The day had been an eventful one, to say the least. Rhys tended to the wounded and ill soldiers the rest of it, waiting impatiently for Alaric to return so he could finally get soap.

Wesley had undermined how truly terrible and filthy the water was, Rhys discovered after fetching it from the well—which was a chore on its own. Not only had Rhys never fetched water from a well, but the crank was rusted and nearly impossible to turn. Luckily, there was another young man fetching water who gladly helped Rhys, if only because he felt a little hot under the collar at the sight of him. Either way, Rhys got his water.

Returning to the infirmary felt like walking a plank. Each day, more soldiers came in with illnesses and arrow wounds. Each day, there was more reason for Rhys to wed Alaric sooner. They were already going to marry by autumn, but still, if it ensured peace, an end to it all, Rhys would have married him tomorrow.

Alas, he could not. He was stuck in this loop of caring for soldiers, greeting new ones and restarting.

One week later

Alaric stayed in his study today. He was writing away on parchments, he'd written so much half of his hand was covered in ink and cramping. When he returned to the infirmary to notify Rhys that dinner was shortly, Rhys would see that his expression was even more troubled than usual.

“What's wrong?” Rhys raised a brow, “You never look sad.”

It was true. Alaric seemed to never feel anything, much less express it. But his tongue was pressed to the inside of his cheek and his shoulders even dropped. He looked like a gloomy dog. Rhys wouldn't publicly comment on how Alaric's slouching made him look unbecoming of a king, but he did think it, briefly.

“I will tell you over dinner. It is a private matter.”

“Very well.”

Dinner was awkward, to say the least. Alaric wasn't sure how to bring up what Wesley had told him the other day, much less to Rhys who was already feeling the weight of loss heavily.

“So.” Rhys huffed, waiting impatiently, setting down a piece of bread on his plate.

“Wesley brought something to my attention, Rhys.” Alaric finally spoke. “The other day, he found four dead bodies by Fallon Ridge.”

“At the bridge?”

Alaric's eyes widened imperceptibly, “You knew?”

“Well, word gets around and the infirmary is constantly busy. There is always gossip going about there. Besides, it's not normal that a commoner was also killed. Soldiers, maybe, but Fallon Ridge isn't at war with anyone at the moment.”

“Well,” Alaric sighed, glad that Rhys already knew, but still, his heart felt heavy. “I don't suppose you know that King Fallon and I are allies, then?”

“Of course you are. It only makes sense.” Rhys muttered around a mouthful of veal. He had given up on dining etiquette when he noticed Alaric ate baked potatoes with his hands like an animal.

“Yes, well, that is the reason for my trouble. Fallon may not personally be at war with anyone, but how do we know his soldiers aren't? Someone could be going behind his back.”

“Behind his back? Why would they do that?” Rhys’ brows furrowed. “Fallon is an exceptional man. He takes very good care of his people—I heard that he's only eating every other day so he can feed his servants and the commoners.”

Alaric hummed. That was that.

Rhys remained unconcerned, if only because he was at his emotional capacity with loss and couldn't afford to focus on four more deaths without breaking down. But Alaric knew he would cry about it later in the guest room.