Chapter 9 — Beautiful

The Capital of Vaust was nothing like De Guise. It was much smaller—a single loop that circled a market with an elder vendor selling fruits and vegetables, and a clock tower. In the very center of the circle, and at the end of the town, behind tall, concrete walls with a black gate slightly opened was the Tower of Vaust.

It was tiny, Rhys thought as they stepped out of the carriage. And Alaric was entirely wrong about people not seeing him—for some odd reason, the Capital was the busiest place in the town. Everyone and their neighbor came to gawk at absolutely nothing. But when Rhys got a closer look, he could see the true reason there were so many people. 

The people were gathered in tents, a fire going in the very middle of the circle. It was not large enough to be the reason for all the smoke and orange sky, but still, its size was impressive. There were mothers with sunken cheeks, and children with theirs sunken, too, Rhys had seen that very look on his mother while he was sick. Skeletal, bone thin, and all of the villagers were pale. Their rich, sun-tanned skin was muted by a lack of nutrition.

Rhys’ heart sank as he examined the scene around him. Vaust did not look like an actively participating kingdom of war, it looked like it was the ground war was fought on. A woman had eight children by her sides, their mix of features dictated that they were not all hers. They were orphans, all in the same, stained-white clothing, too big on some, too small on others. 

But still, when Alaric stepped out of the carriage, they all rose, bowing deeply in greeting.

A child no older than four even ran to hug his leg. Alaric patted a hand down on his head gently. Rhys was now the one gawking, his mouth hanging open in shock.

They were not only looking at Alaric, but at Rhys himself, he noticed, then. Of course, they knew Rhys was their future queen. Unlike De Guise, Vaust knew of the arrangement between the two kingdoms. And so, Rhys was now standing amidst the people he would soon be ruling in pajamas twice his size.

Then again, Rhys considered, was that truly so terrible? Seeing the people who rushed to meet him and catch a glance were sickly thin, some were bruised because of that, some for unrelated reasons. Children were sobbing and calling for their fathers, and the elders of the town were the same, waiting for their children to return from battle. Rhys’ eyes stung. He had known there was suffering, and he, too, understood it now, but to see it laid so bare hit him like the Gods had thrown a brick from the sky and it landed on his head. 

That was when that same child hugging Alaric’s legs had decided to hug Rhys’. “You are very beautiful,” he smiled up at him.

Rhys stared down at the boy, attempting a kind smile, but his tears broke it. He rested a hand on his small shoulder, the other wiping his eyes before he muttered a thank you.

“Why are you crying?” The boy asked, as though the sky were blue, as though Rhys could not see the poor baby’s ribs.

“He is tired. It was a long journey here,” Alaric answered. Rhys still kept the boy tight to him by the shoulder, holding him like that would solve everything. 

He soon let go with a sigh, watching the boy laugh and walk away, calling Rhys something along the lines of silly.

Rhys turned away from Alaric, deciding he would lead himself to the Tower. Alaric let him, nodding once at the guards to open the gates further.

Inside, the Tower seemed taller. Red walls lined every room, the color more vibrant than anything outside. Charcoal carpets mapped out every floor and hall, including the spiraling staircase Rhys found himself ascending. It was the same upstairs, with windows painted like a church’s, each one telling a story. On the very last window before Rhys reached the grand bedroom, there was a painting of a family. Rhys had never seen Alaric’s father before, but there was no doubt that it was him in that painting, standing alongside a woman far too young to be holding a five year old girl, or so Rhys assumed, while Alaric’s father held an infant the prince could only assume was Alaric.

The Tower was not materialistic nor rich like the Castle of De Guise. It was simple, almost painfully so. There were no statues, no pictures hung on the walls, and even the master bedroom had a simple queen sized bed, hearth, and one night table. That was all. 

Rhys’ brows knitted in confusion. Were they not royalty? Why did Vaust have so little? Why were there people suffering so? Rhys had thought De Guise was poor, that it had been taken by war to the point of no return. But everything about Vaust only opened Rhys’ eyes to how much worse things could have been for his own kingdom. He stood in that bedroom in terror, his fists clenched at his sides.

When he heard Alaric’s footsteps behind him, he immediately turned on his heel to face him.

“I want our wedding sooner. I do not want to wait until winter.”

Alaric’s eyes widened the slightest bit before his expression returned to stoic. He nodded once. “I will see to it.”