Chapter Text
Charan’s dreams, if they could be called that, were murky and incomprehensible. There were voices he both recognized and didn’t, loud one moment then soft the next, nearly discernible at first then almost impossible to identify as human speech. The buzzing in his head and ears and the whole world around him was an aggressive static, burying him beneath waves of darkness and light, emptiness and color. There was no one, yet there was everyone; there was nothing, yet there was everything. Time was finite yet nonexistent; space, smothering yet vast.
Confusion was the only constant. Charan was drowning in a sea of questions, ebbing and flowing without lingering for long.
What had happened? Where was he? Was he alive? Was he dead? Where was Nin? What had happened to Prince Wasin? Had the king reached safety and survived his injuries? Had Thatdanai reunited with Khanin? Was he acting as Khanin’s guard in Charan’s stead? Had Vetish encountered any difficulties escaping the dockside mess without awkward questions? Were the other heirs safely back in Davin City? Had they been targeted as well?
There were no answers, and as quickly as the endless queries occurred to him, they slipped away without leaving any traces in Charan’s memory.
Was this how death felt? Or was this merely life in a different form?
He didn’t know.
He couldn’t care.
He was so, so tired.
It was a bone-deep exhaustion Charan had never experienced in his life. Not during his constant training or when he began to teach. Not even when he traveled to London to return a wayward prince to his roots or during the maelstrom of madness that had ensued. Perhaps the only instances in which he had even remotely approached this level of weariness were the moments when the rain ceased and his fear subsided, leaving him drained and wrung out.
This was an exponentially more powerful sensation, and Charan couldn’t summon the strength to resist, riding the waves of chaos and calm without even thinking of reaching for the shore.
An hour, a day, a week, a year—he couldn’t say how long he drifted before he felt himself beginning to surface. The air in his lungs turned feather-light, and his head wasn’t so heavy as a muted luminescence filtered into his awareness through closed eyelids.
It was nighttime. The telltale warmth of lamplight was the first thing he registered, followed by the soft mattress beneath him and the dull ache in his back. He was covered in a thin blanket, and there was something sharp in his hand—a needle, awkwardly tingling beneath his skin when he instinctively twitched. His other hand was heavy, but not on its own: something was pressed against it. Something soft, warm, and familiar.
One by one, Charan’s senses returned, and the habits born of intense training fell into place.
The room was air-conditioned but not too cold, and the silence was only broken by three distinct breathing patterns—his own and two others, both of which he knew well. The humidity in the air was slightly more pervasive than in Davin City and vaguely tinged with the scent of salt and antiseptic, so they were still in Meenanagarin. He’d been shot—he vividly remembered that part—and someone must have brought him to the palace hospital. Based on the extent of his discomfort, it had been serious, but so were the painkillers he was being given.
Charan was in one piece, groggily flexing each of his limbs to ensure there was no loss of function.
He had lived.
Taking stock of his faculties came naturally. Evaluating his surroundings was second nature. Scanning for threats had long since become routine.
Yet that was what he had the hardest time processing.
It wasn’t that he had wanted to die—far from it. Charan had so much to live for, more than he’d ever thought possible for someone of his standing in Emmaly. His life was bound to the throne; if that throne chose to take it, his duty was to hand it over gladly. After what had happened all those years ago, after so long living with that possibility hovering over his head… He hadn’t wanted to die, but he was prepared for it regardless.
To discover that it hadn’t happened? That he was still whole and here? That was the overwhelming part.
Charan could dwell on that later, though. If he was alive and conscious, then he had a duty to perform.
Wrestling with his own eyelids, he managed to blearily peer at the surroundings he’d already anticipated before his gaze slid towards the weight pressing his hand down into the mattress. The sight that greeted him would have been comical under different circumstances. Instead, it made his heart skip a beat.
Chakri was stretched out on the sofa, his expression pinched even in sleep and his glasses askew. He would have been the picture of awkward comfort were he not otherwise so put together, not one button undone or hair out of place. Clearly, he was still on duty, and Charan didn’t have to wonder why.
At his bedside, Khanin was hunched over with his face against Charan’s palm, sound asleep. He had changed out of his archery equipment at some point, making it much harder for Charan to gauge how long he had been unconscious, and his vest was stretched taut across his back. It couldn’t be comfortable—it wasn’t comfortable, as Charan knew quite well from his own midnight vigils. Even so, a warmth bloomed in his chest that had nothing to do with painkillers or spilled blood.
When was the last time anyone had stayed with him when he was ill? He couldn’t even remember. In fact, he wasn’t sure it had ever happened before. The Phithakthewa clan was resolute in fulfilling its oath. While there was no doubt in his mind that his mother had loved him, she was still frequently absent. Such was the nature of duty. The king had even more to contend with.
But Khanin… His duties were different. He had the power and privilege to perform them without sacrificing time with those he loved, at least for now. If he followed through on abdicating when the royal competition was over, maybe he always would.
It was a comforting thought even as it occurred to him that his own future was not so certain. He was alive, but he didn’t serve only Khanin. He had been lucky this time. If circumstances called for a repeat performance someday, there was no telling. All he could do was enjoy what he had while he could.
Unable to move his free hand very far and unwilling to rouse Khanin, Charan settled for gently running his thumb along the ridge of Nin’s brow and cheekbone and let his own eyes drift shut once more. They could speak in the morning. For now, they should all rest before the trial ahead: the royal competition and all that lay beyond it. For the first time, Charan even let himself imagine that a long, sunlit road awaited him through the Garden of Eden with the most precious apple waiting for him at its end.
Perhaps even Castor was allowed to dream of forever.