Rhys had been shown the way to the infirmary by Wesley, just as Alaric had said. There, Rhys was met with the pungent smell of blood and stale urine, his hand flung to his nose, plugging it before he could think.

What kind of nurses had let a place meant to be sterile run wild enough to smell so badly? Rhys furrowed his brows in focus. He had wanted to come here to make himself useful. People were suffering, and here he was plugging his nose like a child.

He dropped his hand with a nearly pained sigh, examining the infirmary properly. Much to his sorrow, there was blood smeared across wooden floorboards, upon every soldier's skin was poorly done stitches, tied just as poorly. Some wounds were reopening despite them, and the majority looked infected. There were pales of bile next to each bed, shared between two soldiers each, and filled to the brim. Flies zipped and buzzed about, and the rich, earthy tones of the soldiers of Vaust's skin had gone sickly pale. Rhys had thought his skin was fair, but even he looked tan in comparison.

There was much work to be done, Rhys told himself. He did not have time to dwell and hum and ha. And so, he got to work. He began with tidying up the place. He'd no idea where the cleaning supplies like soap and water could be, and he gave up looking after opening every cabinet and drawer, but still, he could dump the buckets of bile outside and ask around.

After wandering and looking for a nurse for quite some time, Rhys bumped into Edmund. He had not seen him since he revisited the castle. “Edmund!” Rhys exclaimed, his arms wide, wrapping about the taller man's shoulders in a warm embrace. “You are well? How does your foot fare?”

Edmund's hand came warm and steady, resting upon Rhys’ shoulder as he offered the younger boy a gentle, fatherly smile. “I am well, yes. And you seem to be doing better, yourself.”

“And your foot?” Rhys ignored the comment on his own level of content purposefully.

“I cannot apply much pressure to it just yet, but I assure you, it will be fine. King Alaric has even given me a proper splint and sticks he carved himself to assist my walking.

Rhys’ eyes widened imperceptibly, then his brows furrowed in confusion. Why would Alaric care about Edmund? He certainly did not care about the rest of Rhys' family.

“Now, why are you in such a rush, my dear? You nearly trampled over me. You've not done that since you were still young and reckless.”

“Oh, my apologies, Edmund,” Rhys’ head bowed, “I am helping tidy up the infirmary—it is a disaster, truly awful—and I was in desperate need of hot water and soap.”

Edmund's shoulders shook in a silent chuckle, “You'd have more luck finding Big Foot than hot water here, boy. When I was a soldier, back in my day, Vaust hardly had fresh water, much less a place to heat it up.”

Rhys’ gaze lowered further, his brows stayed furrowed. “I see. As for soap?” He slowly met Edmund's eyes. Edmund shrugged easily, lowering his hand from Rhys’ shoulder, taking hold of the stick leaning against his hip to hold himself upright once more. “Find your groom. He'll know.”

Rhys shot Edmund a glare that could burn through brick. Edmund's lips quirked. “Only teasing, Rhys. You never could take a joke—always dishing, though.” 

“He is not my groom.”

“Then, what?” 

Rhys paused. Well, Alaric was—what was Alaric? A political consort? “Never mind that. Do you know where he is?”

“He was making his way to Fallon's bridge, the last I heard. My wandering about this place has been pretty limited, as I'm sure you could tell.”

“Thank you, Edmund.”

***

Moments later, Rhys found Wesley once more, standing at ease near the gate where Alaric's men's arrows soared. Rhys brought a finger up to the alpha's shoulder, tapping twice. “Has Alaric returned from Fallon yet, Wesley?”

Wesley turned to face Rhys, his eyes widening at sight of his future queen still in pajamas—and dirtier pajamas, no less. Bile had splashed up the silk pants and blood stained his sleeve cuffs from when Rhys had re-stitched several soldiers’ wounds. He looked nothing like the Prince of De Guise was meant to. Rumor about the royal families of the northern hemisphere spread like wildfire, naturally, but Rhys had never heard the rumors of himself. Beautiful, graceful, pompous, arrogant. He'd no idea what the people of Vaust would think of him, and at the time, he didn't particularly care. But seeing Wesley's expression made his gut twinge with something akin to insecurity. Rhys had never thought of himself as above his people. Entitled at times, sure, but never had he looked down his nose at those below his status. Blood was blood, regardless of the DNA attached.

“No, he hasn't.” Wesley replied finally, “He will not return until late tonight, Your Highness, he has left on private business.”

“I see. Then, perhaps you know where I can get soap and water?”

“I believe the King has soap in his private quarters, but he has locked the doors there. But there is water in the well by the Capital. It is dirty, so I would not drink it.” 

Rhys’ brows furrowed in a pout. He sighed. “Very well, thank you.”