Chapter 7 — Iron Aris

Autumn had begun to hang heavier over De Guis, crispening the air and letting leaves change to an array of colors.

Rhys marveled at how beautiful the north looked in autumn, staring up at the gray sky with his and Alaric’s brief exchange lingering in his mind. He had not seen Alaric much lately.

The Commander had told him recently that they would begin their journey to the Kingdom of Vaust tomorrow. It was not a particularly long ride by a traveller’s means, but for Rhys, who’d never had reason to leave his own kingdom, the idea of a multiple-hour ride seemed daunting. And he would have to endure it next to Alaric, since the Commander had only one carriage.

Boots crunched upon fallen leaves and twigs behind Rhys as Alaric’s men began mending his castle. He breathed in the scent of rain, which settled within him rightly, his woes all but forgotten for that brief moment. Autumn carried along new beginnings—dead trees brought sparkling winters with snow so white and bright you had to squint your eyes. The north was beautiful during winter, every kingdom came alive and, for that single, special day, no soldier fought. No war dragged on, and soldiers returned home for dinner and celebration. Autumn brought color, which was such a beautiful way to honor the loss of warmer weather and migrating birds and hibernating animals. Rhys felt at ease during autumn, if only now because it meant that awful summer had come to an end.

Rhys turned then to see the progress of his castle. Alaric had ensured his men raised none of either Rhys’ nor his own kingdom’s flags. Together, they had decided during a brief exchange one night, they would create a new flag that was equal de Guise and Vaust. Rhys did not yet know what they would choose to name the new kingdom, but a deep part of him was bitter with the idea of changing the name at all. Would the Kingdom of Vaust also cease to exist? Would Alaric’s own castle no longer be his? Why did Rhys have to give what he had left to someone who already took it all?

Rhys’ expression slowly twisted into a scowl, with pouted lips and knitted brows, he walked through the grand doors of his castle, stepping into the foyer where those tall marble statues no longer stood. Gold still littered the floor in shatters from picture frames that once held up his ancestors faces proudly.

There, he found Aris, who had gathered the oil paintings and stacked them in his hands with deliberate care.

“Do not ruin those.” Rhys cleared his throat.

“Of course not,” Alaric turned to face him, their eyes meeting, “I have new frames being imported from the east for them. I wanted to ensure they would not get torn or throw away.”

Rhys did not say a word, he stared at Alaric with a quirked brow, nodding once in acknoweldgement. Alaric, the man who’d ordered his men to burn his castle to the ground—the same man who’s soldiers killed his family—was preserving oil paintings of Rhys’ family? 

At the very top of the pile, Rhys spotted the most recent painting. Fern sat next to Callum in tall chairs, Alaric on Callum’s lap and Rhys on Fern’s. Aris was just eight, then, and Rhys was three. Rhys raised his hand and quickly took the canvas, holding it tight to his chest as though Alaric would attempt to take it back. “I will hold onto this one.”

Alaric nodded, “Very well.” Then, he turned to hand the rest off to one of his men, who took them somewhere safe.

After a moment, Rhys glanced around the castle once more. Far from perfect, it was, but stiil, the foundation had remained intact. Rhys was silently grateful that Alaric had decided to uphold the castle’s roots. 

“It is looking good.” Rhys finally said.

“Is it to your liking, Rhys? I did not have time to consult before the builders arrived.”

“Indeed.” Rhys nodded, his heel clicking as he turned to leave. “Thank you, Alaric—for keeping it the same.”

“I want you to feel at home here.” 

“Yes, well…” Rhys trailed off breathily, closing the doors behind him.

***

The day droned as any other had over the last week and a half, boring and bleak. Rhys sat perched against a tree, a quill and parchment in his hands as he drew up ideas for new banners and names alike. 

“Anything yet?” Alaric leaned against a tall pine, arms folded over his chest.

“Don’t stand like that.” Rhys’ heart clenched. Alaric straightened. 

“Well?”

“Not really. I do not want to incorporate weapons like Vaust’s sword.”

“Okay.”

“Though, I do like the idea of a bow and arrow.” Alaric raised his gaze from the ground, “Why is that?”

“My brother was named after one.” Rhys kept his gaze on the paper—an awful sketch of an arrow twined with lilac vines was the biggest picture there, the ink smudged by Rhys’ hand, his left one had a black streak on the outside. “He was Aris. It was meant to be Rhys, but my mother wanted to spare that for a girl. I suppose I was the closest they came to one.” He smiled bittersweetly.

“Do you have any ideas?”

“Iron Aris.”

“Pardon?” Rhys quirked a brow.

“The name of our kingdom; Iron Aris. After my father and your brother.”

Rhys nodded, considering this. He did not like the idea of Alaric’s father’s nickname being the head of a brighter future. He’d been the one to continue the war between de Guise and Vaust for so long, why would Alaric want to bring this grim name forth into a kingdom of peace? Then again, Rhys pondered, it would be cruel to deny Alaric such a thing. If he wanted to honor his father as Rhys would honor his brother, than Iron Aris was a beautiful way to do so.

“I like it.” Rhys said slowly.

“Do you really?” Alaric came as close to perking up as Alaric could. His eyes widened only slightly, a single, usually furrowed, brow raised and his lip quirked, as though not wanting to seem too excited by the idea.

“I do,” Rhys nodded more certainly. “Can we keep the banner design?”

“We should add a wolf to the design of the grip.” 

Rhys smiled brighter, then. Iron Aris would incorporate both kingdoms equally, as well as symbols of their pasts. The same two kingdoms who had been at war for decades now joint together in memory and a flag. And, to Rhys, that was as close to peace as they could come.