Chapter Text
A thin trail of smoke was already rising into the sky when Arnold arrived at the casino. A quarter of an hour ago, he had been panicked: as he'd mounted Hildebrand and gone to follow his spouse, the heavy fear slowly settled down into something a few steps to the left of anger. Now, as he dismounted, he found himself perfectly calm instead, so level-headed that he could level a building.
Whispers trailed him, as they tended to do. Some of Theodore's retainers surrounded the area, but they knew better than to interfere with Arnold: it was a point Theodore had been sure to drill into them, as his wife had gladly informed him. Rishe was always fond of reminding him that his brother, and indeed all his siblings, found him to be of import. Not of value! she had insisted. You're not some bauble. Of import, my husband!
Most of the time, Rishe preferred to be diplomatic, but in that case she would have given due notice. Arnold dismounted his horse, knowing that Hildebrand would find some place to wait, and strode into the building. Unconscious bodies and broken furniture already littered the floor. The air carried the mild scent of something sweet, and he covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve, stepping past the carnage with a delicate stride. He didn't doubt that Rishe had employed some kind of drug, in order to handle a full room of enemies. That, naturally, begged the question: had she gone in alone?
His wife would be aghast at the thought of doing even mild harm to her allies, even if she didn't know many of Theodore's guards personally. Perhaps there was the slightest chance that Rishe had brought at least one other person inside, but Arnold quite heavily doubted it. Embers smoldered near a shattered chair leg, and Arnold took the time to stamp them out, hardly wanting a fire to grow before he could retrieve his spouse and brother. On a far wall, a door had already been flung open. Looking inside revealed a short corridor, with another opened door and the smell of ash-tinged sugar.
A joyless smile crossed his face. Arnold followed the clear trail, avoiding the passed-out men and scorch marks as he descended.
" — and that despicable husband of yours! He'll —"
"Don't you dare speak of him!" A familiar voice, risen into a rough shout. "Your plans will fail, Braumann. For as long as I live, you and your allies will touch not even a hair on — "
"On my head?" Arnold intoned.
"Ah —!"
"Brother —!"
Theodore looked bruised in areas, and his gait was a tad unsteady: but it was Rishe, flushed and sweating from exertion, her cheek bluish from a bruise, torn jacket sleeves charred at the ends and one of her arms bare in its entirety, who drew the most alarm. Count Lucas Braumann was pinned beneath her heel, the tip of a black sword embedded into his shoulder. A drop of blood rolled down Rishe's bicep, following the tense line of muscle beneath skin, and dripped onto Braumann's visibly broken leg.
Arnold, watching the path it took and the rusty stain it left, saw red.
"Wait! I still need to question — "
"He isn't who you need to be worrying about," Arnold informed Rishe as he scooped her into his arms, soothing away her reflexive flail, before raising his blade and digging the hilt of it into Braumann's gut. There was a wet noise and something like a gurgle. "Theodore, how badly are you injured? Were you drugged?"
"It wore off, and apparently there aren't any notable side-effects," Theodore said. He circled them anxiously. "Sister, are you —"
"Fine, I'm fine," Rishe insisted, squirming. It was a little like wrestling with a small animal: over the years, Rishe's frame had filled out well, but Arnold nonetheless was able to keep her in a firm hold, careful not to aggravate any injuries. "Arnold, set me down, I have to — "
"Currently, you don't have to do anything," Arnold snapped, and took a deep breath soon after, calming himself again. "Theodore, your retainers have surrounded the area, and the city's knights will be arriving soon. I'll borrow a few of your guards to take Braumann, if I may."
"Of course you can!" Theodore declared.
His brother almost resembled an eager puppy, Arnold reflected, following after the pair of them with a skip in his step. "Slow down before you trip over someone."
Rishe ceased protesting once they reached the surface, though she still held herself with a particular form of tension, grip tight on her sword. The dying light touched her skin and made each wound starkly apparent. Her eyes glittered like dewdrops on a leaf. Shoulders steely, spine straight, carelessly regal draped in tattered clothes and bloodstains: she was a hero, and the world bowed to her as such. Arnold wanted nothing more than to tuck her up in a passing shadow and make her sleep.
They did not speak until they returned to the villa. "Draw a bath for her," Arnold told Elsie and another maid, Julianne. Seeing the state Rishe was in, both hastily nodded and rushed off, as Rishe watched after them with close-mouthed trepidation.
"Please put me down," she murmured, reaching up to push some of her hair out of her face. There was a thin cut on her forearm, dried blood rusting over its surface. "I didn't injure my legs anywhere, your majesty."
Arnold bit down on a retort. The sting of his words spread over his tongue and filled his mouth with the taste of iron. Over the years, his wife had gradually started taking care of herself, from sleeping at semi-reasonable times to telling him about her nightmares. As she did often remind him, though, it took only a second to break a vase and it took many years to undo habits.
He brought her to their chambers. When the bath was ready, he carried her inside and shut the door. Only at that moment did he let her down and reach up to flick open the clasp of his mantle, ridding himself of the first two layers on his torso. Rishe, standing, had undone three buttons, but otherwise was motionless.
"Rishe?"
"Ah — nothing!" Quickly, she stripped off her jacket. The cut on her bicep strained open with each flex of her arms, fresh blood smearing her skin and clothes. "You know, you didn't have to carry me all the way up here."
"I'm aware," Arnold said, and took two steps so that he could be closer to her. "Relax your arms?"
Rishe peered up at him with anxious eyes, but nonetheless listened. Careful not to affect her injuries any further, Arnold undid the laces of her shirt and then worked each of the sleeves up and off, until he could pull the shirt away. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Wrapped over her stomach were strips of flower-patterned cloth, petals dyed crimson. The knots were perfect. A muscle in Arnold's jaw tensed.
"It needs stitches," Rishe said, possibly just to fill up what little space there was between them. Wordlessly, Arnold began to undo the knots. "After I bathe, I think I can — " a slight hitch in her breathing when Arnold eased away the makeshift bandages, discarding the ruined fabric, revealing a laceration that stretched out over half her stomach — "do it."
He could easily imagine Rishe, one life and a few years younger, curled up to mend her own wounds. She never told him the details, but it seemed like quite the unique curse. There was plenty to be said about strength, about dedication, about willpower. There was plenty that Arnold would leave unsaid, for the moment.
"Bathe first," he told her. Swirls of red unfurled beneath the water's surface as Rishe slid in and folded up her legs, breathing out a long sigh. Arnold, freed from the usual trappings of his position, pulled up a stool so he could sit next to her and pick up her hand, soothing a towel over one of the cuts.
"Hey — !" Water splashed. Rishe caught his wrist with calloused fingers, forced him to still, eyes wide. Droplets sluiced over her shoulders, tinted scarlet, and ran on down. "I can do it, my husband. Really."
"I'm aware of that as well," Arnold said, and eased her grip into loosening, piece by piece, pressing his palm to hers. "I never wish to demean or lessen you, Rishe." Tenderly, he squeezed her hand, praying that she understood him: and though she did relent, crossing her legs at the ankle, that look on her face remained, the same one from earlier in the street. It was empty-eyed stalwartness, lower lip pulled in where her teeth bit down, facing front like any proper soldier.
What did she see, in the tiled walls? Arnold knew what he saw, beneath the water. Her reflection shook and slid into thirds, fourths, fifths with every movement they both made. Between ripples, between the jasmine petals someone had helpfully tossed in, Rishe was steadfast with guilt.
Once the water went lukewarm, and once each cut had been cleaned, he held out a hand and let Rishe pull herself up. It took little time for her to dry off with a fresh towel, and then they returned to their bed. Rishe kept medical supplies in their chambers: he picked out a drawer, opened it, and took out the entire bag. When Arnold looked back, his spouse was seated on the edge of the mattress, not a single wrinkle in the sheets despite her weight. Always stalwart, that one.
He had learned affection from Rishe, and learned that there was an art to it. Like any good hunter, Rishe knew that prey had to be lured as well as chased. It was terrifying, sometimes, how easy Arnold found it to fall into her touch, into every show of care, whether she was subtle or not.
Broadcasting his movements, he sat by her side and pressed his lips to the rough skin of her knuckles, then slid up to the jut of bone in her wrist. A strangled noise left Rishe. Arnold laced his fingers with hers and eased her closer, dotting kisses along her forearm. She smelled faintly like jasmine, and he kissed up to the firm muscle of her shoulder.
"Arnold," Rishe breathed, half sigh half surprise. She wrapped her arm around his waist. It was twilight, and the sky had settled into a peaceful shade of slate blue. Stars twinkled beyond the gauzy curtains. "Ah — why, why are you..."
Arnold splayed his hand out over her chest, pressing his thumb to the dip of her collarbone. With utmost care, he pushed her down into the center of the bed, into all the fluffy pillows and sheets. Wide-eyed, Rishe sank back, fluid like the rolling tide. This was the most dangerous part, and his actions were fitting: deftly, Arnold opened the bag and quickly took out a roll of gauze, then a small pair of scissors, then a jar of antibiotic ointment and a little tube of numbing cream. He snapped on clean gloves and took out the suture kit.
Below him, an inhale. Arnold cut her off. "Yes, I am happy to be doing this," he said, and rubbed some of the cream into the skin of her stomach, around the laceration. "No, you are not causing trouble. There is no reason you have to do it yourself. You have taught me already how to suture a wound." He threaded the needle and picked it up with tweezers. "This might be painful, Rishe."
Rishe only stared, gaze flickering between the needle — instinctively a promise of pain, its sharp point winking in the shy moonlight — and his mouth, which a minute prior had been tender on her skin. Whether afraid or enraged, she didn't narrow her eyes: they only went wider, like a bird of prey, honing in on every detail. Deliberately, Arnold relaxed himself, revealing no secrets because there were none between them. Only when she tipped her head back in soundless assent, did he move. He pressed the teeth of a pair of forceps into the soft flesh of her wound, pulling it back to clearly reveal the jagged edges. The muscles in her abdomen went tense, but soon after relaxed, and Arnold took the chance to press the needle's tip into skin, pushing in.
Practiced as ever with all manner of discomfort, Rishe remained still throughout, watching Arnold knot stitch after stitch. She was silent, if maybe not calm, while he disinfected and bandaged her other cuts, from the shallowest one on her forearm up to the slice on her shoulder. It worried him. Rishe was rarely anything less than utterly radiant: being doll-like and nervous didn't suit her. He sat back, twining his index finger with hers.
"Rishe?"
"I'm fine," Rishe assured, and blinked at him. She pushed herself into sitting. "Your stitches are great."
"It didn't hurt?" The numbing cream only helped with the prick of the needle: they both knew the answer already, though Arnold gave her a chance to reply, to say anything that wasn't no.
Maybe she could sense the trap embedded. Rishe bit her lip and lowered her head just enough to be interpreted as assent, crossing her legs one over the other, gaze flitting off to somewhere above his right shoulder. Arnold rubbed his thumb over the space between her knuckles, watching the tense play of emotions over her face. If there was one thing she hated more than being trapped, it was having another treat her wounds. It was understandable, if occasionally inexcusable: nothing was quite like the sensation of another peeling back all of one's layers, down to the most intimate ones of flesh and blood. The body was ugly by nature when the skin was removed, red muscle and yellow fat, wet and messy. And yet, Rishe was always gentle when Arnold was injured, never sought to harm him.
If only she didn't saunter off to fight thirty-something people, all on her lonesome. Arnold considered things, and then pulled up her hand and bit her on the wrist.
He didn't bother to be gentle, to ease into it. He flipped her hand over so that her palm faced the ceiling, and dug his teeth in, tongue pressing right over where her pulse beat. She tasted floral and clean, as though she had never been in that building bloodied and panting, as though she hadn't smelled of ash just an hour prior, as though there wasn't a neat line of sutures on her stomach like ants. Wasn't that just infuriating?
But at least she was looking at him now. At least she murmured his name, stunned. If guilt held her up, then Arnold would rather she not stand at all: would rather she curl into him instead.
"That hurts as well, I assume?" Arnold let go of her wrist and gathered her into his arms. He bit her unmarred shoulder. "This too, naturally. Is there anywhere it doesn't?"
"I've wronged you," Rishe guessed, and let out a sigh when he released her shoulder, only to squeak when he sank his teeth into the jut of her collarbone. "That — I should have told you I was going, and I — I, shouldn't have — "
None of it was wrong, of course not. Rishe knew him and Rishe knew the procedures, the protocols, the limits of her body. That didn't mean she would follow. Words could be said with flimsy will, even from her. Arnold worked a bruise into her clavicle and hoped that the pain lingered when he pulled away.
"You certainly shouldn't have," he agreed. She squeezed her eyes shut, scrunching her nose, then forced them open.
"I won't — I'll try not to do it again."
"No, you won't." One time, itself, wasn't a problem. Six lives, though, and Arnold supposed that it could only become habit to charge into danger, time and time again.
"I will, I swear!"
"You'll swear? As you did the last time?"
"Well — that..." Rishe bit her lip. There was nothing to say for herself and they both knew it. With a sigh, she leaned into him, though still held herself stiff. Her cheek pressed against his neck. "I'm sorry. Are you upset?"
"Yes." He kissed her cheek, and then bit the delicate shell of her earlobe. Rishe sighed, tremulous, but stayed still, as though waiting for penance. She was beautiful and steadfast, and lonely: but it was understandable, wasn't it? His wife followed evidence if nothing else. One life couldn't possibly compare to the others. But Arnold could very well make an attempt.
He ran his hands down, from the slope of her back to the curve of her hips, to the firm muscle of her thighs. Arnold tipped her over so that she landed with a surprised breath into the pillows and nudged her knees open. If he wanted to make Rishe sleep easily, there was no better way.
"Ah — Arnold," Rishe managed, the call of his name choked-off and full of confusion. She propped herself up on her elbows. "If you're unhappy..."
"I am," Arnold said, "but I want you to rest more than I want to be upset with you." He touched her knee, then her inner thigh. "May I?"
Rishe went as pink as her hair. She jerked her head down in a rather awkward nod, and then closed her eyes, shoulders stiff. Well, Arnold had the time to change that. Leaning down, he pressed the flat of his tongue to her clit and licked, determined stimulation.
Though he couldn't see her, the muscles of her legs went taut with shock. Arnold tended to be slower with these kinds of things, wanting to savour every part of his wife that he could reach, that she was willing to offer: the soft swell of her chest, the tremble of her knees, the lax curve of her lips as she gasped. This was something similar, he supposed, the brute force of it: nothing more effective, when it was applied correctly. Greed didn't bother to be cunning when it didn't need to. He closed his lips and sucked, pushing up the hood with his tongue so that she let out a rough cry. Clearly not thinking about it much, Rishe tugged at his hair, the lines of her body tense and drawn towards him: that was a thing to be savoured as well.
He returned the favour, of course. He wrapped her arm around one of her thighs, locking her close. Some part of Rishe knew this: her leg jumped, weakly pushing out against his grasp, to no avail. As did pain, pleasure weakened: and Arnold was quite relentless with that, massaging her clit in wet, insistent circles until her breathing went ragged, hips arching up into his mouth.
In what seemed like no time at all, Rishe let out a quiet noise that was somewhere between a whine and a groan, clutching to him with renewed strength. She came like that, holding to him, as every point of sensation crested out into white noise, a swell of bliss that momentarily left her blank. Arnold felt her go lax and twitchy in his hold, calloused fingers slipping out of his hair, splaying out on his temple and cheek.
He pulled away and picked a bottle off of the nightstand, flipping open the cap with one hand. Still keeping one of her thighs pinned, he poured some oil over his fingers, watching as his skin took on a gentle sheen. Arnold looked at Rishe, saw how her eyes were half-lidded, saw how she was beginning to work through the remaining dregs of pleasure from her orgasm, and pushed a finger in.
"Arnold...?" The glide was easy, but even so, she clamped down around him. "Hey — " Her eyes darted to his stomach, and then lower, where Arnold's own arousal strained against his loose pants.
"Is that what you want to focus on right now?" Whether or not Rishe noticed the irritated sigh contained within his words didn't matter: he hooked his finger up towards her stomach, rubbed until he found the right spot that made her choke on her response, waited until she was fit for it to add a second finger. Arnold dipped down to lap over her cunt, not bothering to be precise about it, only wanting her to cry out again. Her hips jerked but found no leverage, what with her leg being trapped.
"You — what, what do you want me to — "
"Nothing," Arnold told her, and even he was surprised by the fervour in his voice. "I don't want you to focus."
But that made sense, didn't it? Hadn't she focused enough for one night? Beautiful, stalwart Rishe, always turned towards the horizon, grasping for the future of every person she knew. Arnold had stitched up a gash in her stomach not too long ago, but of course no pain could tire her out.
It was not envy that curled up like a bug in his stomach. But it was something that coveted, nonetheless, something he didn't care to put name to. Arnold sank both fingers, index and middle, into her again, picking up a rhythm of firm thrusts. Against the overwhelming stimulation, the weight and friction inside of her kept Rishe tethered, feeling the ache of it all buzz against her teeth, over the once-tender skin on her palms. Despite that edge, the pleasure was beginning to overtake once more, keeping her squirming and desperate, surely as her husband wished.
A hot blush spread over her cheeks and down her neck. Arnold curled his fingers again, as though beckoning someone, and the sound he pulled from her mouth was shockingly wanton. Wound up though she was, Rishe somehow mustered the strength to pant out, "I... I'm sorry. Mm — ! I mean — mean, it —"
Arnold didn't deign that with a response. Whatever she was apologizing for, he could guess: troubling him, putting him through everything he had chosen to do, as though he were some kind of workhorse and she the baggage. The specific cause didn't particularly matter, it was all completely ridiculous. Why should he bother accepting? It was a better use of his time to encourage her into writhing on his fingers and tongue instead, make sure she couldn't formulate words if she wanted to use them in foolish ways.
This time, it took longer, and the strain in the muscles of his neck grew to be noticeable. Rishe nonetheless went taut and gasping beneath him eventually, head tipping to the side, burying her face into the pillows. Where the first one had been a quick burst of pleasure, briefly muffling out her thoughts and leaving her lax, the second one wrung her out. Already tired from the events of the night, feeling raw and tender from Arnold's touch, she shuddered and trembled into it, flushed with heat and knowing it should have been enough. For whatever reason, though, she continued to push up for more, pressing into his hold and not away. Her skin prickled with half-dead shame. She felt somewhat dazed, and briefly Rishe wondered if this — the thoughtlessness, the excess, the exhaustion paired with gluttony — was what it meant to be drunk.
And still, he kept going. Arnold took advantage of Rishe's momentary weakness to push in a third finger. His mouth and chin felt sticky, smeared with a mixture of saliva and other fluids. Arousal gnawed at his spine, but he quashed that feeling down to naught more than a tingle. Clinging to him, Rishe jolted and cried out when he mouthed over her clit, making a mess of himself and of her.
"Arnold," she panted, guttural, voice cracking down the middle. One of her feet kicked out, caught in the sheets, and dragged them halfway off the mattress. "Ah, plea — " There was the sharp click of teeth as she cut herself off, muted down to her breaths.
Rishe was not the kind of person to plead. Paradoxically, though Arnold did not know where to begin when predicting her, he understood her fairly well. If one was strong, then why should they beg? Those thoughts hounded him, and hounded his spouse as well.
That had been quite painful, to see his own traits mirrored in Rishe. They should have been one another's opposites, in every aspect: wasn't that why Arnold fell in love with her? The most beautiful person he knew, and parts of her soul were as his.
Above him, Rishe let out some kind of choked-off moan. She herself had been merciless, so Arnold similarly spared her none: he fed her more and more pleasure, hitching her hips up so that he had easier access, ignoring how her heel thumped against his shoulder. Whereas before any attempt at struggle had been mild, now she began to truly wrestle against his grip. Worrying that she might injure herself, Arnold released her and she squirmed back, bracing herself on her elbows. The muscles of her thighs were wracked with spasms, and her eyes were tightly shut.
"Rishe?"
The only response he got was a nondescript groan. Arnold reached for one of her hands and gently took it in his. He rubbed her knuckles until the tension eased away, until Rishe could relax enough to glare up at him, the moonlight sparkling bright off of her slitted, hazy irises. "You're.. so mean..."
Her speech came out slurred and petulant. Relieved beyond words, Arnold kissed her hand, and then her knee. "Does it hurt?"
"You keep asking that," Rishe muttered, shivering all over when Arnold pressed his teeth to the soft skin of her inner thigh, threatened to bite. "Ah — "
"I think I should know," Arnold said, "if my own wife is in pain or not."
He did bite. He reached up to hold her hips down as he did so, preferring she not tear open her stitches. He didn't leave a bruise, just the fading red shadow of one.
"I'll tell you," Rishe said, spoke fast and possibly thoughtless, stumbling over her words, whining when Arnold nudged her legs back open. "Next time, I'll — I promise — "
His fingers were still oil-slick and soft. Arnold pushed all three back in and curled them, grinding up firm against her sweet spot. The resulting stuttered cry was perfectly satisfying: he pressed the pad of his thumb just beneath her clit and rubbed, allowing her a moment to adjust, but not more than that. There was no possible way to relax into the sensation, to let it settle. Rishe could not stand bravely against the onslaught, could not escape it either, and so surrendered like a drowning man.
"I don't desire to leash you," Arnold said. He nipped at the soft skin between hip and thigh, worried his teeth over a beauty mark there. "I'll come find you no matter what. My only concern is that I'll be too late."
Rishe stared up at him, wide-eyed. Some clarity appeared to filter back in, past relentless stimulation and heat. Affectionate, Arnold reached up and carefully gathered her close, until he could kiss her on her flushed cheek.
"Of course, you don't concern yourself with such things," he said. "I should wonder why."
But there was no point in wondering, not when Arnold could already guess, not when it was easy to rationalize: because it was his rationale, shared by her.
"You might have returned from death before, but do you truly believe it makes you so strong?" He bit at the shell of her ear, and she let out a shocked breath at the new edge of pain, then accepted it with a trembling sigh, folding just a little more. "You're not a god, Rishe. And even if you were, I would come find you anyway."
Her nails dug into his arm, into his shoulder. When he thrust his fingers into her again, the sound it made was wet and rather indecent, layered over her hitching keen. Arnold persisted, massaging her clit in patient circles, until it seemed she couldn't contain herself. With a hoarse wail, Rishe sank into him and came, all shivery and weak-kneed. Her eyes were tightly squeezed shut, mouth hanging open, the muscles in her back taut, messy and blushing and nothing more than human. Arnold couldn't resist kissing her, laying them both down into their bed. She no longer tasted like flowers.
When he was satisfied, he pulled away, rolling off to the side. Small hands reached for him, finding Arnold as easily as he could find Rishe. He paused and leaned down to kiss the jut of her index finger's knuckle.
"I'm just going to clean myself," he murmured. "I'll be back."
For a moment, she didn't let go. Arnold dotted a kiss to her thumb, then to her wrist, waiting. It took a few minutes, but at last Rishe's grasp loosened, and he was able to ease out. He didn't, however, leave: he crawled closer, knelt beside her shoulder, and kissed her on the forehead. With a soft, relieved sigh, her breathing evened out.
"Sleep well, Rishe," Arnold whispered, and pulled up the covers so that she was nestled in shadows at last.