"Lord Landau, Mr Forbach, let us leave the ladies to their talk. There is a brandy I have been looking for a good excuse to open."

His voice, warm and light, brought the meal to its end, a cue for the maids to clear the table and for the men to stand.

"Brandy, is it?" Lord Landau asked.

"One gifted at our wedding"—he looked over at his wife with a tender smile—"that has been sitting in its cask all this time." Pausing there, he gestured towards the door and, loosely together, the three men walked to the nearby parlour. On the way, he continued. "Truth be told, it is nothing notable, which is precisely why I have struggled to find a suitable occasion. What it lacks in reputation, I hope we may make up in quantity."

Mr Forbach laughed at that, a dry chuckle that, although insincere in sound, showed on his face, someone with a rather broad smile. "It sounds as if Sir wishes us drunk."

The prince laughed back, his own chuckle good-natured. Once they entered the room, alone for the moment, he said, "Please, let us dispense with the formalities. Frédéric will do if I may call you Henri and Louis."

"I have no objection," said Henri Landau.

Louis Forbach hesitated in giving his answer. "That is quite the ask," he said with a bit of humour.

The prince raised his hand as if holding a wine glass. "Then let me ask again after we empty our first glass and, if need be, again after the second."

While Henri kept a polite appearance, Louis melted at the joke as he once more fell into laughter. "Sir is too much. I would note that he did not deny my accusation either."

"I would admit it," he replied, chin high. "Life is too short to deny every indulgence." At that moment, the door opened to admit the butler with the brandy. The prince clapped his hands together, smile wide and voice full. "Cromer, my good man, remember to pour a sip for yourself."

"My thanks, sir." He did not pause in his work to reply, the whole time did he continue to pour the brandy across the three glasses and, as told, he used a spare saucer for his own "sip", which he sipped before then placing their glasses on the table.

The parlour—under the prince's influence as this was where he usually entertained guests—had become a more vivid room. While she had decorated with landscapes and fine furniture, comfortable in the knowledge that those who understood these things would appreciate her efforts, he had settled on his own style. The paintings now were of grand battles, the chairs more indulgent, with a bearskin rug by the fireplace and a trio of his most impressive trophies on the wall. A room which balanced the striking nature of the decorations by being more sparse, the result a comfortably masculine place.

"To good company," the prince said, raising his glass.

"To a good host," Henri said, while Louis echoed, "To good company."

Clink went their glasses, then the prince led them with the first sip. "Ah, this indeed is auspicious," he said with a broad smile.

A frown touched Henri's brow and he asked, "Why is that?"

The prince swirled his glass, liquor like honey, a deep and rich amber in colour. "This brandy came courtesy of an old friend. While he could not vouch for where he acquired it, he assured me I would know by the taste. Such a flavourful brandy, well, I am sure my guests have had many French wines and brandies."

Louis maintained a look of bemusement while Henri gave the brandy another swirl and a sniff, then finally another sip. "The southwest, isn't it?" he asked, quiet as if a thought leaking out.

The prince smiled in answer and took another sip. "Among friends, what is a title? Let us enjoy this brandy for its company."

Although Henri gave a polite chuckle, Louis's laugh fell naturally until drowned by another sip. "Frédéric is certainly a man comfortable with words."

"Coming from you, that is high praise indeed," the prince said.

"Please, my works are mere sophistry."

In slow steps, the prince led his company to the fireplace where they then took their seats, a gentle fire burning with a gentle fragrance. "I do apologise I could not entertain you on your last visit, Henri. My poor wife, I rather inconvenienced her with my decisions, my every letter beginning with an apology and ending with a request."

He paused there to chuckle, followed by another sip of brandy. When he then spoke, there was a weight to his words, slow and sincere.

"We are grateful to have the chance to host you again, all the more so that Louis and his wife could join us."

For a moment, Henri could only squirm, his mouth drawn out in a pained smile. "What apology is necessary? Which of us should be grateful? I should apologise for my rudeness," he said, a breathless chuckle punctuating his last sentence.

The prince did not offer a reply, not with words nor with actions. An unchanged expression, polite smile unclear, tainted by the furrow between his brows. He had learned—taught himself—to listen well when people spoke, and his guest had only suggested an apology. An apology which did not recognise fault nor would it be offered to his wife.

With the silence growing uncomfortable, it was Louis who broke it. "My wife and I are the ones who should be grateful. For such an invitation, I could scarcely believe it," he said, his voice thick with complicated emotions, both hurried and awkward.

The prince's frown broke, smile clear once more. "Sophistry… I wonder, is that a terrible thing?"

Louis gave an awkward smile belied by his dry chuckle. "It is like giving a child something sweet," he said, speaking slowly and with one hand gesturing along. "While they do grin, it is… empty of any real meaning or purpose. Words without meaning or purpose which rely on bringing out strong emotions, that is my speciality. All my works' praises come down to those who are convinced their reaction must be justified."

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The prince gave a nod, then swirled his brandy before having another sip, this one followed by a sigh. "Truth be told, when I returned from Greece, I did not sleep well," he said, said slowly, quietly. "My wife, God bless her, offered such kindness that eventually wore me down. So I told her there were sights which haunted my dreams, to which she introduced me to your original work."

Whatever warmth had been in the room seemed to have evaporated, both guests with grim, albeit still polite, expressions. Louis in particular sat with a certain stillness, as if even his heart paused in its beating.

"Louis, tell me, have you seen war? Not merely a squabble between lords, but war?" the prince asked, whispered. And how he sat without his smile, how he sat with his shoulders almost hunched. Someone who had looked and acted and sounded so jovial and poised until this moment that the lack of it left upon his guests a great impression.

Words escaped his guest, for a long moment Louis's mouth open in the hopes anything would come out. In the end, Louis bowed his head, clasped his hands together.

"My grandfather, he was a nasty man full of hate. I detested visiting him. Everything I did was wrong and he would have me stand in the corner while he gave me three sharp canings, right across my shoulders." Reaching behind, he traced along his back the scars he knew well.

He paused there to take in and then release a long breath.

"When my grandfather passed on, knowing my penchant for writing, my father sent me his journals. It is… a queer thing to learn what a person thinks of himself. The man in those journals such a far cry from the man I had known."

Once more, he paused, but, as the silence grew longer, the prince eventually spoke up. "What did those journals reveal?"

His guest gave a hollow smile. "Although one may hardly call it a secret, something not talked about in my family is that, until my grandfather, we were nobility. I had always thought he had disgraced himself in some manner, shown some great cowardice."

Another breath, this time which left behind a wry smile, and he turned it towards the prince.

"You asked if I have ever seen war, the answer is no."

"However, you have read of it," the prince replied.

His guest gave a slow and heavy nod.

More did not need to be said, the prince very familiar with the plot of the book—curious how well it matched the shadows cast by his guest's words. Still, he did not have just one guest. "Has Henri read it? Louis's first book, that is. I confess I have not read the later ones, but do understand they are rather different," he said.

Henri hid behind his glass for a moment before answering. "These things, I appreciate how Louis has refined his talent."

"There is certainly merit in that," the prince said lightly, then paused for a sip. "However, there is certainly merit in this book scarcely found elsewhere."

As if allergic to the praise, Louis cleared his throat, voice rough. "What merit is there in something so sensational?"

The prince did not rush to answer, for a long moment content with silence as he finished the last of his brandy, as the butler poured another small glass for him. After another sip, he finally spoke.

"War is not sensational. Your book's merit is precisely that it is accurate to this."

Another silence followed, not easy words to follow up. Still, Louis seemed to itch, uncomfortable until he again asked, "And what is the merit in that?"

The prince laughed, sudden and loud—taking his guests by such surprise that they tensed up in their seats. "How I see it, there are two particular merits. The first is that the unfamiliar can prove disastrous. An officer on the field must be prepared for what will happen, which is not something easily practised. Your book, then, may ease one into this."

There he stopped, which again left Louis to squirm until he had to ask, "And the second merit?"

"This is perhaps too personal a reason. As I said, what I saw in Greece has haunted me. It is… in your book, I found the comfort I needed. I found reassurance that this is not a weakness of mine, that it is natural for good men to be distressed by the wanton murder of innocents. Even to kill an enemy is not an easy thing. After all, God did not give us life for such purpose. War, however natural a fact of our lives, is entirely unnatural. If only more rulers understood that, we could all live more peaceful lives."

At the end of his little monologue, he shook his head, then spared his guests a rueful smile.

"My apologies, I said too much. This has been a topic I have much considered and so it tends to spill out easily," he said, ending with a chuckle.

Although Henri mirrored the laugh, Louis stayed in silence, head bowed and mouth thin, a tension in his hands, clasped tight. Before silence had time to settle or for another topic to arise, Louis asked, "Do you regret going to Greece?"

The question brought with it a chill, Henri suddenly frozen, Louis himself so very still—unwavering as he met the prince's gaze.

Meanwhile, the prince gave no particular reaction and contented himself with another sip and a sigh. "For that question, the answer is both rather complex and yet simple," he said, quiet. "There is a deep sense of futility, unsure of how much of a difference I truly made. We were but a small fraction compared to either army and, in the end, King Sigismund still conquered more land."

Once more, he paused, left the silence to dig into his guests, until Louis had to ask, "And the simple answer?"

The prince turned that little bit more to squarely meet both guests' gaze. "No."

A resolute answer, lacking even a glimmer of doubt. As if to punctuate that, he downed the last bit of his drink, then held it out for the butler who dutifully poured another small glass for him.

It needed not be said that that topic had reached its end, a freshness to his voice as he brought up the next. "One queer thing, my wife is rather convincing when she so desires, except that she has one particular weakness," he said, gently swirling his drink.

Eager to move the topic along, Henri chuckled. "Is that so?"

"It is," he said, his voice a touch distant. "She would not convince a man to go against his interests. To do that, she says, is a waste of effort. One cannot trust his conviction nor his performance, which thus requires constant attention."

Another chuckle came from Henri as he nodded along. "There is certainly wisdom in that," he said.

At that same moment, the prince looked Louis in the eye once more, a pull to his gaze that could not be escaped. "It is a weakness I lack, though. There are those things which, even if unreasonable, must be sought," he said.

While Henri remained warm, once more smiling as he sipped at his drink, Louis felt a chill.

"Truth be told, I have never been much good at games of subtlety. It all feels disingenuous and all the more so among friends. I would rather speak freely, that we each are grown men capable of rational thought. When such a man reaches a decision, even if it should go against his interests, I believe it is something which may be respected"

To that, Henri raised his glass. "Rightly so. A man is as good as his word, no more and no less."

The prince smiled a small smile. "Louis, I will only bother you with this once. Pray consider teaching at Augstadt Academy."

Although that took Henri by some surprise, his eyes widening as they darted over to his friend, Louis did not seem to find the request unexpected, something of a rueful smile touching his mouth.

Still, it was Henri who replied. "Not to speak ill of a friend, but I rather doubt Louis has the temperament for such work," he said with a forced levity. "His reputation as a tutor is certainly particular."

"We could discuss such particulars for hours. In the end, I simply feel that Louis has something which should be taught." With that said, the prince clapped his hands together, the next moment a broad smile back on his face. "Let us leave that matter there."

And they did, merely a handful of words among countless others. Yet, come the next day, a mere handful of words among countless others lingered in one guest's mind.

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