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“Rhy,” Alucard pleaded, reaching to take his arm.
“Don’t.” The word was forced through clenched teeth.
Alucard watched the muscle in Rhy’s jaw work. The shadows under his eyes were darker than just a day or so before. And while he still held every ounce of royal charm as one would a new and prized accessory – something dark coiled beneath the surface. His temperament was foul; the sharp scent of liquor and spices clung to him. There was a strange pallor to his usually radiant and tan skin. Once again he was left feeling completely powerless.
“What can I do, Rhy? Just tell me how I can help…”
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It doesn’t matter.
Rhy sent a silent apology to the Saints, and another to his brother. Hopefully Kell was far enough away that coming back to check on him wasn’t an option. Hopefully Delilah Bard was a good distraction, or maybe they were getting tangled in some new web of trouble. Whatever it may be, Rhy hoped the echo of his pain was less than what he now dealt with.
He took a deep breath and found it required too much effort. It doesn’t matter. He pressed his back flat against the wall and dipped his head. Choking on a small sob, he forced his thumb roughly against the open wound. It was already healing. It doesn’t matter. He dug his fingers deeper, pressed harder. It doesn’t matter. Alucard is saying his name. It doesn’t matter. His vision spots and the pain becomes unbearable. This isn’t very princely, or kingly at that. It doesn’t matter…
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“Rhy! Rhy, look at me. Look at me.”
Alucard holds his face in his hands, wildly searching the glazed gaze of his king – of his lover. His eyes burn with tears and there’s a stickiness to his skin where they fell. He pulled Rhy closer, and let their foreheads touch. Fear and anger both made his hands shake, fingers trembling as they combed through dark curls.
The moment Rhy Maresh collapsed where he stood, the moment Alucard had started yelling his name and seen too much blood – the guard and former privateer leapt into action. He made a tourniquet, cleaned him up, and set him to rest among the many pillows of his bed. And now he held Rhy’s face and was pleading with him. “Will you just tell me the truth?”
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Weak fingers trace the silver lines in Alucard’s face. The fight against Osaron and his magic wasn’t so long ago, and it would never be far behind. Years would pass and Rhy would never escape it. He would see it in his people’s eyes, in the thinness of the streets, in Alucard, in everything, and at every turn. The events and his own encounters were another landscape for him to traverse – both with open eyes and in the land of sleep. Even the tonics Tieren concocted for him didn’t seem to help. At least not for long. Rhy could have one small victory; this was the first time he had ever truly hurt himself in quite some time.
A lingering ache pulsed in his skull and his arm burned. But there were no traces of blood and he couldn’t move to trace his skin for marks. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse and his mouth dry.
“It’s just too much,” he started, a small flame of shame and frustration heating his cheeks. “Sometimes it’s too much.” Words failed him, and he didn’t think he could explain it further. Rhy loved Arnes, and he loved his people – but sometimes the weight and possibility of failure was suffocating. He had so much to learn still, and battled occasionally with feeling weak, powerless. It was his very weakness that put them in such a situation to begin with, that jeopardized everything. His own selfish desires and naivety had been a root cause in the imbalance of magic and the ability for Astride Dane to take hold of his body.
“You don’t have to face any of it alone, Rhy.” Alucard said the words so softly, he almost missed them.
“Sometimes, I just want to feel alive.” The moment the words left Rhy’s lips, Alucard kissed him. It was not a gentle kiss, but a fervid one meant to ground him. To tell him everything would be okay; that it would get easier.