Chapter 18 — The Aftermath

Rhys’ eyes kept wide in shock. He slowly raised a hand to his lips, feeling the tingle where Alaric’s had been with a low turn in his gut. It was not quite disgust, but not quite pleasure, either. It was the bittersweet mix of in between where you are excited to do something new, but at the same time too nervous and scared to follow through with it.

The prince’s eyes were nearly vacant—an odd look on one like Rhys—he did not meet Alaric’s eyes, choosing his chest in their stead to create some distance without being disrespectful.

When the silence droned on longer than either deemed comfortable, Rhys finally came back to himself with the realization that his clothes were now soaked through and sticking to his skin, causing a shiver to run up his spine, his shoulders physically shaking. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely the cold. Rhys believed in spirits, and he believed you could also shiver when ancestors were watching you. Perhaps his entire family was watching and simultaneously condemning him for such a sin—to kiss the man whose hand ordered the Castle’s siege and their deaths.

Without a word, heavy furs that weighed Rhys down and made his movements slower engulfed him. It was miraculous and reminded Rhys of a coat Fern took weeks sewing for Aris and Callum to keep them warm on battlefields. The melting snow had not seeped into the fabric and kept Rhys utterly dry. 

“I apologize.” Alaric said, almost too quietly. Rhys had to lean in a bit to hear.

He hummed, still lost in thought. And he would be lying if he said he knew what to say at that moment. His heart was still racing and his stomach fluttered recalling the way their lips met. Gentle and earnest despite the tension building over the last nearly month. The way Alaric cupped his jaw tenderly like Callum would his mother’s whenever they thought no one was watching.

 They entered the cabin with weighted silence. The unspoken action hung in the air thick as smoke and Rhys felt suffocated once more—he could already feel the burn in his lungs returning and the sting in his eyes. Perhaps that wasn’t smoke, however, because he certainly felt something trickle down his cheek.

Rhys collected his trinkets once more—all the memorable keepsakes he’d found scattered about from when he’d last visited the cabin as a child, and made his way to his parents’ bedroom. It was, of course, the largest room in the house with the tallest window so Rhys could easily see the peaks and dips and ridges of each mountain near and far. The snow fell in thick flakes now, its piles grew on the rolls of hills throughout the field stretched before the cabin as Rhys held his mother’s watch close. It was a dainty thing, left at the cabin when Callum gifted Fern a much prettier one. Fern was not materialistic, but Callum was, and discarding the cheaper piece of jewelry would make Callum happy. And so that was what he did.

Down the narrow hallway, through the door, Rhys could hear Alaric stoking the low burning fire in the hearth. This kiss complicated everything. Had Rhys disappointed his family by this whim? Would his legacy be that of a traitor against his family and people? His and Alaric’s marriage was arranged by the Council in the name of peace, yet Rhys felt anything but. Was that the price of aging, of being royal? Perhaps it was, Rhys thought, to be a ruler is to put your people above you. Well, that was his interpretation, anyways.

The door creaked once Alaric finished fiddling with the fire. He entered with his tongue in his cheek, a habit Rhys had grown to understand as the Commander’s unspoken discomfort or nervousness.

“I suppose I have quite a few things to apologize about now.”

Had Rhys’ stomach not fluttered when Alaric entered, he may have appreciated the dry humor. He sat up, leaning back on his hands with his legs criss-crossed. “I liked it.” Rhys’ mouth betrayed him so quickly, as though excusing the apology altogether. His face and neck warmed considerably, gaze lowering in shame. He’d not felt that in quite some time. Growing up royal, people would praise you for walking. It was not often a prince felt shame—certainly not one of such power as Rhys was. 

“You did?” Alaric asked, amber eyes raising to meet Rhys’ gaze with that of a young boy’s. It was almost hopeful. That certainly didn’t help Rhys’ fluttering stomach.

“Yes.” He nearly whispered.

“Then.” Alaric breathed, a mixture of relief and something Rhys couldn’t read in his voice.

“I do not wish to discuss it.”

“Very well. Would you like some tea?” Alaric asked, “I brought the leaves you like from Vaust. I’ve noticed they ease your stress.”

Alaric had noticed such a thing? Thought Rhys. He’d never explicitly explained that tea helped him calm down, and he certainly had never said the precise kind. It was a lavender induced tea that Fern made personally. The leaves in the paper bag Alaric carried were the last of it, considering the rest had burned with the Castle.

“Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”