Chapter 10 — Condolences

The Tower was silent, as it always was this early in the morning. Rhys had decided to sleep in the guest room, small as it was, who was Alaric to argue?

Alaric stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out through the tall window of the grand bedroom, his expression unreadable as his gaze swept over the people gathered, sleeping by the fire in their tents in the Capital. His tongue found its way to his cheek as he turned on his heel, finished pulling the thick bear fur over his shoulders and buttoning it around his neck.

“It is cold, Alaric. You should wear the fur I sewed for you or you’ll wound up with a fever.”

Alaric clicked his tongue, blinking away the memory and sting in his eyes. Perhaps Rhys was right, he figured, running a scarred hand down his face and through his beard. He should shave. He would, before the wedding, if that was what Rhys wanted.

Wesley’s boots clicked in a steady rhythm, muted by the carpets of the corridors, as he found his way to Alaric’s bedroom. He knocked once and entered, “Sir.” Wesley nodded in greeting, his voice gruff and clipped. He had removed his captain’s hat to reveal thinning hair at the top of his head, it was bowed, which never meant good news. 

“How many?” Alaric’s own gaze lowered slightly. “Four, Sir. At the Eastern grounds just outside of Fallon. 

Fallon was a powerful kingdom, not as much as De Guise or Vaust, since it was smaller, but it was still significant enough to gauge Alaric’s full attention. Especially considering Fallon and Vaust were in an allyship. He picked up his gaze and met the captain’s, brows knitting in confusion. “By Fallon…” He paused and brushed past Wesley with a quick pat to his shoulder. “I will arrange the roses and letters. See to it that our soldiers tread there lightly and inform them that we are currently putting our alliance on pause until this is sorted.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Alaric pinched the bridge of his nose, now in his study with four letters before him, writing the same thing he’d written a thousand times, folding the letters with a de-thorned rose tucked into it. He handed each one off to a scrawny man—starved—once Alaric finished the last one, he stood. “There is bread in the kitchen downstairs. Tell the cook I sent you and you can take some.”

The man bowed in gratitude, a sheepish smile spread across his face. “Thank you, Sir, you are most kind.”

Alaric didn’t answer, he left the room with a sigh and finally got to officially start the day.

Heads rose as he opened the gates before the Tower, infants cried at the sound, younger children were already awake, passing stones like balls. Alaric raised a hand to a few mothers in apology, walking past them and mounting his stallion, the smoke never did clear. The sky was still orange, even in the darkness of early dawn. He rode to the end of the long, narrow path, which had turned from stone to gravel as the forest came closer and closer. 

Soldiers lined the front, each with a sword in their sheaths and each with a bow and arrow in their hands, aimed in a perfect line. Once the first bell rang through from a neighboring kingdom, they soared. There was a rhythmic thwip thwip thwip that ran in Alaric’s ears until he no longer blinked and a tension crept from his shoulders to his neck, turning into a constant pressure at his cranium and behind his eyes.

“See, you hold the bow like this, keep your shoulders square and your feet lined with them.”

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that, my boy.”

Alaric could still feel that large, calloused hand ruffling his hair. 

“Captain,” Alaric patted the broad back of a pudgier man next to him. “You’re in charge of this front today, I have business to attend to in Fallon.”

“Yes, Sir.” The man rose two fingers to his forehead, not risking a look up at Alaric, his eyes focused like pinpoints on the field before them.

Alaric nodded and walked off.

***

Of course, Alaric could not get in contact with Jean Fallon so early, so he returned to the Tower to remap the day. Instead, he was faced with a thud to his chest at the gate, he looked down. 

Rhys glared back up at him, brows knitted. “I want to see the infirmary.”

“No.” Alaric replied simply, hands decidedly staying at his sides.

“And why not?”

“It is too dangerous and I do not trust the men there.”

Rhys only huffed again. He was still in his pajamas. Gods, was he ever beautiful?

Alaric had thought that the first time he met Rhys, too. Of course, the prince’s hair was only down to his shoulders then, his eyes were still wide and bright with wonder and the innocence that war had stripped of all of them the last few years. Alaric had accompanied his father to a meeting with the De Guise’s when he was sixteen summers, Rhys had wandered into the room searching for his brother with a suspiciously long stick hidden terribly behind his back.

Alaric’s heart stuttered once. He could not say no to such a face, certainly not when it twisted so bitterly.

“Fine. I will have Wesley escort you.”

Rhys’ face lit up like a child receiving candy. Alaric oftentimes wondered if Rhys was still too pure for the world about them. He cried for those who bled when it was not he who felt pain. He pouted until he got his way. The knight didn't quite understand Rhys. He wanted to. But what was he to do? He had ordered his men to burn his castle down—and those same men had taken his family's lives. Alaric was in no place to order Rhys around. Perhaps it was pity, or simply because Alaric understood what it was like to lose those you loved.