his heart rate returning to normal and his breathing slowing.

He felt foolish, as he did every night when the nightmares came- the nightmares in which he became his father and lived his last hours of life, his last battle- foolish at being so weak that he awoke sweaty, and in a state of panic, as if he really had been there, on the battlefield.

He ran a hand through his hair once more and sighed. He felt exhausted, but he was lucky, these days, to get a good night's sleep. It didn't happen often anymore. The nightmares had been terrible after his father died, but had abated somewhat in the years that followed. Now, with the pressure of taking the throne in only a few weeks, they had returned in full force.

He kept them hidden, telling no one, not wanting to worry them. It was hard, though, lately. Isabella questioned his frequent yawning, and his Grandmother Olivya was beginning to notice the dark circles appearing beneath his eyes. She watched him carefully, from a distance, but did not press him for answers, which he appreciated. He wished she wouldn't worry, though. There would be no help for him; it was his own private battle.

He continued down the hallway, nodding to the few night-servants he passed, on their way to do jobs such as tend to a fire. They all acknowledged him and continued on their way, by now familiar with the habits of the young prince.

Coming to the far wing, he was surprised to see a light shining through the door of the library and the soft notes of piano music issuing from within.

He made his way down the dark hallway, into the section illuminated by the light and stood quietly in the doorway. Queen Olivya sat at the piano, her hands dancing over the keys gracefully, forming a melody that filled the room with music.

Olivya finished the song and sat at the piano bench for a few moments, a soft smile on her face. She hadn't played in a long while; it was so good to do so again. She sensed someone behind her and turned to see her grandson standing in the doorway.

"Antony," she said, smiling gently at him.

"Grandmother," he said, entering the room and coming to stand behind her. "I've never heard you play the piano before."

"I haven't in a long time. Too long, perhaps. It's almost like visiting an old friend; the piano used to give me so much comfort when I was troubled."

Her grandson frowned, as if thinking, and glanced at the floor.

"Tell me, dear," she said. "What's wrong?"

He looked as though her were about to deny that anything was the matter, but she spoke once more before he could.

"Do not tell me it is nothing. I've noticed that you look tired, and tense. It might do you good to talk about it."

He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair as he always did when he was distracted or agitated.

"I have trouble sleeping," he finally said.

She smiled sympathetically. "Most people have some time in their lives when sleep seems a stranger."

He looked skeptical.

"Do you not believe me?"

"I would not believe it, looking at you," he said, after a moment's pause. "You always seem so...strong. Composed. The opposite of how I feel."

"Everyone is weak in their own ways. No one can be perfectly strong throughout their entire life."

They were both silent then, for a while.

"Do you ever think about it?" said Antony, suddenly. "About how they died...what they felt?"

She had, many times. They were her sons; it was her instinct as a mother to wonder if they died quickly, not having to suffer, or if they had been in pain, with no one to comfort them, to reassure them. She even wished she would have been there for Rupert, as he died, even though her eldest son had had no love for her.

"I do," she said aloud. "Often."

Her grandson clenched his fists, and stood stiffly before her, staring at the wall across the room.

She recognized this emotion in him, for it was one she had felt herself.

"Anger will not help anything, Antony. It will not bring them back to life, and it doesn't justify anything."

"I feel justified," he said, bitterly. "For the grief I've felt these past years, for the nightmares...I feel as though my anger is perfectly justified."

She shook her head slowly.

"No," she said. "Does it help you, your anger?"

He seemed to think for a moment, before sighing in frustration. "Yes. I mean no. I mean..." He ran his hand through his hair once again. "I don't know."

She smiled gently.

"Forgiveness, Antony. That is the only way that we can ever be free. Putting it behind us and moving on."

He turned to meet her eyes, the anger and grief and bitterness evident in his gaze.

"I can never forgive the people who killed my father."

"Antony..." She stood and reached out a hand to touch his shoulder.

"No," he said, firmly, shrugging her hand away. Then, his words full of more anger and venom than she had ever heard him before: "I will never find it within me to forgive the kingdom of Borgavia."

And he turned and stalked from the room, leaving her standing there, looking after him, full of concern for her grandson.