Chapter 8 — The Kingdom of Ash

While their compromise had been a brief moment of agreement between Rhys and Alaric, it did little to soothe the prince's nerves about traveling alone with Alaric for five hours. 

The whip had prepared the carriage earlier than Rhys had expected, and so, with the first hint of sunlight creeping its way through the dark violet and blue of the night, he was pulled from sleep to travel the long way to the Kingdom of Vaust.

His hair was still tousled from sleep—he had run his fingers through it a few times to untangle it, but it still would not fall properly so he tied it back with Callum's old sword ribbon, black strands falling to frame his face in waves. Rhys hardly had time to change—Alaric said the whip would not wait and so Rhys would either have to change in the carriage or not at all. He opted for the ladder.

So there he sat, in the carriage in Aris’ old sky blue, silk pajamas. They hung off his slight frame, the pant legs falling nearly past his feet and the sleeves past his fingertips. His arms were folded over his chest as he pouted, staring out the quarter light as his castle faded out of view.

The ride was silent and awkward, and Rhys was still angry that he couldn't change. By the time they arrived, it would be the afternoon. Not the best first impression of their Queen-to-be.

“No one will see you,” Alaric mumbled, his eyes heavy, too. Rhys did not believe him.

“I do not understand why you let your men boss you around. You are their leader, do they not know?”

“They do. I requested we leave first thing in the morning.” Alaric sighed, closing his eyes briefly.

“Well, thanks for informing me.” Rhys huffed, turning his attention back out to the forest. The horses were only trotting, so Rhys could see every owl and deer along the side of the path. He had not been up this early since he had turned twelve and was properly given his crown and announced prince. Rhys hated mornings, but he could not deny how beautiful they were here. There were no people for acres, just himself—ignoring Alaric at the moment—and the view of glistening mountaintops. 

Rhys yawned, covering his mouth with both hands, his eyelids still heavy, closed enough for long, dark eyelashes to tickle his cheeks.

“You may sleep,” Alaric peeked an eye open, looking over to Rhys.

“No.” 

“Alright.” And he closed his eyes once more.

Rhys did not understand Alaric. He was a walking contradticiton—barely two weeks ago, he had ordered his men to take his castle in flames, which caused his mother to perish, and out on the battlefield, his father and brother faced their fate against Alaric’s men, also. And now, the man seemed eager to bring Rhys comfort and bend to his every will. If Rhys snapped his fingers, he guaranteed Alaric would appear at his side. Rhys had no intention of giving Alaric any comfort, and Alaric knew this all too well, so perhaps he was trying to earn it.\

Though, the prince soon learned, Alaric would not have to earn his empathy. As the Kingdom of Vaust slowly rolled into view, Rhys winced at the sight. Vaust was nothing like De Guise. Rhys could recognize a starving child or a broken man. That, he had seen in his own kingdom times aplenty. But this was different, even the blue sky seemed to be a distant memory left in De Guise, for the skies were orange, here.

Rhys’ eyes widened at the smell—smoke; thick and heavy and all-consuming, it filled his nostrils and lungs and his eyes watered, heart pounded. He could feel the trembling in his limbs, his pounding heart, and unconsciously, he squeezed the seat he sat upon tight enough to pale his knuckles to bone white. He could not see, his vision blurring. His nails were digging into the doorway again as he cried for Fern, being hauled across the castle, watching ashes scatter and float about him, like the snow now tickling his face, crows cawing in the distance, fleeing the cold.

He blinked once, twice, coming back to, his palms sweaty and hands still trembling. He had only just now realized the hand on his upper back, broad, warm and grounding, moving in slow, circular motions. 

He glanced up at Alaric, who looked down at him with an odd gaze, Rhys’ brows knitted together, remembering he was still upset with him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Alaric moved his hand away and nodded, Rhys shivered at the loss of the warmth. He found it odd that it was snowing while there was enough fire to turn the blue sky orange.

Rhys understood loss, more than he cared to admit, and even the smell of smoke was enough to bring him terror. He could not imagine living through this daily. His eyes softened as he stared at the side of Alaric’s face. When Alaric turned to meet his eyes, Rhys flinched, “You should shave.” He quickly said, turning his head to stare back out the quarter light.