The smell. That’s what he kept remembering. When Percy had carried him from the room, his nostrils had been assaulted by the scent of sickeningly sweet iron. And now as he lied in bed, it kept coming back to him, swiftly and unexpectedly. Both of their breaths were shallow, and he knew neither of them would find sleep tonight. As much as he tried not to think about it, the carnage replayed in his mind, over and over and over again. He kept seeing the murderous rage in Percy’s eyes, more and more blood splattering across his face with each stab of the knife, like war paint. In that moment, he had been scared. Scared of him.
He heard birds chirping outside the bedroom window as his head swam with exhaustion. Percy, who had dozed off and jolted awake a few times over the night, now slowly sat up in the bed, brushing the ashen hair from his forehead.
“We have to get you back to your room, before everyone wakes up,” he murmured quietly.
Every word was laced with caution, as if the simple act of Percy speaking would shatter him to pieces. He knew he had to leave, but his body refused to move. His mind was struggling to form advanced thoughts, and the only thing that he was certain of at that moment was that Percy would keep him safe; he should not leave Percy.
“Aryn…”
Strong hands, hands that had been coated in a man’s blood, gently grabbed his shoulders. The movement barely existed, instead it was more like a suggestion, as he began to sit him up. But he allowed it. His body felt unbearably heavy, as if he were fighting against the earth itself just to move. His dull blue eyes remained fixed at a nonspecific spot on the blanket, his consciousness elsewhere.
Large palms cupped his face as his gaze was forced upward. His emerald eyes had finally lost that wildness, and Percy looked at him as if he were a wounded, dying animal.
“You have to go back to your room.”
A gentle thumb brushed across his cheekbone, and Percy leaned towards him. The dagger flashed in his mind, the man bolting at him. He flinched away. The look that appeared on Percy’s face was composed of pure heartbreak.
“Baby I’m not going to hurt you…”
“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered.
A heavy sigh escaped Percy’s lips as he ever so gently ran a hand through his icy blonde hair. “You don’t need to apologize, love. But you have to get back to your room.”
The repetition of the message finally reached his ears. Nodding, he slowly pulled the covers off of himself, and the cold air bit at his skin. He had dressed warmly in linen pants and a thick sweater, but something about being exposed, even just a little bit, kicked up a trembling deep in his core. He slid out of bed and dragged his feet to the door, dread beginning to crush his chest.
“Aryn.”
As he placed his hand on the door, he turned his head towards Percy. He was propped up on an elbow, his curly dark brown hair a tangled mess. Dark circles occupied the skin beneath his eyes, but there was an intensity in his green irises as he looked at him.
“We’re going to be okay. I promise.”
Their eyes remained locked as he stood there for a moment, frozen. Thoughts raced through his mind, memories of his mother telling him similar things…
“You can’t promise that,” he murmured lowly. “Not anymore.”
His tan face shifted into an expression of confusion, of hurt. “Aryn…”
“I’ll see you at the execution,” he mumbled before slipping out of the room.
The sun had not yet risen, and thankfully no one was traversing the large halls. He quickly made his way back towards his chambers, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he kept checking behind himself. Eventually he made it back to his door, and instead of two Crownsguard stationed there, he saw a familiar face.
“Ser Donal?”
The seasoned man turned to receive him, giving him a quick bow. “Prince Aryn, is everything okay? Philip asked me to switch out with the guards a few hours ago, but I assumed you were in your room… I suppose knowing you, I should have known better.”
The older knight gave him a playful yet kind smile. There was a fatherly expression in his blue-grey eyes, a look of intense, unspoken worry.
Ser Donal had been his mother’s sworn protection when she became Queen. He had not seen much of the man since her death, as he had been brought back into the Kingsguard. But throughout that time, the knight had protected him as well. Watching over him while he grew up, it was safe to say Ser Donal knew him better than Father ever would.
“I could not sleep, as you can imagine,” he explained vaguely, his voice devoid of life. “When did Father say the execution was to begin?”
“Lord Poulter is being retrieved from the dungeons at sunrise, so presumably shortly thereafter,” he stated dutifully.
“Then I must be getting ready.”
He went to grab the latch of his door, but Ser Donal sidled in front of him.
“Aryn… I would be remiss in my duty to protect you if I did not say that perhaps you should not attend. You do not need to see any more men die, child.”
Blue eyes locked with grey, and he saw Donal’s expression shift as his own eyes darkened uncharacteristically.
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“I know it has been some time, Ser, but unfortunately I am not a child anymore.”
The knight tilted his chin downward as his bushy brows furrowed. “Aryn–”
“Besides, Father has demanded I be there. So the matter has already been settled,” he cut off. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
A subtle look of disappointment came over Ser Donal’s face, but he stepped aside silently and let him pass. He slipped quickly into the room, the sudden silence now bearing down on him. His chest started to grow tight, and as he looked down at his hands, dark brownish red was crusted beneath his nails. It felt difficult to breathe, like invisible fingers now wrapped around his throat and were beginning to slowly squeeze tighter and tighter. The edges of his vision grew blurry, and suddenly the ground grew closer. He reached out to catch himself as he collapsed to his knees, his chest feeling as if it were being crushed.
In a couple hours, he would watch Benjamin’s head roll. He would watch that axe come down on his neck, and watch as his blood covered the platform like a spilled barrel of wine. All because he couldn’t mind his own business at that ball. All because his pride had gotten the best of him, because he was sick of being treated as lesser than. Was that what it would come to to just survive? To continue to cower and shut up and stay silent, to continue to be bullied and shut out and isolated?
Life had to be more than that. It had to be more than this game of walking on eggshells.
Percy made it more than that.
“No matter what happens, I will always be there to protect you. I’ve done it twice now, and I will continue to do so, until we are two sets of bones in a joint grave.”
Except it hadn’t been twice; it had been three times. He’d saved his life the day they met each other, by asking him to come back. By making him see that there was at least one person who valued him. And as the past few months had gone by, he’d found himself slowly changing. He would wake up in the morning without that tightness in his chest. He’d look in the mirror and actually find something to appreciate. He had found a voice, a confidence he never had before.
And I was so hurtful towards him…
He knew Percy had been trying to do something, anything, to make him feel even slightly less afraid. But in that moment, everything seemed like a lie, and he couldn’t believe in the promise he had tried to make. Right now he couldn’t believe in anything, have faith in anything. Except that Percy would protect him, no matter the cost. It was the singular solace he was able to have. But his jumbled up mind had tried to push him away.
A knock sounded on the door, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He was still on his hands and knees on the floor, his body shaking for some reason. His breath still burned in his throat, but instead of being suffocated, he now felt tears quickly welling in his eyes. When he didn’t answer, the door was pushed open anyway.
“Jesus Christ, Aryn,” Philip exclaimed quietly, closing the door and throwing himself onto the floor next to him.
“I’m okay,” he struggled to get out. “I just… need a minute.”
He flinched as Philip’s hand came to rest on his back, an immediate sense of embarrassment washing over him. But his brother was not phased, and instead his other hand gently pulled the hair away from his forehead.
“You’re burning up,” he murmured worriedly.
“I’m fine,” he insisted.
The softest plop sounded on the rug beneath him as dense tears fell from his eyes, and his body continued its uncontrollable shaking. It was as if he had lost his autonomy, and something else rooted deep inside of him was forcing its way out. He tried his best to fight it, to resist it, but the more he did, the stronger it became, until finally all he could do was give in to it.
His body trembled and lurched as violent, gut-wrenching sobs clawed their way out from the depths of his soul. He didn’t fight it as he felt Philip’s arms wrap around him and pull him close. They sat with his brother’s back against the bed, his shoulder digging into his stomach as his head was held tightly to his chest. His cries gave him scarce room to breathe, and thus oxygen entered his lungs only through desperate gasps. The world around him swam and blurred. He reached his hand up to grip Philip’s shirt, trying to retain his small grasp on reality. His brother squeezed his body to him, almost so much that it hurt, but it kept him grounded.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, resting his chin on top of his mop of ashen hair. “I’ve got you…”
It felt as if all of the grief, all of the fear and anxiety and despair that had been eating away at him was being physically expelled, his soul simply unable to contain any more. It wouldn’t stop.
“Do you remember when we were children,” Philip began softly. “And we were learning how to swordfight? God, Father would get so frustrated when you refused to practice. And one day he asked you why, why did you not want to carry a sword? Do you remember what you told him?”
The memory formed in his mind, fuzzy and vague. But as much as he wanted to respond, his body would not let him. All that came out of his mouth was another sob. Philip brushed the hair from his forehead again, repeating the motion in a slow, soothing fashion.
“You said your books were your sword, and that only stupid people needed swords to solve their problems, like me and Father.”
A quiet chuckle escaped his brother’s chest, followed by a sharp inhalation of breath. It was at that moment that he realized Philip had begun to form tears in his eyes.
“Good Lord did he skin your hide for that one. And when Mum found out, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get that angry before. She threw her shoe at him after she saw how red your behind was.”
That memory, however, was clear as glass. He let out a breathy, involuntary laugh before burying his face further into Philip’s chest, his heart aching for more of the brotherly warmth he was being given.
“She really never backed down to Father. You know, sometimes you act just like her, and you don’t even notice. Like when you told me off after Percy’s accident. Or when we were talking the other week when we went for that ride. You have that quiet strength of hers, that silent resilience. I wish I had more of that.”
His hand continued to comb through his blonde hair, and slowly his breath started coming back to him. The sobs began to cease, his tears beginning to dry up, as he kept his grip on Philip, leaning into him.
“I can’t imagine how terrifying it must have been,” he stated quietly. “But you have to remember that you survived, Aryn. You fought back. Never forget that, when it came down to it, you refused to give up. You refused to be a victim. Find strength in that, okay?”
As his words sank in, a strange sense of calm started to wash over him. He took in a deep, shaky breath, his chest achy and sore. The trembling throughout his body began to ease as Philip slowly and gently rubbed his arm, keeping him close.
“I will go speak with Father. You do not need to see–”
“No,” he interrupted. “I need to be there. I have to face him.”
A silence settled over the room for a moment, Philip’s hands stilling.
“Aryn, are you certain?”
“Yes.”
His brother moved his hand to his back. “Then I will make sure to stand by your side.”
As they sat on the floor, his eyes wandered over to his dresser, to where his crown sat atop its cushion. Philip was right; he refused to be a victim any longer. He refused to be a victim of his father, of Benjamin, of anyone else who looked down upon him. He needed to take control, starting with this. And maybe, just maybe, he would be able to prove his strength to himself.