a/n: A background oneshotfor Hans and takes place in the universe of Tempest, although reading Tempest is actually unnecessary for understanding this particular prince fic. For readers of Tempest (I'm assuming most everybody here...), the next chapter will be out shortly, and I apologize for the wait! But this oneshot is the length of a standard chapter on its own, so I'm not too sorry, hehe.

Tempest: Unlucky Number Thirteen

"Why do they hate us, Mother?"

Hans had only been six years old, but already he could discern the scorn of all those around him. For as long as he could remember he and his mother lived on the edge of tolerance. Many lessons taught him cruelty. Bearing the contempt of his brothers day in and day out. Suffering through the cold neglect of his father. Even being snubbed by servants who could tell they had no power. By the time he was six, Hans was very much aware that his place was not here in the Southern Isles.

"Don't think that way, Hans," Anya murmured. She always spoke that way, soft and hesitant, as though she could not bear to raise her voice any more for fear of drawing attention to herself.

"I'm not blind. All of them think I'm useless, but I'm better than them," Hans said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. It maddened him to see his mother so demure. She should have been more than this. She was more than this.

"Nobody thinks you're useless," Anya insisted, patting the spot next to her in bed, but Hans refused to budge. "Your brothers are only teasing. It will pass with time, I promise."

"I never mentioned my brothers. You did," Hans said, and Anya flinched. "I can tell nobody likes me. They say I am not of Father's blood. They say that I am a bastard. Is it so wrong to want more than this?"

Anya knelt down to eye-to-eye level with her son, such sincere affection in her eyes that Hans suddenly felt ashamed for the resentment he always held at his lot in life. At moments like these, he knew he was different from his mother. Even through the bare vestiges of childhood naivety that remained, Hans could see the contrast. Mother was the kindest, most selfless person he knew, but himself?

"Hans," Anya said, "I love you."

"I love you too, Mother," Hans said quietly.

Anya smiled and brushed her hand over Hans' hair, carefully rearranging the stray strands that adorned his forehead. "Oh, Hans. Won't you call me Mamma again? You used to do it."

"But Father would not approve," Hans said. "It is too informal."

"Mother is so impersonal," Anya whispered. "I want to hear you call me Mamma one last time. Won't you do that for me?"

"I love you too, Mamma," Hans said slowly. "Is something wrong–?"

"Remember that you're not useless, Hans. You are so much more," Anya said, and Hans had no chance to speak before his mother embraced him. She was shaking. He could feel the vibrations even as her arms circled around him to hold him close, and to his horror, he heard her sobbing as she spoke. "You can be king. I know you can, if I'm not there to burden you."

"What's wrong?" Hans asked again, closing his arms around his mother and burrowing his head into her shoulder. She had been here for him for so long. Now he had to be there for her.

"Nothing. For once, nothing is wrong," Anya said. She pulled away and wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, then patted Hans on the head and gave him a tight smile. "I can give you more, Hans."

And that would be the last time Hans ever saw his mother.

Anya of the Southern Isles was born a peasant girl in the outer districts, not quite in the lowest rungs of society but very, very close. Her family was poor, but not yet homeless; Anya grew up with her parents and two younger sisters in a ramshackle home that was nevertheless filled with light and laughter, and if her ratty, secondhand clothing was less than warm, certainly her heart glowed enough with love to last through even the harshest winter. It was a simple life she led, not extravagant but comfortable.

All that would change when, at the age of sixteen, Anya entered the Southern Isles Castle as a maid. She was young but not ambitious, too worldly to entertain dreams of becoming anything more than a lowly servant in the glittering castle. She was only intent on earning more money so that parents might rest in their old age and that her sisters might lead a better life. Easy enough to be taken in.

One glance at her had been enough.

Anya was not beautiful, per say, far from the exotic beauties of foreign lands or even the glamour of the high-born nobles. Her hair was not flowing blonde or glossy red but a common brown. An inattentive glance might even see her as plain, and freckled, but she was the type of person who grew more beautiful the closer one looked. She was comely, soft features gentle and pleasing to the eye. Soothing to look at, even, like a familiar and friendly face that could be relied upon. But she had always possessed a certain air about her; Anya was genuine. She spoke softly and respectfully, smiled a tiny, shy smile, and her wide eyes could hold no secrets. Very simply, she invited the trust of others.

So it really should not have been a surprise that she would become the object of envy when suddenly given the attention of one very important man in the castle.

Anya had been much beloved by the Queen and even the concubines during the early period of her arrival, skilled at her work and blessed with a quick mind. But when King Markus took a liking to her, she was suddenly competition, and suddenly much less desirable to have around. Her demure attitude now seemed like an act to those women who employed the same strategies, and her soft voice denounced as siren song. Markus continued to ask for Anya to attend him and she continued to brew tea for him as he worked. For all the rumors, nothing had happened between them.

Until there inevitably was.

A rational part of Anya told her that she could not capture the king's affection for long, but the part of her that was young and naïve admired the hardworking man who toiled until late hours of the night, reading petitions and straining to manage his sprawling kingdom. She had watched him for many weeks. She knew firsthand how dedicated he was. And Markus was a handsome man, middle-aged but still in his prime, strong and beautiful, so when he devoted his undivided attention to Anya, she was stricken by the horrible irrationality that accompanied love.

She hardly minded that she was never given a title. She was merely the maid who was neither a servant nor a master, higher in status than the others but not formally, only in an unspoken agreement that she was not to be trifled with any longer. She was hated by the women she worked for and estranged from the women she worked with, the former turning their noses at her gall and the latter bowing their heads in mingled fear and envy of her new position of favor. But still, Anya was not yet a threat and so she was left alone and untitled.

Until she was.

Her pregnancy threw the court into a loop. Only towards the end of her term – when it became unfortunately clear that despite repeated attempts from the concubines she would not miscarry – did Markus deign to marry her. But other proceedings made the ceremony a rushed, paltry thing: Crown Prince Gustaf's rebellion had only just been settled, his wife and unborn son banished to Baaj; Prince Edmund had just been born, the unnamed mother sent away to some distant place; and two days later, Prince Hans was born to much less fanfare than the acclaimed twelfth son. It was clear to everyone that the thirteenth prince Hans would be waylaid.

"Is he mine?" Markus asked, frowning at the unfamiliar shock of red hair.

Anya had no answer for him that he would trust, and in that moment, she saw Markus for what he really was. She had thought she loved him. Suddenly, looking at that imperious visage boring down at her with all the judgment of a warlord, she thought she was looking at a stranger.

Hans was overshadowed, of course. How could he not be, with twelve older brothers, and worse, bearing the stigma of being born of common-blood and possibly illegitimate? And his brothers loved to make their superiority known. Whenever they crossed paths, the ones who could be bothered would let Hans know exactly what they thought of him.

"It's truly a pity that your mother is so unmemorable," Tobias said, flicking a strand of his hair over his shoulder. "Else you might have a chance at being something, Hans."

Hans frowned but offered no rebuttal, only bowing his head and continuing on his way back to his shared quarters with his mother. But no matter how hard Hans pushed his short legs, he could never escape. Lording over him with his twelve years of seniority and much longer strides, Tobias matched him easily and continued to speak in his shrill, nasally tone.

"I like you, I really do," Tobias said, laughing a little when Hans tried to hasten his walk. "So let me give you some advice. Break away from your mother."

Hans stopped dead in his tracks and glared up at Tobias, unable to keep from scowling. It was a mistake to show on his face how much his brother's words affected him, but keeping calm was a lesson Hans would not learn until later in life. At six years old, he still wore his heart on his sleeve.

"Shut up," Hans said.

It was a weak, ineffectual answer, but Hans could not express in words how incredulous he found the idea of breaking away from his mother. All the other princes save for Saul had been raised by nannies; Hans was raised by his birth-mother, and he couldn't imagine living any other way. Just thinking of the cold, impersonal care of those horrible women paid to do little more than ensure his physical comfort made Hans sick. As if they could ever replace his mother's love. He almost felt sorry for his brothers.

"Careful to watch your language now. You don't want Alvard to teach you your manners again," Tobias said, snorting when Hans flinched at the memory. "You look like you're having a seizure."

Tobias wasn't far off. Thinking about Alvard made Hans want to duck for cover. Alvard had an unfortunate habit of pushing Hans around, convinced of the rumors of his illegitimacy and intent on correcting any bad blood running through his veins, always citing something about how real men should act. Though Alvard refused to tolerate any of the princes, in his own words, bullying Hans, he himself unknowingly terrorized his younger brother.

"I will compose myself," Hans muttered. "Now if you will leave me in peace–"

"Oh, look. It's Golden Boy," Tobias interrupted, nodding his head to familiar faces just down the hallway. Raising his voice, Tobias called, "Saul! Good to see you. Still the favorite? Or is it true that Father favors Edmund now?"

Saul passed by them, followed as usual by Oliver and Reid, and the trio stopped to give greeting. Polite as always, Saul deflected the question by answering, "Father favors us all for our merits. Good morning, Tobias." Oliver and Reid likewise followed suit, only bidding Tobias good morning, and none of the three spared Hans even the slightest glance.

"See, Hans? Now that is what I call good manners. And how old are you now, Saul?" Tobias held up a hand when Saul opened his mouth to answer, and he guessed, "Seven? Eight?"

"…Eleven," Saul said.

Tobias eyed the younger boy carefully and, just loud enough that the others could hear but quiet enough that no one could make mention of it, muttered, "In that case, you need to eat more." Louder, he said, "Eleven! You're growing up well. How are classes? Is Hans keeping up?"

"I'm doing just fine," Hans said. Almost hopefully, he added, "Saul is doing the best."

Saul didn't even bat an eye, instead keeping his gaze fixed on Tobias. When Oliver twitched as though about to look towards Hans, Saul made a motion of his hand and Oliver stilled. Polite smile never faltering, Saul answered, "Classes are going well. I'll see you at dinner, Tobias."

Hans stayed silent, and just like that, Saul and his group left. It was like they never saw him, and they continued on their way without a single word to Hans or even a hint they knew he existed. Hans watched them go, stomach plummeting. Being heckled by Tobias and hounded by Alvard was tolerable. What stung the most was not outright dislike but indifference.

"It's really as though you were invisible," Tobias said. "Did you know that Saul says good morning to the chefs and even the stable hands? And you, his own brother – possibly – he stays so very silent."

Tobias always had a gift for wrenching a knife in the wound. For all of his vaunted maturity Saul was still a child, and his mother, the Queen, hated Anya to such a breaking point that it proved detrimental her health. Of course, Anya had once been her personal servant. And with her eldest son Gustaf out of favor with the king, all of her hopes had been transferred to her second son, Saul. Hans was competition, and worse, competition from someone who had once bathed and massaged her feet. To her, the idea was simply intolerable. Saul only learned from his mother.

"As though anybody likes you any more than they do me," Hans muttered, and he was pleased to see Tobias still for a fraction of a second before his poise returned.

"But you make a much better target," Tobias said.

It was unbearable to remain silent, but Hans knew his mother hated confrontation so he kept his head bowed and walked along. Tobias was thankfully quiet the rest of the way, but Hans was aggravated by how Tobias was still frustratingly there, even when he had arrived at his quarters at last. When Tobias nodded encouragingly at the doorknob, Hans replied with a flat stare.

"Mother won't want to see you."

"But we had such a marvelous conversation last time," Tobias said.

Hans chose not to mention that Tobias had left Anya reduced to tears. Gustaf was above such pettiness, but Fabian and Tobias took great pleasure in making snide comments to the common-born woman about her humble background. Tobias especially loved to give progress reports about Hans, how he was shunned by his brothers and blindsided by his father at dinners that Anya was never invited to and Hans only out of formality.

"Go find someone else to bother, if anyone else would put up with you," Hans said. Run back to the libraries and skulk there, Hans thought. Mother didn't need to be bothered by his cruel words.

"Fine," Tobias said, holding his hands up in surrender. "But think about my advice, Hans. Anya is just a burden to you, and she knows it too."

"She is my mother," Hans said, voice slipping into a slight growl, but Tobias only shrugged.

"You know where to find me if you need," Tobias said, and he went the other way.

Only after Tobias rounded the bend did Hans open the door. It was still the afternoon and the room ought to have been bright, but all the curtains were down as they were in the mornings when they first awoke. Had Mother gone out? She did not often, preferring to withdraw from the cruel jeers of the castle. Hans drew the curtains back and looked outside. It was a beautiful day. The Southern Isles rarely had anything less than perfect weather, but today especially the sun shined bright and the skies were clear blue, with pure white clouds just enough to fight back the heat but retain the warmth.

Well, perhaps Mother had gone out to enjoy the weather. She would return soon.

Hans sat there for an hour, and then two, and then three, and the hours ticked on until he fell asleep and woke again, and though the day had long since passed to night, his mother still had not returned.

Worry gnawed at his mind when the invitation to dinner arrived by way of a much too condescending servant. Never mind that Mother almost never left the room, she always tidied him up before sending him on his way to dinner. She ought to have been back already. Hans waved the servant away with a message that he would be skipping dinner, knowing he would likely be punished for his insolence, but he had to stay and wait.

Another hour, and then two, and then three.

Hans stayed in his room all night in silent vigil, fighting to keep his eyes open until sleep claimed him at last, an unwilling host.

Hans awoke the next morning to an empty room. Throwing off his blankets, he burst out the door. Looking left and right and seeing no one, Hans cursed being relegated to this distant corner of the castle where almost no one visited. Running down the hallways for three minutes, he accosted the first person he could find, a maid who he actually recognized as one who had worked with his mother before.

"Have you seen my mother?" Hans asked.

"I'm afraid I don't know who that is."

"You don't know–" Hans lost his voice when the maid began to walk away, but once the shock passed, he ran past her and blocked the way. "Don't lie to me! Of course you know who she is–"

"Your mother has never lived in these halls. Do you understand?" With that cryptic message, the maid walked around Hans and left.

It was the same with everyone who Hans could find. Everyone he asked told him that they had no idea who his mother was, that he had always lived alone in his quarters, and that whoever his mother was, she had certainly never raised him. Every time he heard the same answer, Hans grew more and more frantic. Of course Mother had lived here. What game were they trying to pull? No doubt Fabian had organized this. Maybe he had even kidnapped his mother.

Hans ran past the library before skidding on his heels. Turning back, he threw open the doors and as expected, Tobias was sitting at the corner table absorbed in a dusty tome. Hans charged towards him and slammed the book out of his hands, the thick binding hitting the table with a loud smack that echoed through the empty room. Books rattled on the shelves.

Tobias sighed. "What's got you in such a rush?"

"Where is my mother?" Hans asked again.

For some reason, Tobias shot out of his seat and looked around the empty library before turning his glare down at Hans. "Have you asked anyone else this?"

"Just the maids–"

"Good. Smart of you to come to me and not any of the others. If they went to Father, you would be in deep trouble," Tobias said, slumping down into his seat again, but despite his praise, Hans would have asked any of his brothers if only he had seen them first.

"I just want to know where my mother is!" Hans exclaimed.

"No one is ever going to speak of her again. I advise you to do the same," Tobias said. When Hans repeated his question, Tobias sighed and shook his head. "You won't be any happier knowing."

"I want to know," Hans said quickly. Instead of answering, Tobias closed his book in a slow, deliberate motion, taking time to brush the embossed surface of dust. While Hans waited impatiently, Tobias leaned forward and slid the book back into its place on a bookshelf. At last, Hans said again, "Tell me!"

Sitting down, Tobias was just the right height to look Hans in the eye. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"Fine. Follow me."

Moving so swiftly that Hans had trouble keeping up, Tobias swept out of the library. Hans followed behind him, half-doubtful but half-hopeful, unsure if he could trust Tobias at all but having no other choice. His fears only grew when they exited the castle altogether, taking the path to the stables, but Tobias offered no explanation and instead hastened his steps when Hans called out to him.

Then they were past the stables and out into the forests, farther and farther in where almost no one went, until the trees blocked out the sun and allowed only a trickle of light through the gaps in the canopy of leaves. Untended foliage was tall enough that Hans needed to take care when stepping over thorns and thistles, lest he cut himself, but haste made him careless. More than once he felt the prick of spines against his legs, but only like a distant thought.

Finally, they stopped.

"Here we are," Tobias said.

It was just a clearing.

"But there's nothing here!" Hans whirled around, furious at the joke but unwilling to waste any more time. Before he could move away, Tobias seized his wrist and turned him back towards the clearing.

"Look!" Tobias said, pointing at a single tree.

It was just a normal tree.

But Hans looked closer, his mouth drying, his breath hitching, his heart stopping when he saw what exactly Tobias was pointing at. Not the clearing. Not the tree. Not anything that should have been there, in that lonely part of the woods where no one tended.

There was a noose hanging off the branch.

"You're lying," Hans said, closing his eyes, but the sight had burned itself to the back of his eyelids. It became worse, so much worse, so he opened his eyes again and turned a furious glare at Tobias, Tobias, who was there and who he could throw his anger at without fear. "You're lying!"

Hans charged at Tobias only to be shoved aside, and he landed on his back with his breath knocked out of his chest. Propping himself up on his arms, Hans sat up just in time for Tobias to drag him up.

"Your mother is dead because of you," Tobias sneered.

Is it so wrong to want more than this?

I can give you more, Hans.

Hans fell to his knees in the dirt, staring up at the rope where his mother had–

Was it really because of him, because of what he had said? But Hans had never needed anything more. Not really. All he needed was his mother. Why had she made the choice for him…? Hans would never have chosen anything over her. She had to have known. She had to.

It wasn't his fault.

But it wasn't his mother's fault either.

"Listen," Tobias said, after leaving Hans to lie there trapped in his thoughts. "Father has decreed that no one speak of your mother again, and that includes talking about your…legitimacy. Just take this as a blessing and move on. Don't waste it. Understood?"

"…A blessing?" Hans muttered.

"A blessing," Tobias agreed.

Hans rose and closed his eyes, and this time the image of the noose was gone. Later, when he thought back to his moment, he would never remember how long he stood there. When he opened his eyes again, he looked towards Tobias and towards the castle that was his place, towards the throne he was owed for this sacrifice.

"I am the thirteenth prince," Hans said. "And I am my father's son."

Unlucky number thirteen.

Not his fault, and not his mother's fault, but he could blame twelve people. Hans had twelve brothers. One by one, he would give them bad luck.

Until, one by one, they were no more.