“You understand nothing. Marcus was gentle and kind. He was more a father to me than our real father.” Tears ran down his face. He looked away in shame.

Augustus approached, satisfied that Giovannus had lost enough blood that he would be slow to attack if he tried anything. He kept his knife at the ready, pointing it forward, holding it with an arm with flexed muscles.

“He manipulated you. He took advantage of you. You, who was but a child. I’m sure he appeared gentle, but it was only an act.”

Giovannus looked up with a boiling intensity. His stare filled with anger. “You know, father hated you. He thought you were weak. He would tell me that constantly.” They were words meant to inflict pain. “You know what he said? He said you were obsessed with that stupid game of stixis, a game for children and fools. You were a failure to him.”

He did feel hurt at those words. He had always tried to live up to his father’s expectations and to hear that all those times he thought he was proud, he was secretly disappointed, stung. For all Augustus knew though, GIovannus just lied through his teeth. No, he wouldn’t think of that so quickly, not now. He said it with a resolute certainty, no moment of consideration, it was like he had just dug through his mind to find the one fact he knew that would gnaw at Augustus’ core and spat it out in anger.

Augustus stood over Giovannus. He knew that in this exchange of barbed words, he had the trump card, the words that would devastate Giovannus so greatly he would have no rebuke. “Giovannus, dear brother, do you know what I did the first time I got coin of my own? On receipt of my first payment from the family business, do you know what I did?”

He paused, as if to allow Giovannus to respond, but not really. He didn’t care what the response was, and even though he opened his mouth slightly as if to speak an answer, he got nothing out before Augustus continued. “I went to one of the maids and offered her some coin to do something for me. To go into your room unannounced, when Marcus visited us, when he and you were together in your room, and then to go to father and tell him what she saw.”

“You…”

“Yes, it was me. I had you dethroned and renounced. Weak little me…” Augustus watched for the reaction. His face twitched, but he didn’t have enough energy left to do anything more. “Now, brother, you will need to be silenced permanently. I can’t have you telling a false tale once others start arriving.”

Augustus bent down, knife leading the way. They never broke eye contact through it, and at the moment the knife plunge into him, Giovannus let out a groan in between his heavy breathes. His eye looking up, watery and shaky, eyebrow raised making his forehead wrinkly. To Augustus, it seemed as if he were asking for mercy, without saying it out loud, but Augustus knew him well enough to know he would not care for anyone showing that sentiment. Giovannus jostled, quickly bringing his arm up to try to grab and control Augustus’ arm, but by then he was too weak. His limbs would have begun to feel numb. Augustus brushed the arm aside, then stuck his knife in between rib bones, pointed up to aim at the heart. The knife was just long enough to pierce it, when the hilt stopped the knife from plunging forward, he had just felt the change in force necessary, indicating he had struck an organ.

He pulled the knife out and stood up, still looking down and into the eyes of his brother. He made guttural sounds and clutched at himself, trying to fight his impending death, but it was a futile fight. Nothing he did now could fight this. The entry wound of the knife pooled blood, growing bigger in spurts that were rhythmically timed with the beating of Giovannus' heart, he watched it until he got bored then simply walked away. The death that came from bleeding always took a while to consume someone.

Augustus walked back over to his bed, where Gillivan rested. He had brought his feet up onto the bed and rested his head on a pillow. Pale-faced and tired-eyed, his focus gathered slowly on Augustus. “Get some vinegar.” Gillivan’s mouth barely moved when he said it, in a quiet voice that sounded strained.

Augustus did as he asked, going to the cooking room and bringing back a full bottle. He already knew what Gillivan wanted, he didn’t need Gillivan to waste more of his energy speaking. He poured the contents to liberally coat the cloth covering his wound. Gillivan reacted, tossing in bed and clutching the source of the pain, and slamming his other hand against the soft mattress.

When he was done with his movements from the pain, Augustus pushed him to lay on his back again, to keep the wound from excessive bleeding, by making the blood pool back into the body. He rolled up linens and placed them under Gillivan’s legs, then covered Gillivan in as many layers of blankets as he could find. His body wouldn’t be able to heat itself properly, so he needed to aid it in that respect as much as possible. He boiled water by the fireplace, planning to fill a bottle with the boiling hot water, wrap that in a cloth, and then put it next to Gillivan under the bedsheets. While he waited for the water to heat, he sat on the bed, near Gillivan’s head.

“Have you fallen asleep yet?” he asked. The eyes were open, and he stared at the ceiling, leaving his state of consciousness ambiguous.

“I’m awake,” Gillivan responded, faintly.

“You save my life today. I am in your debt. Should you fall asleep now and then not wake, are there any requests you have of me? I will do my best to honour it.”

“Save Heratio.”

“Yes… I think I see a way to accomplish that, now that Giovannus has been taken care of. I was going to do that anyway. Is there anything else you want, for yourself or your family perhaps?”

“I have no family, not anymore… Make sure all rituals at my wake properly honour the gods.”

“Again, that goes without saying. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll make sure you walk the path with Manas. If that’s everything, you should sleep now, you need your rest.”

Silence fell after that. At the wall, the rise and fall of Giovannus’ chest had ceased, he was finally dead. Augustus worked quietly, placing the hot water under the blanket then sitting down again, head in his bloodied hands. He was half asleep in that state when Marielle came back into the room, followed by the family guards, dressed in their armour and linen that bore the family crest.

“Augustus,” said Marielle, wrapping her arms and the thick wool blanket, that she now also wore, around him. “You feel so cold.”

He had been shivering. The arms felt so comfortable around him. He put arms around her, and pulled her in closer, embracing the warmth. “I’m fine.” His words betrayed his actions as he kept hold of her, now burying his face in her shoulder.

“Search the premises,” she said, ordering the guards. “Look for any survivors, we have servants they may still be alive, but there might also be stray intruders lurking in some dark corner.”

They continued holding each other. All the guards but one left then returned. Sara, Cressa, and Bindel were all found, alive and hidden on the upper floor, holding knives and huddled up together. No more intruders were found. Augustus ordered some of them to stay, guard the estate personally, while one would go to the manse to tell his mother, and another would go to the magistrate’s order and inform them. One of them should bring a physician with him, to tend to Gillivan’s wound.

There would be a lot of questions and interviews, but Augustus wasn’t concerned. The others could simply tell the truth, and he would too, only changing one fact, that he had to fatally stab Giovannus in the end when he got up and tried, again, to attack him.

They left Gillivan to rest in their bed, and sleep instead in Gillvan’s bed, a smaller mattress forcing them to sleep closer than normal, with Augustus pressed up against Marielle’s skin.

The morning light came and they awoke. The magistrate and all the prominent members of the family were waiting, mother, Pascal, and Cladius. He repeated himself four times, in four different rooms, with four different people asking pretty much the same questions. He could tell from their tones and the nature of their questions, there was no great desire to place any blame his or his wife’s way. It was a mere formality. A thing had happened, an unfortunate thing, but a thing that needed no response or recourse. They all left, carrying the bodies with them, leaving their servants to clean all the blood that stained their walls, furniture, and floors.