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Life before Rishe was like an endless, empty void. Day after day of nothing but drudgery and boredom. The last four years he had been on the frontlines of a war he didn’t even care about. But it was his father’s will and he couldn’t disobey.
When Arnold had, quite literally, first run into Rishe—and watched as she leapt off a balcony without her shoes—he had thought of her as an anomaly. Certainly he had been curious about someone so strange, and possibly even amused or amazed by her actions.
For maybe the first time Arnold could remember, he had laughed. He had felt something warm in his chest rather than the hollowness that had always accompanied him. Rishe had somehow removed any trace of resentment he held with her mere presence.
But there were things more important than joy, he knew. Rishe was capable of fending off a surprise attack, and had the etiquette needed to survive in Galkhein’s court: most importantly, she was convenient. Someone whose ties were already gone. It was for these reasons Arnold decided to take a risk with this mysterious woman, with the possibility of her as an ally or even as a mere distraction too useful to pass up.
Rishe quickly became the center of attention through no small effort of her own, gaining everyone’s affections and loyalty so quickly Arnold would be concerned if it wasn’t so entertaining fascinating.
Rishe had even found ways to twist that new found loyalty to her advantage, forcing him to take naps with her in the villa room she had prepared for him. Even Theodore, his younger brother, with his questionable—if not downright nefarious—motives, was in her debt. Most curious was how Rishe was even able to twist the sovereign rulers of other kingdoms to fall into her good graces.
And for the first time, Arnold felt he had all he needed. That he had finally found the missing counter piece in the constant battle he waged behind his father’s back. Someone with the charm he lacked, someone with the necessary skill to act at his side and in his absence. A complement. His wife, certainly, but at the very base level a knight and soldier, a pawn versatile enough to take the place of anything which fell, himself included.
Now, as Arnold stared at the woman before him—her body limp and lifeless—he couldn’t fight the fear that ate at his soul.
Arnold had never trusted The Goddess for anything in his life, for he knew that his blood was too cursed to ever be in her good graces. Rishe coming into his life was a stroke of fortune he would have to repay. As if to showcase just that, Rishe was now on the verge of death. Her breaths were slow and sluggish, skin pale and waxy, the blood on her neck trailing down and staining the collar of her dress a dark crimson.
It hadn’t been the first time he had seen her unconscious. That day on the roof, she had collapsed like a ragdoll into his hold: but she had been warm. There had been colour to her cheeks, there had been the fading pink marks on her palm from holding a dagger. Her breaths had been steady, and when he moved she didn’t hang limp in his arms like a dead animal. When he felt her pulse, it had been strong if not a beat too slow. And in only a few hours she had woken up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and asked him for a duel.
Rishe was strong. Rishe was brilliant and charming and bold, larger than life, so vibrant Arnold sometimes felt as though he should look away. Now she was colder than ice and lifeless on her bed as she continued to quickly fade; not a twitch in sight, not even her hands.
Everything about her was hidden in her hands: blisters on her palm where she wielded a sword, calluses on her fingers where she held a pen, dirt beneath her nails and the occasional reddish burn, abrasions and thin cuts, and even her lies. He couldn’t help reaching out, picking up her hand before he even knew it, lax between his own: the center gem of her ring shimmering beneath the candle light.
The trip from the forest to their room was short, barely a seven minute walk: yet it had been a horrific ordeal. Her hands had been icy against his neck, her face flushed with fever. Thoughts of his condition had plagued her as he rushed to get her to the citadel, thinking only of finding safety and waiting for Oliver to go retrieve that antidote from the seamstresses. Arnold had sent that boy to intercept Oliver—was it enough? Would the boy follow through? Should he have gone himself—but then what of Rishe, defenseless and ill—and what if she never got the antidote, what if the boy betrayed her, what if her death would be due to his foolishness?
He didn’t quite remember the journey up to her room. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, they were here, with Rishe’s lifeless form laid on her bed and with Arnold only able to watch. Watch as her skin became as pale as parchment, the red of her still bleeding wound being the only color across her skin. Watch as her breaths became slow and stilted. Watch as she continued to slip farther and farther away to a place he could not follow.
Were she conscious, she could have done something. She would have known what to do with her medical skill; skills Arnold had never needed to learn. Poison was ineffective against him. Wounds couldn’t kill him. He did not fight with others by his side, and so he had only ever taught himself the basics. All he had done was suck out the poison, but it couldn’t be enough. Nothing was certain without the antidote: and Arnold wouldn’t trust his luck; not when it came to Rishe.
A knock on the door jolted him up. Arnold quickly opened it, hoping it was Oliver. Instead it was a servant carrying a tray of medical supplies. Arnold swiped the tray from her hands before slamming the door in her face. He didn’t have time for any further distractions.
He hated that he would have to violate her any further, but Rishe’s life was more important than any future retaliation. Arnold removed the ribbon around her neck before undoing the first few buttons of her dress so that her neck was better exposed.
With swift precision Arnold disinfected the wound, watching her face scrunch from discomfort, but her eyes did not open. The wound didn’t show any signs of inflammation or infection, yet a shade of red had begun to color the skin around the wound where he had sucked out the poison.
Every time he blinked he only saw the glazed over look in her eyes when he found her hyperventilating on the forest floor. He saw the poison arrow fallen in the leaves and the long cut along her neck. She had called for him, naked shock and desperation writ all over her face: the very fact terrified him. Rishe didn’t ask for help. Rishe didn’t show her true emotions so easily, especially not ones which might have been deemed a weakness. It was a good trait to have as his wife. It was a reason Arnold had proposed to her, and now he cursed the fact.
Even in her pain, her fear, she had gasped for him to stop. Even with the strength in her voice worn down to a faint rasp, Rishe had pleaded for him to not take the risk, to let herself die because his life was “more important”.
The idea of his cursed existence being more valuable than anyone else’s always disgusted him. The thought that she believed her life worthless compared to his own made his blood boil.
“I could die before our wedding ceremony.” Rishe’s words had bothered him when she had first spoken them: a person he had chosen, dead? Someone so important, for all his plans and for his retainers, dead? It was ridiculous.
Now, instead, her words taunted him, circling like ghosts. She had stated it so calmly, so casually, it was as if she had died before and knew that she would somehow be okay. It bothered him, how she would constantly throw herself into danger like she had tonight without a single regard for her own safety, her own life. How could she be so calm about throwing it away like this?
Arnold grasped her hand in his own, resting his pointer finger over her pulse point: a reminder that she was still alive, that she was still with him—but her pulse was slowing. Carefully, he brought her hand up to his lips, kissing the ring on her finger, and waited for a response, any sort of reaction or outburst she always gave when he did that. But she stayed still, unnaturally quiet. She didn’t even grasp his hand like she had every time before.
“I’ll never bow to you, Goddess,” he growled to the empty space, squeezing Rishe’s hand tighter between both of his. “I’ve never asked a damn thing from you, but please, please don’t take her from me.” Only the echo of his voice answered him, hoarse and shaky— mocking him.
Children such as he had no right to escape their fate. Arnold had watched his mother fall dead at his feet, and a strange truth had settled into his heart: just as she had died alone, so too would he. To dare think otherwise—or even to want such a thing—was ridiculous. As with any other person, be it his brother or Oliver, Rishe would vanish.
But that didn’t mean, he thought with no small amount of frustration—bubbling up sour and hot at the back of his throat— that she had to expedite things.
Anger burned within Aronld’s chest, why did Rishe have to act so recklessly?! Did she not know that every time she risked her life like this that it affected him too?
A distant dream he had recently suffered through came to mind: rain splattering against the windows of a dark castle hallway, bodies falling at his feet. A knight that looked like Rishe, fluffy, short pink hair and bright green eyes, had clashed with him and Arnold had sunk his sword into the knight’s heart without a second thought. He had woken from that dream in a cold sweat, dread sitting heavy in his gut.
He couldn’t understand it. He couldn’t understand why he saw her in his dreams. Only a few nights prior he had seen what he swore was her body burning within a church only a few miles from here at his order. Perhaps it had been an omen, a warning from the goddess herself of what would happen should they remain in this cursed region for much longer.
A quiet knock echoed from the door, one that Arnold recognized. “Come in,” Arnold called, his eyes never leaving Rishe’s lifeless form.
“Pardon me,” Oliver answered before entering the room on silent feet. “Oh my,” Oliver gasped, his grip tightening around the antidote.
“Set it on the nightstand and leave,” Arnold commanded, relieved that—for once—Oliver did as he was asked without question, leaving the room as quickly as he came.
Gently, Arnold caressed her forehead, checking to see how high her fever had become. She was burning up. Arnold withdrew his hand, and reached for the antidote without taking his eyes off her, relieved beyond words when she at last twitched and began to stir—though upset he certainly still was.
“Prince Arnold…”
It felt like something had released his heart from its thorned clutches. Arnold wrapped both hands around the antidote bottle, fearing what he might do otherwise. She was alive. She was ali-
“Your Highness, how are you feeling?” Rishe rasped weakly as realization of their current predicament dawned on her.
This woman.
“The first thing you do after waking up is worry about me?” Arnold questioned, his brows furrowed in a mixture of confusion and frustration.
Rishe opened her mouth—most likely to defend her insanity—when a pained whimper escaped her lips. Sweat had begun to bead atop her brow. He would need to act fast.
Arnold helped Rishe to sit, but she was too weak to stay up on her own and ended up leaning fully against his chest. Grabbing the vial, he uncorked the stopper with one hand, and pressed the rim to her lips.
“We just got this back. Drink it,” Arnold demanded. He desperately wished he could say that he was surprised at her resistance, but he’d had a feeling something like this would occur. Rishe kept her lips tightly sealed and twisted away, raising a weak hand to stop him. Her defiance, while often endearing, was now infuriating.
“I can’t. Please drink it yourself, Your Highness.” Rishe looked up at him with vulnerable emerald-green eyes, silently begging him to listen to her pleas. “Your health is more important than mine.”
There were those words again, rekindling the raging fire within him. She wanted him to take the antidote, fine ; but he would ensure that she took it too. Removing the vial from her lips, he drained every last drop, watching out of the corner of his eye as she slumped and let her guard down. Even then, her brows furrowed, likely realizing that he hadn’t yet swallowed.
Before she could move away, Arnold caged Rishe into the wall, tilting her head up for better access. Ignoring her protests, he sealed his mouth over hers, prying her lips open with his tongue. Rishe tried to fight back as Arnold transferred the antidote to her mouth, but he just pulled her closer, pushing her head to tilt even higher so that she was forced to swallow it all. As soon as he was certain that she had truly swallowed, he released her, allowing her room to gasp for air.
“Why?!” Rishe panted, betrayal clouding her features.
It was utterly pointless to be angry with her. This was the fault of those surrounding her, Arnold knew, including himself. In spite of that, his emotions seemed to overflow. Angry words piled up on his tongue and when he swallowed them down it felt like swallowing tar, heavy and vile. He wanted to vomit. His chest filled up with a sore ache, and he found that it was hard to breathe. The slightest touch would make him fracture. His eyes burned. He wanted, shocking as it was, to cry.
Wiping away the excess medicine at the corner of his lip, he noticed there was some on Rishe’s. Taking a slow breath, Arnold attempted to calm himself just enough to not frighten her. Carefully, he brushed his thumb against the bottom of her lips to wipe away the small droplet.
“In case you can’t tell, I’m rather angry at the moment,” Arnold growled, unable to fully suppress the bite to his voice.
Rishe flinched away. Arnold thought he should feel bad, but the fire in his chest consumed anything he’d considered rational. Maybe the heat of his words would finally be enough to make her understand that her actions had consequences outside of herself.
Pressing his forehead against her own—he couldn’t help but notice how warm it still was—he continued on while glaring down at her. “I’m not going to apologize for being a little rough with you. This time, I don’t mind if you slap me.” After all, he would deserve it for violating her in such a manner. His rage wasn’t an excuse, but preserving her life was.
Rishe placed her hand against his cheek, and when Arnold braced himself for the sharp sting that came with impact, he was surprised when her hand slowly trailed down to trace his lips instead. To say Arnold was at a loss for words would be an understatement as his frustration ebbed into bewilderment.
“What is it?” Arnold asked. Some strange emotion bubbled in his chest as he watched her eyes begin to well up, leaking clear trails down her cheeks. It was the first time he’d seen her cry.
“What about your antidote, Your Highness?” Rishe asked, her voice filled with a mix of concern and distress.
Arnold didn’t know what to do, had he gone too far? Frowning, Arnold responded with the hopes of easing her concern, “I spat your blood out right away, and I haven’t experienced any adverse effects. I don’t need one.”
“It’s a deadly poison!” She exclaimed, her brow creased with frustration. “You might be safe while the sleeping drug is taking effect, but once your body absorbs it, there’s a chance you’ll die!”
“The fact that you unmistakably received a dose of the poison is more important to me,” Arnold pushed back. Why couldn't she understand that her life was just as important as his? Why did she have to be so stubborn with this?
Arnold lifted his hand, touching the bandages he’d wrapped securely around her neck hoping that it would help to prove his point. “I believe I told you not to do anything dangerous.” He whispered, his voice shaking slightly. The antidote had helped, but her skin was still hot with fever, a reminder that he had almost lost her. That she had nearly died. That his vow to protect her was almost broken.
If he had gotten lost, if he hadn’t heard her cries, if he had ignored the young boy's warning because of his suspicious nature, if he was only a few minutes later: one mistake and he would have lost her for good.
“I’m sorry,” Rishe whispered, voice filled with regret.
Arnold eyed her suspiciously, doubting that she was apologizing for her reckless actions. He hoped she wasn’t apologizing for still being alive.
Carefully, he helped her to lay back down against her pillows. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” Rishe breathed. Her finger didn’t twitch.
Arnold watched Rishe flex her right hand as if she were missing something. He didn’t know what compelled him, but he quickly placed his hand atop her own. Maybe it was to feel her warmth. Or maybe it was just a reminder that she was still here with him. She was still alive.
“You’re alive.” Arnold breathed, a reminder to himself.
“Yes,” Rishe confirmed, lacing her fingers through his own, squeezing lightly. The pallor of her skin lost its waxy sheen as color began to return to her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell with her now deep breaths. Her fingers lightly in his grasp. Her pulse felt stronger than before. Arnold watched her every movement, unable to pull his eyes away. A crushing sense of relief overwhelmed him, and, once again, he wanted to cry.
This ordeal had been the doing of the Church. Arnold had seen firsthand the kinds of traps they had laid out in the forest: were it not for Rishe intervening, they would have succeeded. A momentary surge of bloodlust overcame him, and he saw red. It was ridiculous that after all this time, that archbishop should be allowed to live. From his mother to the priestess girl and now Rishe: it was a rational trade, to take his life in return for the present and future suffering he had caused.
He let out a slow breath, and with it centered himself. Suddenly Arnold felt rather foolish for being so enraged, so desperate. Rishe was invaluable as a piece, but she was alive and so was the priestess girl. Nothing had been lost.
Nothing had been lost, but something had changed. No, not changed: there was something new embedded into his chest, something with teeth. He knew it was there, for when he looked at Rishe and felt her warm hand, he found it hard to breathe.
Sometime during the night, it must have slipped in and laid down roots. It had managed to entangle itself with his heart and ribs, he could tell: should anything succeed in pulling it out, everything would fall apart.
He did not dare to give it a name. He felt that if he did, something would fracture, and Arnold still felt himself to be far too fragile. It was easier to bear the weight of things unspoken than to tempt fate.
He held her, wrapping his arms around her lean form, folding them together into one. At last the thing in his chest settled, curled up and went to sleep. The thought came quietly, snuck in without a sound, and it was not shocking to realize: things would never be the same.