**Content warning: mentions of panic attack**

Rhys’ head spun with the possibility of even a single member of his family being alive. “Mom..?” He whispered under his breath, eyes lowering to the floor with a soft, hopeful smile. “Well, let us go then.” He pushed past Alaric before the knight could say a word.

Rhys sat in the carriage, nearly swinging his feet with excitement. “Rhys,” Alaric's hand hovered near his shoulder before wisely dropping it, and sitting a good distance apart from him—well, as well as he could manage within the carriage.

Rhys did not spare Alaric a glance, instead, his eyes wandered out to where the mountains slowly crept their way back into view. The silver peaks of snow now seemed golden by the sun, and what a truly beautiful sight it was. Rhys had not felt so grateful for anything since he was a child receiving birthday pie—he did not particularly enjoy cake. The icing gave him a sore stomach.

Rhys’ eye twitched in the corner once more, but this time, he understood why. It was excitement, pure and genuine excitement coursing through his veins so fast it tickled beneath his skin. Butterflies tickled him from within, deep in his abdomen, fluttering violently, the same pace as his heartbeat.

The ride was agonizingly slow, and Rhys nearly forgot for a moment that the man driving it was not one of his, but Alaric's. He almost told him to go faster.

Slowly but surely, the castle rolled into view. Rhys hardly allowed the man to park before urging Alaric out and following suit with a slight tumble, catching himself on Alaric's coat. He quickly pulled his hand away, though his hope held a grip so tight on him that he could not find it within himself to scowl like he would have. He simply brushed past Alaric and carried on, question after question hitting the man who'd called for Alaric earlier like raindrops.

“Who was it? Did they give you a name? What did they look like? Where were they?”

The man did not answer, his lips pressed in a thin line, as though instructed not to speak to Rhys directly. Well that was rude. And unsettling. No one had simply ignored Rhys before. He was a prince, after all.

Alaric stepped behind Rhys and his man, who Rhys learned later on was named Wesley.

Wesley looked up at Alaric, scratching his salt and pepper beard, “A keeper, Sir. He was found by the eastern wing under the rubble.” Alaric nodded and answered Wesley, but Rhys was no longer listening, his eyebrows dropping back down in sorrow. So it wasn't his mother. He pushed down the sting in his eyes, of course it wasn't Fern.

Rhys could feel Alaric's gaze burn through the back of his head, probably mocking him for the pathetic display of wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

Though, through his sadness and the ringing in his ears, Rhys heard a name. A familiar one at that, “—Edmund Lee, he was asking for the prince.”

Rhys met Wesley's eyes then, “Where is he now?” 

Fortunately for Rhys, the man did answer him this time, “He is in the tent we have set up with one of our nurses.”

“He is okay?” Rhys urged, Wesley nodded. “Yes. A fractured foot, the doctor says, but he should be fine to walk within a month or so, we'll have his foot wrapped securely with a splint.”

Rhys nodded, his gaze staying lowered, hair whipping violently around him in the cool breeze of autumn settling in. “Can I see him?”

Wesley glanced up at Alaric for confirmation before stepping to the side, gesturing with a hand for Rhys to go first. Rhys found it quite awkward that he did not bow. That would take some getting used to.

He walked alongside Wesley, Alaric trailed just slightly behind them, until he saw the large tent around the corner. Rhys opened it without announcing himself, his eyes widening and breath hitching. “Edmund..” he breathed, dropping to his knees beside the cot, he had not yet felt the tears that welled in his eyes. Edmund was the one to point them out with a sympathetic smile, brushing one away from Rhys’ cheek with a gentle, calloused thumb.

“It is so good to see you, Rhys.” His voice came hoarse with dehydration.

Edmund was the Castle Steward for three generations—from Callum's father to Aris and Rhys. The old man had practically raised them alongside Fern, and he knew everything there was to know about de Guise’ past, so Rhys would still have someone to share stories with. Someone who knew more than just the king and queen and elder prince's names. Someone who knew Callum and Fern and Aris.

Rhys couldn't help himself, he choked on a sob, his arms folded beneath his forehead where it rested upon the cot, his hair falling about him, still tangled slightly from sleep. 

“Lift your head, boy, no need to cry.” Edmund's words were meant to be comforting, but Rhys only recalled his Aris’ words when he'd left yesterday morning and cried harder. “I'm sorry, Edmund,” he sniffled, “I don't mean to—”

Edmund's wrinkled hand combed through Rhys’ hair, gently tugging the knots out, “Lift your head,” he repeated softly. Just then, the man would notice the pendant above Rhys’ heart. “Queen Fern's sapphire. I don't recall you wearing this before,”

Rhys wiped his eyes on his sleeve once more, the soft velvet felt nice against his cold skin and burning eyes. “He gave it to me when I was ten, but I was careful to not wear it around freely. It is special, after all.”

“Indeed it is.”

“Why is that, Edmund?” Rhys sniffled once more, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear to meet Edmund's gaze clearly. 

“He did not tell you?” Edmund's eyes widened slightly beneath his spectacles, he clicked his tongue once. Rhys shook his head.

“Well, you should know by now why it is so sacred, Rhys. Of the two of you, you were always more detail oriented than Aris.”

Rhys knew this was true, Aris had the strength of a soldier but, oftentimes, the mind of a squirrel. He constantly forgot where he'd set things down, or what he planned to do once he entered a room, and he hardly ever noticed when Fern cut his hair or sewed a new garment. Aris was much like Callum in that way, not uncaring, simply oblivious. Rhys had never been so. Yet, the more he thought, the less it made sense. Why would such a thing be so special? Mother was not a materialistic person like Father. While Fern appreciated the golds and silvers he was showered with, it always meant more to him to be offered a meal he hadn't prepared, or a tea he hadn't asked for. So, Rhys thought, what made a pendant so special to someone who cared little for riches?

“I do not know, Edmund. Won't you tell me, please?”

Edmund smiled gently, his hand falling from Rhys’ hair. Rhys unconsciously followed his hand for a moment before controlling himself. It felt nice to see a familiar face despite the ruins about them—the fallen castle, the ashes and dust and dirt scattered alike, messing up the courtyard and the gardens, which were trampled and stamped upon by careless hooves and boots. 

“If you do not know, then you do not know.” Rhys’ brows knitted in both anger and sadness, “Why won't you tell me? Is the secret truly so important that I cannot know? Mother is not able to tell me anymore, and I am older now, so, Edmund, please?” He begged, his eyes stinging once more. He despised how childish and whiny his voice had grown, but his heart was aching and his hands trembled where they clung to Edmund's sheets in desperation. A small flicker of something disgusting and taunting entered his mind—if Edmund doesn't tell me now, then will I ever get to know? Rhys did not want to continue that thought, those flames taking ahold of his body until he could not breathe, the smoke filled his lungs and his head went fuzzy until his vision blurred, white around the edges. He coughed once, his whole body now trembling. Only the steady weight of a hand on his shoulder brought him back, and it was ever slowly. “Relax, Rhys. I will tell you in due time. I am going to accompany you in Vaust, after all. We will have plenty of time to discuss all there is to know.”

Rhys was begrudgingly convinced. He caught his breath and nodded once, glancing around to see that Alaric had left. And so did Wesley and the doctor. They had simply left Rhys there to speak. As relieved as he was, Rhys found it odd that someone in his position was left alone. What if he fled? He knew these grounds better than Alaric and his men.

For a brief moment, Rhys considered doing so, but Edmund, lying in that cot looking frail and sickly, and holding all the knowledge of his fallen family kept him on his knees. 

If he wanted answers, he had to stay. And if he wanted peace, he had to stay for that as well. This war would not end if he ran, and soon enough, Alaric would find him, or the Council would and he'd be no better off than his kin.

“Aris and Father,” Rhys began, Edmund met his eyes with pale green ones, “Do you know how they died?”

Edmund nodded proudly. Rhys could not fathom what was so prideful about death. But when Edmund told him, he could not help his heart from swelling with equal pride. 

“The King held his ground until the very end. He was always stubborn, that man.” Rhys nodded in agreement. That much, he knew. “When he fell, Aris had the chance to run, but he stayed next to his father. Can you blame the boy? You would not have turned your back, either.” That, too, was true. Rhys would sooner be killed than leave his dying father willingly.

“They fought well, then?” 

“Until the very end, sweetheart.” Edmund clasped his hands over his round stomach, his eyes closing. “Now, let me rest. I've had a long day, you know.”

“Oh,” Rhys stood abruptly, dusting his knees off out of habit. “Of course. Thank you, Edmund. You've been a great help. Get well soon.”

Rhys turned and left then, seeking out Alaric despite every organ within him protesting the thought.

“Alaric.” Rhys folded his arms over his chest, looking up at Alaric indifferently. “I want to go back to the House.”

Alaric stared down at Rhys with equal indifference. Or perhaps he'd felt something, but Rhys couldn't tell.

“Very well. I will have Wesley prepare you a ride.”

“No. I need you to come with me.”

“Alright.”